Thirsty

The age old expression "Kids say the darnedest things" has the tendency to be an understatement in my family. Before Pres was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome a little under a year ago, one of the most telling symptoms was his seeming complete lack of a social filter. He says what he's thinking at any given moment, regardless of the situation. And he only has one volume: LOUD.

At seven years old, most children his age have at least some reservations about blurting things out in public. I've seen it in his in his peers and cousins and often wondered why Pres was so unable to hold his tongue. But my son, God bless him, is the one who shouts to his father across the crowded swimming pool, "DAD! That guy next to you only has ONE ARM! Where is his other arm, Dad?! He's throwing a ball with that kid and catching it with his ONE HAND! What happened to him?! Gross!"

He's also the kid who turns to the booth behind us at our favorite Mexican restaurant and asks incredulously, "WHY are those two people so FAT?! They really shouldn't eat so much!"

As a parent, it's not easy to recover from these situations. I embarrass very easily, which is why I am rarely the first to speak in social situations. I was the meekest, quietest wallflower of a child growing up and not much has changed with age. Presley's faux pas drag so harshly against my grain that most days I'm convinced there's no way we share the same DNA. The disgusted glares from anyone within earshot only exacerbate my speechlessness and rather than taking the time to explain that he has a form of Autism, I bury my red face in my hands and shuffle away as quickly as possible, mumbling apologies as I go.

This week is Spring Break, so a friend and I took our collective brood of little boys to the Great Plains Mall to burn off some energy at their indoor playground. It was very crowded because apparently everyone else had the same rainy-day idea, and the large circular enclosure was packed with 20 to 30 families. Widely diverse families.

I will preface the following series of events by saying that I take great pride in my family's "Celebrate Differences" philosophy. We live in a predominantly white neighborhood and Pres therefore attends a predominantly white school, but my husband and I find opportunities as often as possible to teach our children about diversity in all forms. Color, size, culture, language, disabilities, etc. We try. Really.

After two hours of the boys running, jumping, tackling, and sweating buckets, it was time to pack up and leave the play area. I rallied Pres over and he promptly grabbed his Gatorade from our belongings. He took a swig, wiped his mouth, smacked his lips and proclaimed, loud enough for ALL to hear, "Ahhh! I'm as thirsty as an African-American!"

My heart fell to my stomach.

What. Did. He. Just. Say? What does that even mean?! Surely I heard him wrong.

Cautiously, in a tiny, dry whisper, "...what?"

"I am! I'm as thirsty as an African-American!"

At this point, people are looking. My friend's eyes are wide and she's covering her mouth, turning away to hide her laughter. I wanted to spontaneously combust and die on the spot. He said it so confidently! As if he knew exactly what he was talking about. Then I remembered our recent discussions about the starving children in Africa, and how so many people throughout the world have no clean water to drink. I figured this must be what he was talking about, a misplaced memory in his complicated little mind. So I explained to him, "Honey, you're referring to Africans. In Africa, where they're thirsty because of lack of water. Not African-Americans, who live here in the US."

He looked right at me and shook his head. "NO, I'm not. I mean I'm thirsty like BROWN people!"

It's going to be a long time before I show my face at the mall again.