Diary of a not-so-wimpy mom: The day I fell flat on my face

If you ever fall flat on your face, play dead. There’s no other way. People will have sympathy and you’ll spare yourself the embarrassment. Another life tip: If you ever stumble out on the street, break into a full-on run. People will think you’re exercising, and you’ll save face. You’re welcome.

This is a story of the day I fell flat on my face in the middle of Brodies on a crowded back-to-school sale day. Everyone was out on the town that day. This was pre-Covid, so we weren’t worried about bumping elbows and sharing saliva.

I was store-hopping with my 3-year old son all morning, and this was our last stop. I could see the weariness in his eyes—the lack of eye contact, the undercurrent of building unease. He was hanging by a thread.

Then the thread broke. The proverbial last straw that broke the poor camel’s back.

He’d had enough. Enough of the noise and the crowd and the radio and the lights. It was too much. He flung himself to the floor and screamed. I barely managed to break his fall, absorbing his kicks and punches.

Our two-man drama attracted quite an audience. As I tried to scrape him up off the floor, he threw himself back again, and we both went down this time. I hit the floor hard and just laid there for a bit. (This reminds me of the time I died at the end of a school play and we hadn’t practiced how long I was to stay down there, so I just laid down there till I felt the other actors walking over me to move the props, and no one bothered to tell me to get up, the play was over. Smdh.) So maybe I was on the store floor for two or ten seconds, but in that brief pause, I had these interesting observations about people and myself.

People

As I laid there, I could see two sets of eyes on me. No, not two. Three sets of eyes. The first looked like they escaped a bullet. They were out shopping child-fee and praised Jesus they weren’t in my shoes. The second set scoffed at this mom who obviously couldn’t control her own child. They turned up their nose and sped off with their cart and perfect children in tow. The last set, not unlike that old story I learned in Sunday school, looked on in sympathy. An older, grandmother type lady walked over: “Poor thing. He want a toy, no?” I’m pretty sure the “poor thing” she referred to was me and not the baby. I just smiled and nodded, “Yeah, he wanted that truck.”

That was a big, fat lie. He did not want a truck. What he wanted was to be away from this busy environment and to feel safe. But how could I tell this Good Samaritan lady, in the middle of Brodies, while my son is in distress, that he is on the autism spectrum and has reached his threshold of stimulation for the day, and it has resulted in him having a meltdown, not to be confused with a tantrum. That’s kind of a lot of information to give someone in one breath. So instead I just smiled up at her and continued playing dead.

If I could have a do-over, here’s what I’d tell my spectators: He’s not giving me a hard time. He’s having a hard time.

Myself

I laid there and felt most proud. This was the do-over I’d been waiting for.

See, six months earlier, this same scene had played out with a very different outcome. This time, it was during the frenzy of Christmas and the store was Mirab. The new Mirab that had just opened. The place was jam packed, I kid you not. Chartered buses from PG had come in. We were there to see the store that look like one from States. My sisters and I had bravely taken out five pikni with us to see the lights. We oohed and aahed at the shiny new things and snickered at the people falling on the escalator, blissfully unaware what was about to go down.

I didn’t or rather couldn’t see how overwhelmed my son was. And in the middle of that Christmas crowd, he had a massive meltdown. Only, I didn’t know it was a meltdown. I thought he was just being rude, wanting to have his own way. He threw himself on the floor and kicked and screamed. He was in distress, but I was mortified. Embarrassed. Even angry. How dare he ruin our perfectly good Christmas fun? But it really wasn’t even that. I was ashamed of the stares that told me I was a bad mother who couldn’t control her own kid. Obviously, I was the problem.

I confess in shame that I fled the store, took him to the car, and spanked his leg. Let’s be honest. “Spank” is a cutesy word that sugar-coats the violence and injustice of corporal punishment. In Creole terms, I whapped him good. Then I sat there in the parking lot and ugly cried for a long time, feeling like a horrid person and an even worse mother.

(Yes, it was me you saw crying in the parking lot that time.)

I look back on that moment and feel compassion for us both. He needed to be understood. I needed to understand.

The lesson

In the months following the Mirab incident, I learned my son was on the Autism spectrum. What ensued was a myriad of doctor visits and tests and assessments and prodding and probing. The learning curve is immense, as any parent with a child with special needs will tell you. I immersed myself in the deep waters of research, and therapy, and trial, and failure, and came out a whole new person. Born-again, if I may.

What I learned about meltdowns is this: People on the autism spectrum are often sensitive to sounds, sights, and smells. When they become overwhelmed with too much sensory information (like the Christmas lights and music and crowds all at once), a meltdown can occur. My son’s cries and screams, then, were for help. He needed to feel safe and to be away from the chaos. This is not the same thing as little Johnny screaming for the latest Matchbox metal detector truck. That’s called a tantrum. Give Johnny the truck, and he’ll shut up. A meltdown is not a tantrum. I’m proud to know the difference now.

So as I laid prostrate on the floor of Brodies next to my son, I could smile. I knew what this was. And I was prepared this time. I crouched closer to him and whispered to my love: You’re safe. Mommy is here. I picked us up off the floor and floated out the doors. He felt my energy and soon began to calm down. I’m so proud of him. I’m so proud of me. Because as the wise Maya Angelou once said, “When you know better, you do better.”