Autism is tricky

Yesterday I was reminded of that in the parking lot of the Canfield Fairgrounds.

We were at the Home & Garden Show.

Inside a building.

Now here’s the thing — Dylan has gone to the Canfield Fair every single year. He loves it. He walks around, gets french fries from a food stand, finds a bench, and sits with his fries. That’s the tradition. That’s the plan. That’s the expectation.

So on the ride there, I must have said 47 times:

“They have french fries, Dylan.

But they are inside.

We are going inside.”

He nodded.

He heard me.

But I don’t think he believed me.

We parked.

He got out.

And he took off.

Refused to go in the building. He wanted to walk the fairgrounds. Because in his mind? The fairgrounds = french fries. And there was no way his mother was telling the truth that fries were inside a random building.

What followed was about 45 minutes of yelling, laying on the ground, escalating emotions, and two parents trying very hard not to turn on each other.

Because here’s the other tricky part about autism — it doesn’t just test the individual. It tests our marriage. It tests our patience. It tests the “whose idea was this?” conversations.

Kevin gets frustrated.

I get defensive.

And it becomes really easy to place blame.

“Why did we bring him?”

“We knew this would happen.”

“This was a bad idea.”

And just like that, you’re back in 2008. Or 2012. Or 2016. Reliving the years when he lived at home and every outing felt like a gamble.

But here’s what shocked me.

After 45 minutes of convincing, redirecting, and negotiating… he walked into the building.

And he was a perfect angel.

He sat calmly.

Ate a literal bucket of french fries (thank you to Anderson’s boyfriend).

Smiled.

Engaged.

Like nothing had happened.

Autism is tricky.

Because the outside world sees the angel sitting with fries.

They don’t see the 45 minutes in the parking lot.

And that — right there — is why we can never lose sight of the why.

Why are we building homes.

Why housing for adults with autism is a crisis.

Why parents and grandparents in their 60s and 70s are still raising adult children with the needs of toddlers.

Why Dylan’s House exists.

This weekend at the show, I had conversations with people who had no idea what autism really looks like — and conversations with families who are living it every single day.

The overwhelming response?

“How amazing this is.”

“How needed this is.”

“How do we help?”

But here’s what I know:

This isn’t amazing.

It’s necessary.

It’s necessary because autism is tricky.

It doesn’t fit neatly in a brochure.

It doesn’t behave on command.

It doesn’t follow social rules just because we wish it would.

It looks like a 25-year-old man laying on the pavement because he cannot reconcile fries being inside instead of outside.

And it also looks like that same 25-year-old man sitting peacefully five minutes later.

Both are true.

And if we only tell the polished version, we miss the point.

So yesterday, while I was standing in that parking lot trying to keep perspective (and my marriage intact), all I could think was:

This is the why.

The why isn’t the ribbon cutting.

It isn’t the applause.

It isn’t the sponsorship banners.

It’s the parking lot.

It’s the 45 minutes.

It’s the parents who are tired.

It’s the families who are aging.

It’s the reality that love is not enough — we need housing, structure, community, and support.

Autism is tricky.

But the mission isn’t.

We build homes because someday Kevin and I won’t be here to explain that the fries are inside.

And someone else will need to know how to wait 45 minutes.

That’s the why.

Always.