|How I felt when I read it.|
He's on the trampoline right now. He's shrieking his heart out. He's naked. He's filthy with peanut butter, mashed potatoes, and spilled coconut milk. He hasn't spoken a clear word in 4 years. He has seizures that make him vomit. He doesn't play like "normal" kids. He's exactly like the boy in the letter. And someone wants that boy dead.
I know I can focus on how awesome my neighbours are. They're kind enough to ensure that the construction workers let me know in advance which days will be loud. They offer sympathy on days when he's loud. They tell me how awesome I am. (Please don't tell Autism Moms "I don't know how you do it" or "I could never do what you do". Or worse, "I'm so sorry!") And on days like today, I read that as, "I couldn't do it. Your boy is awful."
But he's not. He's sweet. He's gentle. Even if his shrieks aren't. He snuggles up with me in the night because he's afraid of the dark. He frets and comes to get me if Pop gets hurt or upset. He likes it when the dog curls up with him. He spends the vast majority of his day playing with a stack of socks. He has a favourite. It's the green one that is made of organic bamboo. He likes to eat on the trampoline, and sneak treats to the dog. He likes hugs and kisses and going to the beach. He likes to sit in the forest and listen to the birds. He likes to play the piano (terribly). He loves it when people sing to him. Any song will do.
Someone was filled with enough hate for a boy like mine that she felt it necessary to send a letter, anonymously of course, the fucking coward, to his grandmother, calling the boy mean names, and threatening his life (albeit indirectly). You know what? My kid could never produce such hate. He could never treat someone the way she did.
I'd way rather be his mother than hers. He's not a monster. But I have to wonder about her.
*Not linking. It's awful. I'm not putting that negativity into your world if you haven't already.