“Whose child is this?” A booming voice echoed from my left side as I held the cooler door open with my right hand. I turned to see what the commotion was about, and there stood my son, Noah, barely 30 feet away, wide-eyed and peering into a refrigerated display of fruit.
The man, towering over me and likely twice my weight, stood just a few feet away from Noah, his irritation palpable. I dropped the shopping basket and rushed to my son’s side.
“People actually want to eat those! He shouldn’t be doing that!” The man’s voice was just as loud as before, as if he aimed to make an example out of my boy.
“Sir, I can explain. You see, my…” I began, but he cut me off.
“It doesn’t matter about your son. You need to control him!”
Doesn’t it matter? I thought. My mind raced with an eloquent explanation about the behaviors of children on the autism spectrum in new environments, but I knew it would fall on deaf ears.
This wasn’t the time for a deep discussion in the Walmart produce section. “Yes, sir. I apologize. I’ll keep a closer eye on him next time,” I replied, positioning myself between him and Noah.
“Well, you better. We’re all shopping here and don’t need our fruits all messed up.”
“I understand. Thank you.” I turned back to the display, still confused about the man’s outburst.
As I glanced over the shelves, I noticed dozens of watermelon slices neatly arranged on Styrofoam plates and wrapped in cellophane. At first, I couldn’t spot a reason for the man’s anger. Perhaps Noah had simply been in his way, but the display was large enough for anyone to pick out a slice without issue.
Then, I spotted it: on the lowest shelf, a watermelon slice bore several deep holes — about the size of a small child’s fingers. I looked closer and saw more damaged pieces, each one marred with indentations. It seemed that in the brief time I had been contemplating whether to grab sausage or pepperoni for our pizza, Noah had been busy exploring the fruit with his fingers.
I had seen firsthand how Noah interacted with his surroundings; he loved touching and feeling everything. There he was, poking at the watermelons without a care in the world.
When I looked down at him, he met my gaze for just a moment before returning to his watermelon poking mission. Squish, squish, squish — he continued, oblivious to the chaos he had inadvertently caused.
Then, for reasons I can’t explain, I pressed my own finger into a piece of watermelon on a higher shelf. Squish. The sensation was oddly satisfying, and Noah stopped to look at me with wide eyes.
He watched as I squished the watermelon again, and then, encouraged, he turned back to the fruit, smiling as he poked another piece. It became a delightful back-and-forth; one squish at a time, we shared a newfound connection.
After a few minutes, a store employee approached us. “I’ll gladly pay for any damaged watermelons,” I said quickly, before she could reprimand us. I could sense the disapproving looks from other shoppers, but I didn’t care. Noah and I were on an adventure, creating our own little game of watermelon exploration.
At that moment, I felt a bond with my son that I hadn’t realized we were missing. It was a simple activity that transformed our relationship, and for the first time since Noah had been diagnosed with Fragile X syndrome three years prior, I felt like we were truly in sync.
That day, amidst the watermelons at Walmart, we became a genuine father-son team, something I had long hoped for.