In your eyes – and mine

Sonder: (noun) the realization that each passerby has a life as vivid and complex as your own.

I could see it in your eyes.

The annoyance, the impatience as you rushed to where my son was standing, his arms extended toward the bright, enticing toy that hung from your baby’s stroller. You and I, both with newborns in our arms, hadn’t yet caught each other’s gaze, and before I could stand to redirect my son, your hand bruskly moved his away. A flash of anger morphed into sharp, piercing shame as I stammered, “I’m sorry – he doesn’t understand.”

“He doesn’t understand” – a sloppy, inaccurate replacement for the truth. In a parallel universe, I’d have long ago set down the baggage of What People Think. My voice wouldn’t quiver; instead, I’d tell you calmly that “my son’s brain works differently. Yes, he’s five, and he knows this isn’t his toy, but he’s not responding because he’s completely focused on how fun this toy is. Please give me a moment to direct his attention elsewhere.”

But in this universe, I could only manage an insincere apology, tinged with the embarrassment of being the reason for your hurried trek from one end of the mall’s play-place to the other.

I took a breath and pushed the moment aside, allowing delight to return as I watched my son throw his whole self back into play. We spontaneously took an overpriced “train ride” together, then window-shopped at Big Sister’s request.

Then, as we passed the play-place to leave, there you were: seated across from your baby, who was now cozy in her stroller. Armed with a pack of disinfectant wipes, you gently cleaned your little one’s hands, then wiped every inch of that little toy. And my heart softened.

I could see it in your eyes.

The hollow look of a new mom who’s long past exhaustion. The resigned determination to keep doing All The Things because we have no other choice. The angst as we wonder if we’ll ever feel like ourselves again.

I saw you. A mother, desperately trying to find her footing in a foreign experience. To get it right.

And now, I could see me.

I was angry at a physical boundary crossed. But I was angrier at myself: frustrated at my instinct to apologize for an act that had no ill intention, to boil down my son’s complex and beautiful neurodivergence to “he doesn’t understand,” to say this knowing he’s hearing each word.

I am sorry. Not on behalf of my son and the way he takes up space in the world, but for failing to see past my story into yours. You and I. Two mothers, desperately trying to find our footing in a foreign experience. To get it right.

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Thank you to The Fallow House for providing today’s writing prompt: SONDER.