Grapes of wrath

I had a drag-the-kid-screaming-from-the-restaurant moment with The Girl today. Basically, The Boy ate all the grapes from the fruit salad, and I wouldn't magically produce new ones for her. "The grapes are all gone," I told her. The scene escalated until I had to snatch her up and drag her miserable, 13-year-old ass out of the Bob Evans to cool down. After some severe negotiations (none of which  included more grapes), we agreed to quiet down, return to the restaurant, and have a big chocolate chip cookie for dessert. But she still wasn't happy.

The waitress returned, offering more grapes, and I said, "NO. I cannot continue to pull miracles out of my butt for the rest of her life. She's going to have to learn to deal with it." The worst thing was that while I was gone, my parents felt the need to explain everything to the other diners. Oy. It's none of their business, Clearly, she's got issues. They'll figure something out.

Okay, here comes the comic relief. The waitress showed up and started rambling about how she had seen a show on TV about an autistic child who sang the national anthem, and I cut her off. I ordered pie for The Boy and asked The Girl what she wanted for dessert. Without hesitating, this blessed child said, quite clearly and calmly, "A chocolate chip cookie. And grapes." We laughed until we cried.

Around our house, April is "Autism is Painfully Obvious" month. We roll with it.