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This past weekend, Lucas and I went to IHOP. It was a father-son breakfast at the place flapjacks call home.

My little man sat across from me as we ate our food. There were no crazy stories or wild catastrophes. It was a simple breakfast.

Yet, it was kind of special. It’s something I took notice of. It’s something that those outside our home, seeing the pictures, might not see.

The image is that of a 14-year-old boy sitting across from his dad. You’ve seen it a million times.

But I haven’t and there’s a reason. Lucas is non-verbal with autism. Moments like this, as simple as they appear, were once feared to be a pipedream.

I couldn’t imagine going back in time and telling myself that one day, he’d be able to sit by himself at a restaurant and not cause, well, crazy stories or wild catastrophes.

When my son was little, he had the energy of the Tasmanian Devil speedballing Red Bull. Anywhere we went and everything we did was flanked by the worry that he might run away, cause a commotion, or worse.

There were a million things that could have gone wrong. Looking at the picture now is like playing an activity game in a ripped issue of Highlights while waiting for the dentist. Every object in the scene could have spelled disaster like a house of pancakes collapsing like a house of cards.

The syrups. The coffees. The uncovered waters. The knives. The creamers. The menus. The emergency door behind him. The stack of highchairs. The meals of others. The allure of everything and anything within a ten-foot radius.

It all could have easily spelled disaster.

This was part of my thinking when my guy was small and even into his mid-teens, those thoughts still flash through my mind. As the waitress led us to the corner booth, my brain kept poking me.

Don’t let her seat you at a standalone table. He could handle it, but he needs a booth.

You need to get him a booth.

Ask for a booth.

But I didn’t. I was proud I didn’t.

Now, don’t get me wrong. If she had brought us to the table, I would have asked if we could be moved to a booth. But I wanted to wait. I wanted to avoid starting our meal off on a distrusting note.

When she brought us to the corner booth, I felt relieved. This is where we were supposed to be.

A few years ago, I might have sat on the same side with my son, wedging him against the wall so he couldn’t escape. In fact, he would have played his favorite game from back then, the old restaurant booth slide.

What’s that?

It was when my grade school boy would suddenly go boneless in the face of a blocked exit. Rather than hop over me or slide across the table, he’d slowly sink to the floor. From there, he’d be seated in the toxic under-table muck, dangerously close to smashing his head on the table leg, and find things, terrible things, to put in his mouth.

It was my least favorite game.

Making it worse, getting him up was like trying to pull a torn 80-pound pillowcase full of Jello off the floor. I was always surprised he didn’t lose a limb.

Anyway, he doesn’t do that anymore. In fact, I didn’t even remember it until I started writing this. It was 100 years ago, but yesterday all at once.

No. Lucas sat across from me at breakfast and ate like a little gentleman. It felt like our normal, but still had waves of surrealism mixed in. I looked at him and couldn’t believe the maturity he was showing.

Make no mistake, this is my kid. Just like his neurotypical sister, no matter how big he gets, there are always flashes of the little fella I knew way back when.

Just as I was taking in how grown up he looked, something happened to bring him back to the little guy days.

Another family was celebrating a birthday. Out of nowhere, at like 10 in the morning, a chorus of waiters came in to sing a royalty-free version of Happy Birthday. Lucas stopped short. His body became perfectly still, and I watched as his eyes took it all in.

Since he was tiny, my son has always had a reaction to someone besides him being sung Happy Birthday. It started at three. I brought him to a party for a kid in his preschool. It was only a few months after his own birthday. Everything was going fine.

And then they sang Happy Birthday and Lucas burst into tears. At a time when I knew very little about what was happening, this may have been the most confusing moment of all.

It was his teacher who suggested, maybe he’s jealous.

Strangely enough, it made me happy to hear that. I realized he might be more aware of things than I had realized.

Today, he doesn’t cry. He just stops cold and stares. It’s almost like disbelief. And honestly, it’s kind of adorable.

@hijamesguttman
@IHOP #autism #autismawareness #autismacceptance #autismappreciation #fyp
♬ original sound – James Guttman

So, yeah. This is the same kid who once did the diner slip and slide, hopped on tables, and threw fits over having to wait for another order.

Yet there he was, seated on his own, eating on his own, and being the best he can be.

Most of all, he was making me prouder than you can imagine for doing something that, to an outside observer, seems like a regular meal between a teenager and his dad.

That’s because it is.

It’s what we worked on and always wanted.

And I never take that for granted.

Note: This post is not sponsored by IHOP. Nothing here is sponsored by anything. It genuinely just happened at IHOP.