Behind Autism and a Tantrum, a Break in a Child's Routine The game plan was simple. My mother Brenda and I were on a shopping trip to buy clothes for Michael, my 4-year-old autistic son, and his 5-year-old sister, B.J., at the PX in West Point, New York. I figured 15 minutes, tops, from front door to checkout. Anything longer was courting trouble. I never took both children out unless I had a one-to-one adult-to-child ratio. Yet my mother had limited mobility. She had recently moved in with us after a serious illness. Two months later, my son was given his diagnosis, and since then I had felt torn between taking care of the children and giving my mother the time she needed. Now, things were unraveling. I had only let go of Michael's hand for a minute, but that was enough: both children were running around the outerwear section. I was afraid one of my husband's superiors might see us. What kind of military parents couldn't discipline their own offspring? My mother's attempt to distract Michael by suggesting a visit to Burger King didn't help at all. "Give me money," he began demanding. Money. Money! I had promised him a quarter to buy a small toy in the vending machine at the exit. "As soon as we're finished, Michael," I said in a low voice, desperately trying to calm him down. "No," he screamed and I could hear the awful noise he always makes just before he spits. To avert that, I knelt down so that I could look my son in his brown eyes. With my left hand I deflected the slap he aimed at my face. "Give me money," he insisted again, kicking at my knee with his right leg. On impact, Buzz Lightyear's spaceship lit up at the tip of Michael's "Toy Story" shoe. I sent my daughter and her grandmother to the car, but I couldn't get Michael to budge. He had the strength of a child twice his size. My leg ached from where he had kicked me. He screamed. He cried. He bizarrely demanded a haircut. I had experienced his misbehavior before but not to this extreme. I kept telling myself that he was suffering more than I was, but part of me wasn't buying it. I felt out of ideas and, even worse, out of compassion. It felt exactly like being stuck in an abusive relationship. With my husband overseas for nine months, the only thing holding me together was my graduate program in nonfiction. I knew that my son's meltdown would keep me from another night of classes. Some days I felt selfish for enrolling in such a challenging curriculum. Yet without it I feared the weight of his demands would sink me. What did Michael need that I just didn't understand? All he kept saying was "No!" Without thinking, I rubbed my hand down his neck, the gesture I always made to let him know I kept my promises. "You go away, Mommy," Michael said, and his words went through me like a sharp blade. Just the night before, I had returned from an out-of-town conference with my classmates. It had been the first time I had left Michael for more than a night. When I returned he had kissed me three times, followed by one long hug with both of his arms, a rarity for him. That made me feel so good, even after my babysitter reported, "Michael cried a lot for you when you were gone." Of course, I knew that change was very hard for children like Michael. We had a solemn if unspoken pact: no sudden breaks in routine. And I had broken my implied promise. Day by day, I took great care to prepare him ahead of time for every activity. For his nightly bedtime routine, we used a picture schedule to demonstrate the steps he needed to take to have a restful sleep. And now I had gone away for two nights without preparing him properly, and he was letting me know it. I hugged him harder, saying that I understood. He was acting out based on the rules he lived by. His hands flopped to his side and he let me hold him. I had assumed his being home with family members and a familiar babysitter would suffice. Wrong. My failure to have better prepared my son for my absence is something I will have to come to peace with. The overwhelming reality is that my son is autistic, he does not like change, and this outcome might have been the same regardless. While at my conference I had dutifully attended every lecture and taken endless audio and handwritten notes, to ensure that my money and time away from my family were well spent. But what I had learned there was blown away by the lesson my 4-year-old son taught me when I got home. Michael is smart, intelligent and at times one of the most compassionate children I've ever known. It's no surprise that he would be the one to teach me that nothing is more important, in life and in love, than keeping your promises. But I also know that for Michael, even keeping my promises may not be enough. Read more about raising a child with autism on Motherlode: A Child with Autism Becomes a Teenager with Expectations; Autism and the Lessons of New York City; Father's Day, with Autism: Rethinking the Cool Dad and To Broadway, with Autism.