It was just a simple playdate – a two-hour window of time one cold January afternoon. But I had been hoping and praying for this day for years.
Carson had made a friend in his class. And he did it all on his own – no therapist role playing; no teacher intervention.
He and “Michael” developed a friendship like any typical first grade boys. Giggling. Acting Silly. Sharing stories of Mario and company.
For most children, it would only come natural that the next step would be a playdate. For us, the invitation from Michael’s mom was monumental.
Sure, I’ve arranged a million playdates over the years. But the difference is those were facilitated by me or my friends. My mom-friend would come over with her kids, and they would “play” while we sat in the next room, ready to intervene at the first sign of turmoil.
My close mom-friends get autism and get Carson. They don’t get their feathers ruffled if he chooses to roam off on his own while the other kids play on the swing set. They’re patient if Carson disrupts a board game or topples a carefully assembled block structure.
Carson considers the children of my friends to be his friends, whether they actually “play” or even get along at all. But he’s never once made a friend completely on his own. Not once had I ever dropped him off for a one-on-one playdate with a friend whose parents weren’t my friends.
So, as I dropped off Carson at Michael’s house, a mixture of anxiety and excitement stirred inside of me. Would he be ok? Would he do something “shocking” and never be invited back? And please God, let them get along. Just for one two-hour window, let there be no fighting.
Carson’s friend Michael has some issues of his own, so I think his mom kind of gets it too. But we just don’t have that history or relationship for me to know for sure that she understands. I don’t know that she gets that Carson’s lack of personal space is just his way of trying to interact with his friend; or that his repetitive jumping up and down is his way of showing excitement; or that this playdate means so much to him … and to me.
We live just down the road, and I altered my plans to stay at home in case the dreaded phone call came announcing that things had gone awry. The phone never rang.
When I arrived at Michael’s house promptly two hours later, I heard giggling from the basement. His mom said they came upstairs only once to get a drink, and they both complained that it was time for Carson to go home.
I wanted to burst out in tears, thanking the mom for having Carson over.
When I was a teenager, my mother once told me I would be lucky to have a handful of true friends over the course of my life. I’ll be satisfied with one for Carson.
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