What happens when arguing becomes a lifestyle

“You know, phones give kids leukemia.”

That’s the perplexing comment a helpful person decided to share — unprompted — as I handed my son an iPhone during a quasi-medical appointment. I braced for an argument, because arguing is what I now know how to do best.

It was an argument that got me there — “there” being the orthotics store where I was shopping for supportive insoles for my 11-year-old. Or rather, a series of arguments, spanning the past several months. Like this one, repeated over many mornings at school:

“Can’t we take the elevator? My feet hurt too much to take the stairs.”

“No, we can’t. The other kids aren’t allowed to take the elevator, either.”

“Then I’m not going up to school.”

Or this gem, which has come to typify our weekends:

“Can we drive to McDonalds today? My feet hurt.”

“No, we can only go to McDonalds if we walk.”

“Then we have to drive half way, or I’m not eating lunch.”

Or take what I think of as our Every Day of Summer Argument:

“Want to go to the park?”

“Can we drive?”

“No.”

“Then no. My feet hurt too much to walk.”

“But you need some exercise.”

“I’ll only go if we drive.”

By now, you’re probably noticing a theme — or rather, two themes. Theme one: my 11-year-old likes to argue. Theme two: his feet hurt.

Both issues are related to the fact that Peanut is autistic. The sensory overload he lives with as an autistic person means he’s constantly stressed, so he tries to manage his anxiety by controlling his environment — which means arguing with just about every external request or suggestion.

Thanks to the occupational therapist we engaged to help with his sensory overload, we learned that he also has a number of physical challenges that either stem from or exacerbate the complexities of autism: he has a lot of trouble regulating his temperature, which means that he gets very hot and sweaty when he exercises, or when it’s hot outside, and takes a long time to cool down. He has has sensory defensiveness, especially in his palms, which makes it uncomfortable for him to hold things (like a pen). His body is hyper-mobile — meaning his muscles and joints are too loose, making him floppy — and he also has low muscle tone: together, those leave his feet flat and floppy, so it hurts to walk.

But it’s taken us several months to make it into the orthotics store, because (you guessed it!) most of our efforts have led to an argument. It’s a vicious circle: because Peanut’s feet hurt, outings take a lot of him, so we can only get him out and about for activities he’s really excited about — like trips to the playground, or the amusement park, or (God help me) McDonalds. Suggest a non-desired activity, like a trip to the orthotics store, and you’re likely to get stonewalled. But without those orthotics, every outing is painful and draining.

Today, I had a brainwave: when Peanut asked for a trip to McDonalds (and as usual, objected to walking) I suggested we could drive instead. The catch? We’d be driving from McDonalds to the orthotics store. Miracle of miracles, he agreed. Right away. I did a victory dance in my head, as if I’d never actually met my son before. As if I had no reason to expect further litigation. #AmateurHour.

Then the onslaught began.

“Can I watch YouTube at McDonalds?” he asked.

“No.”

“But I get to watch YouTube when I go to McDonalds with Dad!”

“That’s because we made that addition to our screen rules, just for your one weekend McDonalds trip.”

“Can I have game time at McDonalds, then?”

“No, the rules say you can only have screen time at a table service restaurant. Do you want to go somewhere else for lunch so you can do that?”

“No, I want to go to McDonalds.”

Twenty minutes later, we were ensconced at the golden arches, where Peanut happily chowed down while re-reading The Far Side: Volume 2 for the thirty-fourth time. When he finished eating, I popped him back in the car for the short drive to the orthotics store. A half-block from the store, I executed a dazzling U-turn in order to snag a parking spot a block from our destination.

“Where is the store?” Peanut demanded as I pulled into the space.

“It’s in the next block.”

“Uggggggh….” he groaned. “That’s too far to walk!”

“It’s not even a block.”

“But my feet hurt!”

“It’s a short walk. You can do it!”

Peanut reluctantly stepped out of the car and shuffled towards the corner. He perked up as we reached the lights, and took my hand for the final few paces — a now-rare privilege that I deeply appreciate whenever it happens.

We walked into the store, and I started to explain our situation.

“Hi! I need to get some insoles for my son, who — “

“Mum, can I have your phone?”

“Just a second, Peanut. Anyhow, my son is —

“Mum, now!”

