Salt in a Wound and the Costco Food Court

After completing our shopping today I took the kids into the Costco food court for some lunch. Not the healthiest but fast, good, and cheap. It was actually a pleasant outing, no meltdowns or relentless pestering for this or that. But I let something get to me that I’m having trouble shaking. Maybe it’s because I didn’t retaliate or maybe it's because the wound in my heart that hasn’t been bothering me too much lately was torn opened today. Either way, I’m feeling tender and sore, and I wonder if this is just part of the cycle for mothers with children with disabilities.

At the end of our lunch I held Stewy in one arm and dutifully cleaned up the napkins and foil littering our table. Nathan was happy to be down from the bench and began to galumph around a few of the tables in the not too crowded food court. I say galumphing because Nathan has a particular gait that distinguishes him from other kids. It actually sounds like ga-lumph, a short then heavy footfall. We always know when Nathan wakes up by the sound of the galumphing on the floor. Nathan also has a way of expressing his happiness that’s a little different from his peers as well. He has some speech delay so instead of saying “This is great. I love hot dogs and soda and galumphing around the table at Costco,” he offers a high-pitched but not shrill, screams of excitement. In fact, your two almost three-year-old children probably do the same thing.

For a not-so-gentle man just beginning to dine at a table near us, Nathan’s noise, drooling, and movement was intolerable. He stood up from the table with his hot dog, soda and wife and announced to the food court with a loud voice and a gesture that he…” could not sit by that child…that child shouldn’t be making those noises…that child needs to be quieted…. where is that child’s mother.”

I was livid to say the least but the man had turned his back to us so instead, I stared down his wife who finally stammered that he was tired from a long drive before scurrying away. I calmly collected my kids into the cart and headed out into the parking lot. Twenty feet from the building I turned around. I couldn’t let that man go unchecked. I parked my cart, went back into the food court and approached the table where that man and his wife now sat.

I knew exactly what I was going to say: Sir, how is it that my three year old son with developmental disabilities has more emotional self control than you, a seventy-five year old a**hole?


But I didn’t say it.

I could have. I had sufficient control of my indignation and the articulation to match it.

But I didn’t say it.

Something inside wouldn’t let me. Damn the Sunday school lesson I’d just taught on The Beatitudes. So instead, I said meekly: Sir, I’m sorry my son bothered you. He’s three and he doesn’t speak very well so when he’s happy, noise is how he shows it.”

The wife quickly said, “I just told my husband I thought your boy was different. Didn’t I?” The man nodded, still chewing his hot dog and refusing to look at me. “We have a 55 year old boy who is different. If my husband would have known…he was just tired from driving….”

I left them then and returned to my children in the cart. As I walked across the Costco parking lot I began to cry. I cried all the way home. I cried again when Doug came home. I started crying in bed again, which is why I’m up writing this when I should be sleeping…and I’m still crying.

There must be something more to it then. Maybe it’s because I didn’t tell the man where he could really put his hot dog. Maybe I’m hormonal and just too sensitive. Maybe I really should have shut Nathan up. Maybe my perspective is skewed. Had the man directed his comments to any of my other children I would have laughed and remarked how obnoxious kids are but hey, it goes with the culinary territory so go to the Ritz if you want a quiet meal.

I think the “more to it” is grief. Grief that my son struggles and will struggle with asses his entire life. Grief that I love him so much but still fail to protect him. I thought this wound was healing lately. I’ve been better at saying to myself life is what it is and being okay with it. But all it took was one grouchy old man at the Costco food court to open up that wound created by that... dear, dear, wonderful child.

I have a friend who swears by rubbing salt paste into a wound to mend it. No need for bandaids, durmabond, or stitches. Just plain old salt, mixed with water, then pressed into a wound. The salt stings a little bit but given a chance, it stops the bleeding and aids in forming a sturdy scab so the wound can heal. Perhaps my encounter with the salty old man, mixed with my tears, and given thought and time might actually facilitate in the healing of my heart. Just a thought, a needed epiphany.


I just noticed. I’m not crying anymore.