As the parent of a non-verbal child with autism, there are many things that I know people misunderstand or misinterpret when I speak about him. In many cases, I don’t even realize them until after-the-fact.

The most noticeable example is one that I’ve talked about often. Saying that I’m teaching Lucas to “say” something doesn’t necessarily mean that. In our home, a gesture or a button push on a communication device could teach him a new word. “Saying” it is akin to relating it. I am teaching him to understand or communicate “thank you” rather than using verbal language.

On the flip side, there are also not-so-noticeable examples.

Letting Lucas know that I am there for him during his confused moments shows him that he can trust me. It’s the most important thing he had to learn. Without the trust in me that I will always lead him to something positive, he would be less likely to follow me down the paths we choose. It has made everything from haircuts to doctor’s appointments more bearable. In like a lion, out like a lamb.

A part of that is calming him down during his hardest times. When Lucas is melting down, as they say, and experiencing sensory overload, difficulty with impulsiveness, or just an upset feeling over a long day, I try to relax everyone. My goal is to make him calm.

Typically, I will put my hand on his chest, rub, and give a “shhh”. I might hug his head, if he wants that or just let him pull on me. It’s the best way to squash a potentially bad situation. Seeing him overwhelmed breaks my heart and, even though it’s hard to maintain my own patience as these things are happening, I still do it. I do it for him, me, and the resolution of our situation.

I liken it to playing Super Mario on the original Nintendo. You spend 20 minutes trying to jump the gap towards the warp zone, but you keep dying because it’s incredibly hard. So, in a fit of anger, you fling the controller like a spinning lasso against the wall. Now, you still have to beat the board, but with a half-broken controller. The job is still there but now it’s harder. What was the point?

Same here. Getting upset myself would give me that two second relief, but then leave me with the same situation only now with a kid crying harder because Dad was out here acting a fool. Just by staying serene, we weather the storm and sail to safety.

“Calming” Lucas is usually tied to his “meltdowns”. That’s what people think when they hear me mention it, but it’s only partially true. Meltdowns are actually only part of the time I have to bring his mood down. It’s not just when he’s agitated.

That sounds weird, right? To someone without a special needs child like mine, the only time you calm your kid down is when he’s upset and lashing out, right? What else is there?

Some days, Lucas turns his volume up for reasons beyond anger and frustration. Sometimes, he’s just on a different level and we’re not really sure why. It could be a rough night’s sleep, a simmering cold we don’t know about, or just the whacked-out hormones of a 12 year old. Either way, some days are pretty intense.

While jumping, yelling, and clapping happily for his iPad are common for my boy, there are some days where he ditches the happy shouts for ear-piercing screams. Like the host of the coke-party, he bounces all over the room, hopping directly in your face and screaming. It’s not an angry scream. It’s not a sad scream. It’s not even a happy scream. It’s just a scream. The expression on his face lets me know if he needs some help bringing it down a few notches.

When his horror-movie auditions start to seem upsetting to him, I do the same thing I do during meltdowns. I give him the soft voice and gentle approach. I also try to make him copy my deep breaths. He does and it slows things down a bit. It might not always last more than a few minutes, but he always stops and listens.

He sees that I don’t get mad at him or make it worse by adding to the chaos. Screaming over his screams wouldn’t help anything. I can’t even imagine the maddening direction that would turn into.

Out of all of those times, the most bizarre example of calming moments is one that is hard to explain. Basically, in times of exhaustion, sensory overload, or boredom, my son will take my hand and force me to rub it all over his face.

Sound cute? It’s not and I will tell you why. There is no spot he wants me to rub specifically. If it was a forehead rub or a squeezing of his temples, I’d get it. It’s not that.

He just has this need to take my hand and rub it all over his face as if it was a washcloth. Of course, he’s whining and crying so everything is all slimy and teary. The entire ordeal is quite gross and it happens at almost every show or concert that he gets tired of sitting through.

As the beefy man he’s grown into, I don’t need to tell you what it looks like. At an event like the Rockette’s Autism Friendly performance, I have a giant boy my size, wrestling me in my seat. He appears to be forcing me to put him in a headlock and, when I try to stop, he lunges over to grab my hand and do it again. He’s insistent and persistent. We look like we’re mugging each other in the middle of Radio City Music Hall.

I’m aware that everyone watches this bizarre spectacle. When he was little, I used to fear he would give himself a black eye from these tussles. I pictured it all playing out. The doctor would ask me what happened and I’d say, “My son jammed my fist into his eye.” Then the doctor would leave the room to make a phone call and I’d never see my kids again.

This isn’t a tantrum or a meltdown. Like the shrieky iPad mornings, it’s something different. Yet, it’s a part of our world. Calmness is the most important aspect of our lives. Keeping even during unexpected pandemonium makes all the difference for both of us. He may not have the words to explain why he’s feeling that way, but we have the bond to keep him relaxed until it passes.