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A lot of the posts I write are about the common understanding that I have with my nonverbal 14-year-old son. They’re tales of triumph, building bridges, and all that stuff.

This is not one of those posts.

Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of those stories to go around. But it’s the sporadic lapses in communication that make the rest so notable. If not for misunderstandings, then why celebrate understanding?

Through the years, there have been things that Lucas has needed to grasp, and I’ve wondered how I could ever teach him. Learning that food needed to be cooked was a big one.

I had to show him the oven and create other gestures like “wait” to eventually bring it all together. It wasn’t overnight, but it happened.

Like a Nintendo game, solving earlier puzzles only makes the next ones more advanced. Currently, I’m managing a new one.

Lucas doesn’t like to walk. It’s one of his least favorite hobbies. Running, he’s OK with. A leisurely stroll? The worst.

That’s why street fairs and Safe Halloweens are usually done for a quick in-and-out. I want him to get one candy, be amongst the people, and we can return home. That’s it.

To his credit, that’s what he did on October 31 this year. From the moment we parked our car near the train station and made it down the block, my little George Washington had earned a single bag of peanut butter M&Ms. We dined like kings.

As we hit the end of the first block, Lucas spotted a parking lot. That was it.

Suddenly, he was pulling my hand toward it, whining to go there rather than back the way we came. Why? Because he sees cars. He figures that’s where ours is. He thinks going anywhere rather than this strange parking area is the end of the world. He just wants to leave.

The issue? Our car’s not in that lot.

And so the game begins.

He holds my hand and tries to pull me toward the lot. I pull back and tell him “no.”

At this point, there’s a moderate whine as people walk by. I pull out every gimmick I know.

No. Look. Lucas. These cars…

I gesture to the strange parking lot like it’s garbage.

These cars aren’t (waving hands in a no, no, no motion) our cars.

I clap my hands together.

We… (I motion to the two of us) need to go back… (I trace our route in the air like I’m programming a hologram)

Where we came. Thennnnn we go home.

He stares at me, still sporting a slight grimace.

OK. Good. Let’s go. Come on.

I take his hand and start to walk. He plants his feet into the ground and I spring back like a Looney Tunes character.

At that point, we go to scorched Earth. It’s my last resort, and it always works. I dread the day it doesn’t.

OK. Fine. I’m going to the car. Later, dude.

And I start walking. Within five feet, he comes running up behind me, whining. I take his hand and we make it back to the car. My little drama queen. He always gets the last act.

I hope you read this with vaudevillian music playing in the background, rather than a sad tune. Stories like this aren’t sad to me. They’re me and my son. It’s part of who we are.

I’m sure that people will have a million suggestions to make it easier. Take a picture of the parking space. Make a social story. Show him photos of the route. Bring along a Lego replica of the town. Whatever. There’s a lot and, aside from the picture, I’m not doing them. Even the picture is something I have to be concious of in the moment.

At the end of the day, I never know when this might happen. The parking lot issue isn’t an issue until it becomes one, if that makes sense. Lucas decides when that happens. But that’s fine. It helps us build understanding. When we eventually build this bridge, we’ll be all the stronger for it.

That’s the thing. My son doesn’t need to understand everything. That’s fine. If that’s who he is, that’s who he is, and I love him either way.

People who’ve never met him will argue with me about it. They’ll tell me he understands everything. I argue that a neurotypical 14-year-old doesn’t understand everything. I know my kid.

Cards on the table – Lucas isn’t telepathic. I’m not judging anyone who subscribes to this. Maybe your kid is telepathic. I’ve never met your kid. Mine’s not. That’s fine too. Lucas doesn’t need a superpower. He’s a person, not an anomly. He just has to be Lucas and nothing else

Keep in mind, that doesn’t mean I talk to him as if this is true. If anything, I speak to my boy as if he understands every single thing I say, no matter how advanced.

I go on to him about people who annoy me, taxes, politics, the price of groceries – you name it. My boy hears a mouthful, and the day he says his first word, we need to have a conversation about keeping things on the down low.

That day might never happen, and that’s fine too. Like I said, he just has to be him.

I’ve spoken to my son since he was born. I’ll speak to him until I can’t anymore. Most things he gets. Some things he doesn’t. Above all, he can read the mood and he knows that his dad loves him.

That’s the whole point.

My Non-Verbal Son is 13, Not “Mentally 6” – Here’s Why That Matters

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