My Humanity

I hold my breath, hoping I didn’t just hear him say he’s stolen school property. Ryan begins to cry. His tears are real, not an act or performance for my benefit, something only a mother knows for sure.

Not knowing how this scene is suppose to play out, I ask him why he did it. “I don’t know!” he shouts. It dawns on me: he really doesn’t know. Many thoughts swirl inside my head, but the most important is to stay in control of my anger. I was raised by a mother who valued truth above all else. The realization that my child stole something, consequently violating the core of truth, is almost too much to bear. How do I deal with this?

Feeling a bit suspicious, I take notice of every object in his room. I see several books, art supplies, office accessories, all of which I didn’t buy. “Ryan,” I say, “I am going to put a box downstairs on the dining room table. I want you to be very honest and bring all the things that don’t belong to you and put them in the box.” His chin squishes. “But you’ll be mad and yell!” “No,” I say in my soothing mommy voice, “I won’t yell. The most important thing is to be honest and do the right thing.” I sense that he is composing himself and contemplating the mission I’ve given him. I know that it is time for me to retreat and let him act of his own freewill. “I will be downstairs. Let me know when you’re done.” He nods. Don’t yell, I remind myself, just don’t yell.

Three boxes later, I sit bewildered on the couch, Ryan next to me, waiting for the hammer to drop. I reach out and stroke his back, reminding myself to remain calm. The implication of what he’s done really hits hard. How did he manage to get all of these items out of the school? Mostly, how did he manage to smuggle them past my watchful eyes?

I examine the contents of each box. Digging into the first box, I find a number of books. I stack them on the table and stare. Ryan peeks around the wall dividing the kitchen and living room. I feel his anxious stare. “Where did you get these books?” I ask, not looking over my shoulder. Again, tears fall down his cheeks. “From the book fair.” No, no , no! My son did not just admit that he stole merchandise from the PTO’s annual fundraiser! Then I notice he’s written his name in each of the stolen books with a permanent black marker. I want to curl up in the corner and cover my head to make it stop. I really, really want to yell!

My hip resting against the table, I motion for Ryan to walk towards me. I take both of his hands in mine to reassure him that I am calm and in control. “We have to take all of these things back to school,” I explain, “It’s the right thing to do.” He begins to sob. Gone are the sporadic tears rolling down his cheeks. In their place is a steady stream, and the saddest eyes I’ve seen. “I don’t know why I took them Mom! I just wanted to have them so bad!”

Because I understand autism, I realize the impulsiveness that goes along with it. Ryan first displayed this behavior by constantly flicking light switches on and off. Eventually, it became more serious as he, without being provoked, slapped his younger sister across the face. True impulsiveness lacks the element of control. For this reason, I empathize with his need to take things that look pleasing, or show pictures of things he’s interested in or loves. I notice that many of the items in the first box have pictures of animals on them, along with school buses and birds. The kid didn’t have a chance.

I explain to Ryan that on Monday afternoon I will bring the boxes to the school principal. This revelation makes him cry harder, as shame finally sets in. Although uncontrolled impulsiveness drove him to steal, I can’t allow Ryan to believe this behavior is acceptable. I’m not sure if he will be affected by the consequences that await him, but I have to try. The bottom line is that stealing is wrong, no matter what. It may take Ryan more than once to learn this lesson, but it is my job, as his mother and the one person who loves him the most in this world, to hang in there until he does.

I walk over to my sweet boy and wrap him in my arms, his head just reaching my chest. “I love you,” I whisper in his ear. He gives me a squeeze and whispers back, “Thank you for not yelling.”