Tag Archives: grocery store

Look, Ma – No Hands

The day starts off as such a beautiful, clear day – sunny and almost warm. I decide to ask Nigel to accompany me to the grocery store to pick out a different cereal in addition to what he usually has every morning. He agrees. We walk in the store, side by side, and head over to the organic produce section. “Where are the coconuts?” he asks. I tell him that they are probably in the regular fruit section and point him in the general direction.

He walks over by himself, and I watch. Not because I think I need to, but because, once again, I marvel at his ability to filter all the sensory input that used to be agonizing for him. The luxury of this – to me – never wears off. The sheer joy of it. It is comforting to see that he is happy, not distressed in the least. His gait is confident, purposeful. I look down and pick out some broccoli. In a moment I look up and see Nigel, fifty feet away from me, across produce stands and people and carts, and he is standing there looking at me, a big smile on his face – eye contact, even. He has found the coconuts. I smile at him, too, for so many reasons. He comes back over to me and asks if he can have a coconut so that he can make a replacement for one of his shell-cloppers from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. He likes to clip-clop his way through the house, acting out scenes from the movie. He made a pair of cloppers about a year ago, and one broke. Of course I will let him get a new coconut, but I ask how much they cost because I want him to be aware of things like that. He briskly walks back over to check. “Two dollars,” he says. “Is that okay?”  Sometimes he is so cute. I assure him that it’s fine, then suggest he go pick out his cereal. He returns a moment later with his completely appropriate, healthy choice (no, I’m not being sarcastic – he has learned not to bother asking for anything with refined sugar, after years of being turned down). He then asks if he can look at toys – not to buy, he assures me, just look. I tell him okay, but be back in five minutes.

He returns as I am unloading my cart at the check stand, exactly five minutes later, brandishing a small Lego kit that he has somehow not yet acquired. He tries to bargain. “I’ll have this instead of the coconut,” he says as he picks up the coconut to return it. I gently remind him that he promised he was only going to look at the toys and not buy any. A blank look crosses his face as he remembers. “But it has a crystal wand,” he says in a small voice. “Maybe some other time,” I say. “We’re not getting toys today.” He reluctantly says okay and goes to put the Lego back. And as I finish unloading my groceries, I marvel yet again at this child who has come so far, who, as a teen, is doing little things on his own. “Look, Ma – no hands” for us translates to “Look, Ma – no sensory issues.”  Or, “Look, Ma – no meltdown.” Of course, he doesn’t say that, but I’m thinking it. And his sensory issues are far from gone; he has just learned to filter them and cope with them. He still needs earplugs in movie theaters and often covers his ears, is a very picky eater, and exhibits some sensitivity to light and touch, but overall he does quite well now. He also knows when he needs to diplomatically settle for a coconut over Lego, and maybe, deep down he appreciates the subtle reminder that that was what he wanted in the first place.

We walk out to the car and the weather has drastically changed in the half hour that we had been in the store. The sky is dark gray and the snow is blowing at us horizontally.  “It’s snowing!” Nigel exclaims with perfect inflection. We hurry out to the car and he stands by his door, waiting to be let in. I ask him to help me load the groceries and he complies. As I put in the last bag, I hope for a second that he has thought to put the empty cart in the stall without me asking him to, but he is back waiting to get in his door, and the cart is still next to me. There will be other teachable moments, when the sun is shining.

I put the cart away and run back to the car. We get in and Nigel pulls the coconut out from underneath his jacket. “At least I protected the coconut from this climate,” he says. I tell him that it looks like a perfect one for his project. I look at the windshield wipers flicking away the snowflakes as I drive home. I breathe in sharply and feel overwhelmed with gratitude for so many things. That smile, for one thing, when he found the coconuts – it was just for me, and I will treasure it always.

Nigel Vs. Grocery Store

Nigel recently accompanied me to a large, busy grocery store, a smorgasbord of sensory issue hell. In recent years, I haven’t thought about it much – we just go and do our thing. We come home, Nigel helps bring in the bags from the car, I unpack. Seeing us now, one would never guess that, years ago, going to the grocery store with my son was not such an easy task. In fact, it was a nightmare.

He was about a month old when I first took him to the grocery store with me. “Wow,” I thought as he slept on my chest. “He’s loving this.” Within eighteen months, that was not the case. The baby who slept on my chest became the toddler who screamed and writhed on the floor. After a few of those incidents, I decided to leave him home with his dad when I went grocery shopping. Of course, that was not always possible. Once I had to run out for a few essentials and had Aidan on my hip and Nigel pulling on my arm. Nigel was about three years old. The sounds and the lights tortured him. I quickly grabbed the few things I needed and went up to the check stand, thankful that there was only one person ahead of us. Suddenly, someone in the customer service booth right next to us turned on an electric coffee grinder. Nigel began shrieking and sobbing and trying to bolt. It was horrible. Of course, Aidan joined in. Somehow I managed to keep Nigel from running away. Shaking, with both kids still crying, I paid for our items, and we emotionally limped back to the car.

I did not take him in any more stores for several years after that. His dad and I were divorced, but for a while he still lived in our area, and he would have the boys two nights a week, so I did grocery shopping then. When Nigel was seven, his dad moved 700 miles away, but fortunately I had a boyfriend then who would stay with the boys while I ran my errands. That lasted until five years ago, when Nigel was nine. At that point, he could actually sit for a while in a restaurant, so I figured I could try taking him to the store again. I had to, because there was no one to stay home with him.

I was nervous, remembering all the screaming and writhing on the floor. And I was nervous because I didn’t know what my options were if it was still going to happen. We prepared using a homemade social story about going to the grocery store. I made rules, such as “hold onto the cart and stay with Mom.” And I promised rewards. If you are quiet in the store and stay with Mom, you can pick out a treat. And you know what? The planets aligned and Nigel did okay. He covered his ears a lot, but at least he knew to do that. It took him a few years to learn how.

About a year ago I decided that if I put on a movie for him that I could leave Nigel and Aidan home alone for an hour while I ran errands. My cell number was posted by the phone, and we practiced them calling me or a neighbor if anything happened. And I got used to them not going to grocery stores with me most of the time.

Last week, Nigel came with me because he had a gift card to use at a different store that was nearby. First we went to the grocery store. As Nigel calmly walked beside me through the entrance, I was suddenly thrown back to the days of sensory issue hell. It struck me how vastly different it is for him now. I have read about autistic adults who have vivid memories of their childhood and how agonizing their sensory issues were, and I wondered if Nigel remembered those old grocery store experiences. I described for him how he had been, reminded him of the time with the coffee grinder, and gently asked him if he remembered any of that.

“No,” he said. “I don’t remember.” He even sounded a little surprised.

Part of me wonders if it’s a case of him subconsciously blocking those memories because they were so traumatic, which is something that members of our family are known to do. Or maybe he just cannot access memories from before he was verbal. I know that I can’t remember anything before I started talking. In a way, I wish Nigel could remember his early years because I would love to hear his perspective on them now. That would be simply amazing. But it’s probably good that he can’t remember those painful times, for his sake. It’s enough that I remember them and can feel so fortunate that somehow he learned to filter the bombardment of sensory input, and now he can participate in so much more of our life. Even if it’s just a trip to the grocery store.