The Elevator Incident
It was a lazy Saturday morning — the kind that actually recharges you after a long week.
Three-year-old Jack and I had been laying and playing in bed for hours. He was toggling between his Cars CD player and his iPad, and I was catching up on Vanity Fair articles. We had snacks, took breaks to wrestle and tickle — it was a good time.
And then grief hit.
No warning, no warm-up — just bam.
It slammed into me when I realized that in all that time, I was the only one talking. My beautiful, angelic boy was still completely non-verbal.
The vibe shifted. I tried to brush it off, to compose myself, but Jack felt it instantly. He always did.
He grabbed his talking app — his way of punching in words or pictures to say what he was thinking. With a mischievous grin, he started tapping away, pausing to laugh, glancing up at me like he was writing a masterpiece. When he finished, he looked up, eyes bright, and pressed play:
“I want to poop in an elevator!”
We laughed until we couldn’t breathe.
And in that laughter, something cracked open.
He didn’t just shift the mood — he shifted me.
At three years old, barely a year after his diagnosis, I still lived in fear, panic, grief — every terror emotion you can imagine. But that moment? That absurd, perfect line? It reminded me that this journey would be hard, yes. But it would also be funny.
Hot-damn, it would be funny too.
Because Jack wasn’t just communicating — he was connecting. He was reading the room, feeling my sadness, and deciding to fix it the only way he knew how: with humor.
That’s the thing about parenting a neurodiverse child — the milestones don’t always look like what you expect. Sometimes they sound like a fart joke in an elevator. And sometimes, that’s exactly what saves you.
