Memory Tale: San Diego Wild Animal Park

Mikey loves the San Diego Wild Animal Park. We've taken him there most years since he was about 6. He loves the animals. The park is big, and even when there are a "lot" of visitors, it seldom feels anywhere near as crowded as other theme parks.

First Visit - Grandma Learns A New Animal

We started down the KILIMANJARO SAFARI WALK, which is a faux African trail adventure. (There is a well-marked concrete path the whole way, and a guide book.) There are animals and vegetation from Africa. I was trying to make sure Mikey looked at all the animals and knew their names. Ahead, I saw a black-and-white striped, hindmost part of an animal.
“Zebra.” I said.
Mikey muttered something in response, which I thought had “cop” in it.
”Zebra,” I said again, pointing to the animal.
Again, Mikey uttered the same thing, and I struggled to listen.
”Ze-bra,” I tried a third time.
Mikey raised his voice, too, and said, ”OH – COP –EE.”

It was then I saw the sign for the Okapi.

Screaming in the bathroom

Mikey was not potty trained until he was about 9 years old. Up until then he used disposable underwear; and his caretakers would help him clean up as necessary. This is not atypical for an autistic child; I've heard that some don't train until they are nearly adults. So our trips, of necessity, included carrying supplies and extra clothes in case of accidents.

Even more challenging, Mikey hated to be cleaned up after a BM. He would rather run around with the messy pants - it was as if he didn't even feel the mess - than have someone clean him up. (We've never figured out what the sensory issue was.)

So this particular trip, mid-day, the inevitable happened. Marc took Mikey into the public restroom, and he started screaming in protest. I stood outside the men's room, just in case he bolted in the process.

A women, a little older than I, stood nearby, obviously distressed by what she heard, and not quite sure what to do. She chose to speak to me.

"I wonder if that little boy is OK?", she ventured.

"He's my grandson. He is autistic, not potty trained, and doesn't like to be cleaned up. My husband is with him, and he is fine." I responded.

Oh, the things that go through your head at a time like that.

WhatIF:

The police or security come, and think you are harming the child? He won't tell you his name. Even if he did, our last name is not the same.

The police, security or social services don't believe we're his grandparents?

And worst of all, what if they separate us from him? He would be totally frantic.

It is very different to take care of a special needs child than a neuro-typical child. It's not that other people don't understand; it's just that there is no frame of reference for understanding, until and unless someone cares for that special needs child. With autistic kids, each experience is different, so it's not totally possible to use the same strategies or techniques from one child to another. There is no end or conclusion here, just another non-ordinary day.