“Whose child is this?” A deep voice echoed from my left. I held the cooler door open with my right hand, turning my head toward the source of the commotion. It was my son, Lucas.
In mere seconds, he had wandered about thirty feet away from me, standing wide-eyed in front of a refrigerated fruit display. The man, towering over me by at least four or five inches and likely weighing double my frame, stood just a few feet from him. I dropped the shopping basket, the cooler door snapping shut behind me, and rushed to Lucas’s side.
“People want to eat those! He shouldn’t be doing that!” The man’s voice was as loud as before, seemingly intent on making an example of my child.
“Sir, please allow me to explain. My…” I started, but he cut me off.
“It doesn’t matter about your son. You need to control him!”
It didn’t matter? Of course, it did! Did he not understand the challenges of parenting a child with autism?
My mind raced with a well-articulated response about how children on the spectrum often explore their surroundings through touch. But I knew, in that moment, it would be futile. The produce section of Walmart wasn’t the appropriate venue for such a discussion.
“Yes, sir. I apologize. I’ll keep a closer watch on him next time,” I replied, positioning myself between him and Lucas.
“Make sure you do. We all are shopping here and don’t need our fruits all messed up.”
“I understand. Thank you.” With that, I turned to assess what had upset the man in the first place.
The display was filled with neatly packaged watermelon slices, each resting on white Styrofoam and wrapped in cellophane. Initially, I couldn’t figure out why the man had reacted so strongly. Perhaps Lucas had simply been in his way. However, as I scanned the shelves, I noticed a piece of watermelon with several visible indentations.
There were five or six holes, perfectly formed by a small finger, pushed about an inch into the fruit’s flesh. One after another, I observed more slices with similar impressions. My heart sank as I realized the extent of the damage; Lucas had effectively marred nearly an entire watermelon’s worth of slices.
In the brief moment I was deciding between sausage or pepperoni for our frozen pizza, Lucas had methodically explored the fruit with his tiny fingers. I had seen this behavior before; he loved to touch and feel everything in his environment.
I glanced down at him. He looked back, curious but unfazed, as he continued his mission of poking each watermelon slice. I chose not to intervene but instead watched, fascinated by his determination. Squish, squish, squish—he continued, creating holes one at a time.
For reasons I couldn’t quite grasp, I decided to join him. I poked a piece of watermelon on a higher shelf, feeling the fruit yield under my finger. Surprisingly, the sensation was intriguing.
Lucas stopped, looking up at my piece of watermelon with newfound interest. He gazed into my eyes for what felt like an eternity. I squished it again, and he responded by sticking his finger into another piece of watermelon, grinning back at me.
We took turns, back and forth, enjoying this simple yet profound activity. After a few minutes, a store employee approached us.
“I’ll cover any damaged watermelons,” I said before she could speak.
I could sense the disapproving glances from onlookers, but in that moment, I didn’t care. Lucas and I had found a shared experience, a small game that brought us closer together. For the first time since his diagnosis with Fragile X syndrome three years ago, I felt we were truly connecting.
That day in the Walmart produce section transformed our relationship. We became a genuine father-son team, united through our playful exploration of watermelons.