“ — autistic, so it would be great if — “

“Can I please have the phone?”

“ — we could have someone patient.”

Then I turned to Peanut.

“OK, let’s see…well, the rules do say you can have a phone during a medical appointment — “

Just then, our helpful orthotics expert appeared.

“Hi! How can I help you?”

“My son’s feet hurt, and his occupational therapist says it’s because he’s hypermobile and has low muscle tone— ”

“I don’t have low muscle tone!” Peanut piped up, indignant. “Check out these muscles!” He rolled up his pant leg and flexed for our salesperson.

“Yes, those are strong legs!” I silently thanked God for sending us an orthotics salesperson who was fluent in autistic child diplomacy.

Peanut paged me again. “Now can I have the phone?”

Our salesperson slipped away and left me to the negotiation.

“Well, this is a medical appointment, so — ”

“This isn’t a medical appointment. It’s a physical-medical appointment.”

“OK, well let’s consider it a medical appointment, so you can— ”

“But it isn’t a medical appointment.”

By this point, our helpful salesperson had reappeared. “I found a couple of insoles for you to try.”

I seized the opportunity to finish my sentence. “I’m going to consider this a medical appointment, which means you get to use the phone.”

At this, Peanut relaxed into his chair, and offered the salesperson his foot while I fished my phone out of my purse.

This was the moment when the helpful woman next to us decided to pipe up: “You know, phones give kids leukemia.”

My brain flooded with potential replies. Let’s skip past the collection of expletives that swarmed my tongue, and which for once, I had the patience to restrain. Next, I switched on the part of my brain that handles garden-variety anti-screen comments, and flipped through my mental rolodex of pre-fab comebacks: “I worry more about the kids who don’t get to use screens.” “Believe me, I have spent more time thinking about kids and screens than anyone you’re ever going to meet.” “If I don’t let him use an iPhone, how will he have his first IPO before he turns 15?”

Finally, the words sank in. This wasn’t your everyday, well-meaning hippie mom, trying to shame me into screen-free parenting. This was a hardcore conspiracy theorist: the kind of person who goes leafing through third-rate coverage of second-rate medical journals in order to find the tiny areas of medical uncertainty that can be exploited for sensational conclusions. The kind of person who spouts theories that can actually harm other people.

I turned to her with my full attention.

“Actually, I research kids and screen time, and I can tell you, that’s just not true.”*

I braced for an argument, because in my experience, conspiracy theorists love to tell you about all the studies they’ve read backing up their crazy claims. So I spun through my debate strategies, honed in argument after argument with my in-house opponent: The analogy, where you compare this argument to another similar argument (I was figuring I’d go to vaccines). The expert slam, where you crush your opponent with your proven expertise (I was considering which publishing credential to invoke.) Or my personal favorite, the gut punch, where you spike your opponent with an unassailable emotional claim (“You know, as a special needs mom, I just consider myself lucky to get through the day.”)

But just as I kicked into debate mode, a strange thing happened. Conspiracy Lady shut up. As in, said nothing. You know, the way neurotypical people do when they don’t actually embrace arguing as a lifestyle.

I was floored. I’m so used to arguing the inarguable — yesterday, it was the relative merits of mountains v. clouds — that I positively salivate when I have the chance to argue on firm ground. But Conspiracy Lady wasn’t playing. She had shot her one arrow, and she was out.

I wheeled around and turned my attention back to Peanut, primed for his next salvo. I was ready. What was he going to serve up? An objection to these orthotics? A complaint about a different part of his feet that now hurt? A demand for some kind of payment in return for participating in this errand?

But no: Peanut was happily pacing the store in his insole-enhanced shoes, and exclaiming over his newfound comfort. Then he stopped and turned to me, a determined expression on his face. I braced myself.

“You know what they should invent? There should be orthotics that you put in your shoes, and then you put food into your shoes, and then it grinds up your food, and uses the energy from your steps to pump the food up to your mouth.”

I glanced around the store to see how this speech had played: nothing but smiles. I reached out and took Peanut’s hand.

“Great idea!” I told him. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

For more adventures with Peanut, check out The Peanut Diaries.

*Folks, if you’re tempted to litigate this with me, please know the following: 1) I will only entertain comments that are backed by peer reviewed studies in established medical journals. 2) You have totally missed the point of this story.