At the risk of getting all Sophia Petrillo on you – picture it. Long Island. 2023. It’s three in the morning and my non-verbal son’s room is a shambles. He’s wide awake. There’s (hopefully) water from his overturned cup all over the bed and floor. The headboard has fallen off the screws and cracked the wood that attaches it. Oh, and the blinds are half off the wall.

Again. Three in the morning.

What do you do in this situation, pussycat? I can start by telling you what you want to do. You want to scream the loudest scream you ever screamed in your life. You want to kick the wall and grab the nearest stuffed animal – in this case, a turtle – and kneel over it, gangland style, while pummeling it with punches to its cotton-filled face. Then you want to set something – anything – on fire. That’s what you want to do.

Keep in mind, my boy is hopping around, with his pajamas mostly off, clapping with delight. He’s thrilled that I’m here and ready to start his day at three in the morning because he’s not really a clock-kinda-guy. The normally uplifting laughter is, well, still uplifting but also more of an instigator.

Seeing him there, I do none of those things I outlined above. Rather, I go completely numb and take his hand without a word while leading him to the bathroom. We wash his hands as he continues to try to get me to look at him. I finally do.

In that moment of eye contact, I feel like he figures out where this situation is going. Is his dad laughing? Angry? Something else? He might not have most emotions down, but he can recognize the main ones. This is where he does that.

I know that if I get upset, he’ll get upset. That has happened. Some sort of stunning catastrophe catches me off guard and I instinctively shout, “Lucas! No!” He then responds with some of the most exaggerated cries you’ve ever seen. He looks like a drawing of a Peanuts character crying. Good grief.

So I don’t do that. I also, however, don’t want him to think that this behavior is OK. So I smile, but it’s more of a smirky come-on-buddy smile. I shake my head, kiss his forehead, and calmly say, “No, Lucas. This is bad. We can’t do this.”

At this point, he responds with our motion for “no, no, no.” It should be one finger in the air wagging. For him, it’s is his thumb and finger together like he’s holding a small teacup accompanied by a full-arm shake. It’s kind of adorable and has become the new norm for both of us.

He gets it. He knows that destroying his room in the middle of the night isn’t a good thing. However, he’s still a kid. Kids listen if you don’t come at them with the wrong kind of energy. Just because he doesn’t respond to the same words that my daughter, who doesn’t have autism, might, doesn’t mean he doesn’t shut down when he’s confronted with a mood he doesn’t like.

That exaggerated Charlie Brown cry takes away any chance I have of making him remember that this action, whether it’s trying to steal food from someone’s plate or yanking iPads from their charging wires, is wrong. He’ll remember because he’ll be listening, rather than crying.

On top of that, it makes the evening better if we’re all cool and calm. If I get upset, he gets upset. Now we’re both in hell screaming. Who needs that in their life?

Trust me, though. It’s not easy. As a person who likes to point out the similarities between special needs parenting and the more traditional kind, this one has some key differences. As a kid, I grew up following much of the same path my daughter is following now. I know a lot of what is going on and some of what is coming up. I might not love it, but I can anticipate it.

Lucas is a horse of a whole different color. Some of the shocking moments and sudden cleanups are so out of left field, that it’s hard to keep cool in the face of the surprise. In my life, I’ve only been speechless a handful of times. Almost every time has been because of him.

That’s why it is important to take a breath, take in the view, and approach accordingly. Dissociate? Perhaps, but that sounds awful. Want to know my secret?

I pretend I’m an actor in a movie. The insane scene before me has been written for laughs and here I am, the hero of my own production, about to encounter a screne of insanity. My son clapping all around me is just to lighten the film. It tested better with the focus groups.

Does it work? Sometimes. Still, it’s better than nothing.

My son has taught me patience unlike any I ever thought I’d be capable of. I love him for helping me find that patience and I found that patience because I love him. After all, life is like a box of chocolate and… God, I hope that’s what’s mashed into his carpet right now. Gotta go. Keep smiling.