A Friend.

I wept in front of a complete stranger the other day, which was not ideal. It was Loza’s dad, who may be a delicate flower on the inside but on the outside, looks as though he could start a fire in nature without incident.

I’d been hearing about Loza for some time. Hudson had taken to rocking back and forth on the couch (as lots of ASD kids do) in the afternoons singing “Loza, Loza, Loza, Loza” to the tune of “London Bridge.” When asked, “What do you want for dinner?” he’d reply, “Loza please!”

At first, I didn’t know who or what a Loza was. When he talked about her I would take his hand and place it on my nose. It sounded similar enough I thought but I was wrong, informed by a brisk open hand slap across the jaw.

By early November, the therapists who visit Hudson in school caught me up. Loza was a girl in the general education class where he spent half of his school day.

They’d brief me on his progress:

“Had a good day with a friend.”

“Played a lot with Loza’s hair in gross motor”

“Practiced sharing with Loza”

“Tried to steal his friend Loza’s food,”

A friend.

It’s been my greatest wish for him, the biggest, wildest dream. Whether he becomes an astrophysicist or sticks with his current vocation of special helper in the kitchen, what I’ve wanted for him more than anything, is the experience of friendship. It’s the reason I fought (and will continue to fight) for inclusion in school, the reason we practice giving less scratchy hugs, the reason he receives a billion and a half hours of three kinds of therapy each week. I want him to know the world’s capacity for love better than he knows its indifference. I want him to know that he’s seen. I think that’s something I might want for everyone.

Thanksgiving waddled closer with rainy days, dark stews, and approximately twelve flakes of snow. I heard more and more about the girl who liked to sit with my son while he worked hard matching animals on cards, who played with him on the balancing steps outside, and who showed him, for the first time in his life, what it was to be chosen by someone. I hoped I might get to meet her.

Last Thursday, we were late to school. I’d gone for a chilly five miles with Rachel at 6am and come home at 7:15 to a house that was silent and taut with panic. Everyone was asleep. We had fifteen minutes to get ready. The sandwiches leapt together, limp toaster waffles were shoved into still-sleeping palms and we were out the door before I had a chance to change clothes. I was wearing a pair of floral sale leggings that were two sizes too small. The gardenias looked like giant squid stretched over my thighs.

The van grunted and slid as I parked in the faculty lot (a much safer option for H) With a backpack on each shoulder and twin on each arm, I charged toward the entrance.

We got closer. I noticed a small blonde-headed girl who was not in a hurry at all. She had a monogrammed bag and was wearing a pair of black Mary Janes with no socks, even though they were calling for bad weather. Hudson squealed.

“Hi Hudson!” she said, sticking his arm through hers, “it’s my dog’s birthday today”

His cheeks rose up into plums under his eyes and he squealed again. She chatted to the twins about the one year old dog and the three walked into the building together.

Suddenly feeling shy in front of a human the size of a fire hydrant, I quietly asked, “Are you Loza?” as we all hung a right down the hall.

She nodded, grinned and turned her attention back to Hudson, her friend. I was stunned.

What do you say to somebody who unknowingly answers your deepest, most profound prayer?

What do you say when that person is younger than the jar of olives in the back of your fridge?

“You’re such a good friend. Thank you.”

She squinted at me for a second and turned to look up at her dad who gave me a polite wave. Then, it settled warmly on me, she didn’t know why I was thanking her, why a person would thank her for spending time with someone she loved. Her confusion was an adorable bit of wisdom. Hudson may not be the easiest choice for some children, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t their best choice.

I’ve sat in too many rooms with grown-ups telling me that effectively, my son doesn’t belong. He doesn’t participate. He pees his pants. He won’t sit still. I’ve been pleading his case for three years now. While we sat in the meetings talking about how Hudson would struggle to fit into class, into the school, into the world, he was busy fitting in just fine. There are people who will choose him, not because it’s mandated, but because they insist that he’s perfect and worthy and wonderful just as he is. It’s happening already.

Huddy let out a big giggle and Loza smiled. I looked past the two of them to her dad. Maybe he knew that the Hudson his daughter talked about had autism and was mostly non-verbal, maybe he didn’t. I can’t imagine he knew that six inches away from us, the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen was unfolding, something I’d prayed in earnest for more times than I can count. So, blubbering like a complete loon, I told him.

“She’s changed his whole world” I said, nose running like a faucet, pants still looking ridiculous, insides feeling twisty and embarrassed. He was very sweet about it,

“She talks about him all of the time” he smiled.

Loza gave Hudson one last hug and we went our respective ways. He’d join her in the big class later on, I promised. I waved goodbye to her father and hoped that maybe a part of his biggest, wildest dream was our children would grow up in a better world. Under the long tubes of light in the hall, that dream was unfolding too, little hands joyfully unfurling it bit by bit.

Related posts:

Businesses that provide outsourced services offer substantial time, money, and investment savings, allowing client companies to allocate their resources to other priorities.

Before the divorce was official, I told my counselor that I was terrified of being known as a “27-year old divorcée”. His response was not one I was expecting. He started laughing. I was offended…

Setting aside some time to go for a 45 minute walk isn’t always easy. We all live busy lives and between family and work, fitting in a workout isn’t always possible. What if I told you that you…