The Movies and My Son with Autism
By: Caterpillar Talk
Tags: Parenting, Autism, Special Needs, Storytelling, Real Life

Photo by Krists Luhaers on Unsplash

My eleven-year-old son with autism absolutely loves to go to the movies. So a few years ago, as a reward for some really terrific behavior, we planned a trip to see Spider-Man — on the day the movie opened. I know . . . but let me explain.

Usually, we take advantage of AMC Theater’s Autism-Friendly Movies, which allow people on the spectrum to enjoy a movie without the bondage of sensory overload or the worry of disrupting others. Attendees are not ushered out for loud outbursts or stimming, and the volume in the theater is slightly lower than the usual deafening decibels. But the main attraction of attending these screenings is that the auditorium is full of other autism families, people who “get it.”

On this particular Saturday, there were no autism-friendly performances scheduled, and without thinking ahead, I had promised my son a trip to the movies. Since his behavior had recently been so impressive, so improved, so (I know, that word) normal, I figured that he was ready for a trip to the regular movies, with the general public. After all, isn’t that what all these past visits were for? To acclimate and ready him for involvement in the community?

“Yes,” I thought. “We’ll do it!” But I planned to sit on the aisle near the back, just in case.

As it was opening day, we waited in a very long line to enter, then another long line for popcorn. But he was great! I complimented myself on my stellar parenting through all of this, “This was a great idea,” I thought, “He can handle this. We have come so far.”

Popcorn in hand, we sat next to each other — me in the aisle seat and him right next to me in the second-to-last row of the theater. We chomped our popcorn through what felt like an endless series of long, loud previews. Still — he was an angel.

When the movie started, it was very loud, very stimulating. I reflected on the fact that it had been eleven years since I’d seen a non-autism friendly movie. I’d nearly forgotten the deafening surround-sound levels, and the pitch-black theater experience. On top of that, people were reacting loudly; This was opening day, and the theater was FULL.

Nonetheless, my son was terrific. He was quiet and engaged, actually paying attention. I whispered in his ear, “You are doing a great job!”

That’s when everything changed.

As if lightning struck, he stood up, darting out of his seat. I reflexively reached with my one free hand to grab him (my other hand occupied with a super-size Diet Coke), but I was too late. He zoomed past me, his eleven-year-old body much faster than mine on a regular day, but energized by the stimulation of this experience he was The Flash. By the time I stood up, my son was running full speed down the aisle toward the front of the movie theater — straight for the Emergency Exit.

Our bucket of popcorn went flying as I kicked it in haste, scrambling down the aisle. I was no match for his speed. He made it to the front of the theater, and began to descend a little staircase of about five steps toward a door with a big red “Alarm Will Sound” bar across it.

Full of adrenaline and with more eyes on me than on Spidey, I raced ahead with superhuman speed. My mom-bionic arm grabbed him by the back of his shirt, and pulled him away from his escape with no time to spare.

My son was thrilled! Now the adventure was ON. Giggling loudly, manically, he squirmed his way out of my grasp, then jumped under the stair handrail, and crawled BEHIND THE MOVIE SCREEN.

Elated with himself, the maniacal laughing developed a scream-like quality, like the Joker, only we were watching Spiderman. I whisper-yell, “Get out of there RIGHT NOW!!!” (Thanks to my MFA in acting, I have perfected the stage whisper.)

This set him off even more. He howled again with delight. This was his best day ever.

I whisper-yelled more and more. He laughed louder and louder.

By then, I was all too familiar with this attention-seeking behavior. Even still, I was defeated. It was clear that my adult-sized body would never fit into the tiny crevice he had crawled into.

I had no other choice. With every disgruntled eye in that opening-day movie theater directly on me . . . I walked all the way back up the aisle to the second-to-the-last row, and sat back down in my seat.

And I waited.

From my seat I could hear him giggling like a madman. EVERYONE COULD. Three separate people got up and exited the theater, and I was certain they went to find an usher to escort us out of the theater.

“I wonder if any of the ushers will fit in the crawl space behind the movie screen?” I thought.

The audience sat in silence, as everyone stared not at Spider-Man, but at the Emergency Exit, waiting to see if that kid was ever going to come back out.

A minute passed. Another minute passed.

Suddenly the giggling stopped. By then I had gathered all of our things and sat perched and ready on the edge of my seat.

Having discovered that he was no longer getting any attention, and that no one was crawling in after him, my eleven-year-old emerged, headfirst, and with some effort he soldier-crawled out of his hiding place.

By the time his feet hit the ground, I was waiting to grab him up by the armpit as only a mother can do. I escorted him up the aisle, the walk of shame, as my son wore a victorious smile while I donned a practiced expression of stern disinterest.

And as we got close to the lobby, every eye still on us, I saw two ushers standing by the door, waiting to wield their weighty authority. At the sight of their eager, pimply faces, the panicky tightness in my chest unexpectedly shifted.

I ranted to myself, “I dare you to kick us out of here. What you witnessed here today is called life. Thanks for watching. You don’t get to kick us out, this is us kicking YOU out — of MY MIND. We have every right to be here. In fact, we’ll be back next week.”

I may not fit into the crawl space behind a movie screen, but I know how to steal a show. Raising a child with pervasive sensory and behavior challenges is an adventure and a gift, and we’re not gonna hide away from the world. That day I grew a little more courageous, more bulletproof, and gave some Spider-Fans something to talk about. . . so, you’re welcome.