“Whose child is this?” A deep voice echoed from my left as I held the cooler door open with one hand, turning to locate its source. It was my son, Jake.
In mere moments, he had wandered about 30 feet away, standing in front of a refrigerated display filled with fruit, looking bewildered. The man, towering over me by several inches and resembling a mountain of muscle, stood just a few feet from Jake. Panic set in as I dropped the shopping basket and rushed to my child.
“People want to eat those! He shouldn’t be doing that!” the man barked, his voice booming, seemingly intent on making an example out of Jake.
“Sir, please, I can explain. My son…” I started, but he cut me off.
“It doesn’t matter about your kid! You need to control him!”
Doesn’t it matter? My mind raced, crafting a response that would clarify Jake’s behaviors as an autistic child in unfamiliar situations. But I knew it was pointless to engage in a discussion here, especially with someone so clearly unyielding.
“Yes, sir. I apologize. I will keep a closer watch on him,” I said, interposing myself between the man and Jake.
“Well, you should. We’re all here to shop, not to have our fruit ruined,” he replied gruffly.
“I understand. Thank you.” I turned back to Jake, puzzled about what had upset the man in the first place.
In the display, dozens of watermelon slices were neatly arranged on white Styrofoam trays and wrapped in cellophane. Initially, I saw nothing alarming. Perhaps Jake was just in the way? The display was large enough for anyone to select a piece without difficulty.
Then I noticed it. On the lowest shelf, a slice of watermelon had several finger-sized holes pressed into its flesh. Upon further inspection, I found more damaged pieces, each with multiple indentations. It appeared that Jake had systematically explored the watermelon, leaving his mark on nearly every slice.
I recalled how I had observed Jake’s tactile exploration tendencies firsthand. He loved to touch and experience everything around him, and here he was, poking his tiny fingers into the fruit.
As I watched, he glanced back at me, curious but unbothered, and continued his mission of puncturing the watermelons. I didn’t intervene, choosing instead to observe. Squish, squish, squish — he moved from one piece to the next.
For reasons I couldn’t quite articulate, I reached for a watermelon slice on a higher shelf and pressed my finger into it. Squish. The sensation was unexpected; I could feel the structure of the fruit yielding under my touch.
Jake paused, looking up at me, then back at the watermelon I had just squished, his gaze meeting mine with an intensity I had never experienced before.
Encouraged, I squished another piece, and he followed suit, grinning as he poked another slice. We exchanged turns, and in those few minutes, an unexpected connection blossomed.
“I’ll cover the cost of any damaged watermelons,” I said to a store employee who approached us, anticipating her words.
Though I felt the weight of disapproving gazes around us, I didn’t care. Jake and I had found a shared activity, a playful game amidst the chaos of grocery shopping.
That day, for the first time since Jake’s diagnosis with Fragile X syndrome three years prior, I felt as though we were truly bonding, united in our watermelon exploration. Finally, we had become a real father-son team, a connection I hadn’t known was possible until we stumbled upon those watermelons at the store.
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Summary
In a seemingly mundane trip to Walmart, a father finds an unexpected connection with his son while navigating the challenges of parenting a child on the autism spectrum. Through a playful exploration of watermelon, they bond in a way that transcends typical father-son interactions, illustrating the power of shared experiences.
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