Erma on Dining Out

Today’s Erma-ism: “The age of your children is a key factor in how quickly you are served in a restaurant. We once had a waiter in Canada who said, ‘Could I get you your check?’ and we answered, ‘How about the menu first?’”

I think she’s got something there, but I’d take it a step further. The quality of any dining out experience is directly proportional to the rambunctious tendencies of your children. At least in our case.

Exhibit A: The Mexican Restaurant.

Monkey Boy uses a wheelchair due to his autism. It’s not that he can’t walk, it’s that he needs it for safety. Without it, he’s been known to run into the street, jump into bodies of water, or climb in inappropriate places. It’s been part of his ongoing therapy to try to get him to the point where he doesn’t need to use the wheelchair in public places anymore.

Well, on this particular occasion, the family took Monkey Boy to the Mexican restaurant without his wheelchair, just to see how he would handle it. It didn’t go well. He wriggled and squirmed right out of his chair, with one of us always in pursuit. At one point, Monkey Boy got away from us and darted right into the kitchen of the restaurant!

Exhibit B: The Exploding Chicken Incident.

We were on a medical trip for Monkey Boy and we had stopped at a modest sit-down restaurant. That was our first mistake. The four of us were seated around a small round table. As we waited for our meal, Monkey Boy impatiently thrashed around, bumping the table and sloshing water from our glasses. He doesn’t do waiting well.

The meal finally came and Monkey Boy got even more rowdy. He evidently had some sort of personal vendetta against the contents of his dinner, because things went flying. It looked like there had been an unfortunate meeting between a chicken platter and a homemade explosive device, for there, scattered all across the dining room, were chunks of meat from Monkey Boy’s plate. Waiters dodged and diners ducked. We should have brought them flak jackets.

Had the servers at either of these restaurants known what was descending on them as we walked in the door, we probably would have been handed a check before a menu, too.

We’ve become proficient apologizers and big tippers. We’ve also learned to eat take-out in the car.

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A Brag and Light It Up Blue

A quick brag before I go on…DSguy won the county spelling bee and will be advancing to the state spelling bee! I see a road trip in our future…

It’s almost April—and you know what that means—Autism Awareness Month! I’d like to draw your attention to it early because World Autism Awareness Day falls early in the month—April 2, to be exact. This year marks the fifth annual celebration.

Autism Advocacy group Autism Speaks sponsors a special event to mark World Autism Awareness Day. It’s called Light It Up Blue. Light It Up Blue is a global awareness initiative, meant to “shine a light on autism.” How can you help? Replace your outdoor lights with blue light bulbs for the day. When someone asks about your blue lights, tell them about autism or direct them to the Autism Speaks website.

Iconic landmarks around the world have lit it up blue, including the Empire State Building, the Sydney Opera House, Niagara Falls, and Christ the Redeemer in Brazil. I’m planning to light it up blue, too. In fact, I may do it for the entire month of April. I hope you’ll join me!

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Doody Duty

Potty training is the pits. I’m still trying to figure out if it’s worse for Monkey Boy or for us adults.

Monkey Boy is 7 now, so it’s definitely time. Autism makes things like this a bit harder to tackle, but tackle it we must. He’s finally showing that he has the readiness skills needed to make this work. So what’s the problem? He’s also got the stubbornness to not want to have to deal with this underwear nonsense!

In his defense, Monkey Boy has been doing a good job with potty training—when he wants to. He knows what to do. I think he’s partially put out with us for disrupting his regular routine and partially bored with the whole repetitive “let’s go to the potty” sing-song. Twelve hours a day of someone dragging me to the throne? Yeah, I guess I’d be put out, too. Fair enough.



From an adult perspective, however, it’s a whole different ballgame. I see a little guy that’s miserable being wet and dirty, but often fights going to the bathroom in a manner much like a cat trying to avoid water. When it takes two or more grown adults to get fifty pounds of pure muscle in Spider-Man underwear to the potty, you know you have your work cut out for you.

Yup, that’s doody duty. It’s dirty work, but someone’s gotta do it.

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