I Might Have Been Doing a Good Job, But Then You Opened Your Mouth
W
wade neumann
Notes. Thoughts. Big Green Ideas.
Categories
- Autism
- Rants
- I-Wish-They'd-Get-It
- Family-Life
- Parent-Guilt
-On premature encouragement, awkward pauses, and the exits we take too early
It usually happens in places that aren't meant to hold weight.
A corridor outside a clinic. Or One-to-One in the park.. Nearly always sitting opposite each other. Close enough to be polite. Far enough to escape if needed.
Places like a school gate with chalk dust on the concrete.
A kitchen bench where coffee mugs cool untouched… One too many?
The furniture is neutral. The lighting is kind. Nothing in the room suggests that anything difficult is allowed to happen here.
The parent's body is angled slightly away, not defensively, just habitually. One foot hooked around the leg of the chair. Fingers worrying the seam of a sleeve that's been washed too many times. Their eyes stay present, but not wide. They've learned what wide eyes invite.
Across from the parent, they sits upright. Shoulders back. Hands folded neatly in their lap like they're waiting for instructions. Their breathing is shallow, quickening just enough to register if you know what to look for.
They've just been told something true.
Not dramatic. Likely a simple admission. Nothing shocking. Just real.
Something about a child whose life doesn't move forward in clean increments. This story has no before-and-after arc. Something that doesn't resolve.
There's a pause.
Not long. But long enough.
In that pause, the air thickens. Not for both parties. Only for one.
Inside they, the moment starts to stretch. Their jaw tightens slightly. A shoulder lifts and drops. The silence feels louder than a thousand mute cicadas. They glance down, watch, phone, then back up again, as if checking whether the parent is about to cry, or rage, …or just something they don't have on hand.
Their body leans forward a fraction, then catches itself and leans back again. An almost-movement. A rehearsal of closeness aborted mid-gesture. Inside them, the internal scramble:
Oh!..
I have to say something?!
This is getting heavy.
I should help.
Encouragement is good.
People like encouragement.
The parent feels none of this as urgency. They feel it as pressure drop.
They notice the micro-shifts. The tightening around the mouth. The way the other person's knee starts bouncing, then stops abruptly when they realise it's visible. They've seen this before. They know the signs of someone about to end a moment prematurely.
They brace, just slightly. They're in 'default mode'..
And then it arrives.
"You're doing such a great job."
The words come out too clean. Too smooth. Like a well-practised maneuver. They's shoulders visibly drop as soon as they say it. Relief! The sentence has done its job. The tension drains from them immediately.
The parent feels the opposite.
The compliment lands with a soft thud, like a door quietly closing somewhere behind their ribs.
This isn't anger. How could they know?
It isn't offence… But they never asked..?
It's a sinking recognition.
This is premature encouragement.
Not encouragement as care, but encouragement as release. The moment finishes before it's had time to form. Like applause cutting off the music. Like someone rushing the ending because they don't know how to stay inside the middle.
This "compliment" draws an invisible line in the room. As impassible as two opposing armies from distant lands
On one side: the mess, the uncertainty, the ongoingness of a life that doesn't lend itself to summaries.
On the other: closure, relief, their own permission to move on.
If the parent accepts it, if they smile and say thank you, the moment is sealed. This topic need never be returned to. The other person has done their part. They can walk away clean.
The parent feels the weight of the choice settle into their body. Their spine straightens slightly. Their foot unhooks from the chair, so that weight can return and pull them through the floor unless they scramble and fight. A breath they hadn't realised they were holding shifts lower, heavier.
They could take the exit.
Do we always have to protect the other person from discomfort?
Keep things smooth while measuring the moment… like asking a black hole to stop.
Do I carry the rest alone, like we always do?
Instead, they let the moment hang, just a fraction longer than is polite.
The silence returns, but changed now. Thicker. Charged.
The other person tilts their head, confused. Their eyebrows lift in a silent question. Was that not right?
In another version of this scene, something different happens.
In that version, the other person notices the urge to fix and resists it. They don't rush to complete the moment. They don't try to be useful.
They might say something…. unfinished.
"I don't really know what to say."
"That sounds like a lot."
"I'm not sure how to hold this."
In that version, the parent doesn't feel assessed or applauded or accidentally turned into a performance. They feel met. Not rescued, nor peer-reviewed. Just accompanied for a few seconds longer...
No line gets drawn. No silent agreement is made to never return here again.
But this is not that version.
This version resolves itself quickly.
The other person nods, satisfied with their contribution. Their body angles away now, already halfway into the next thing. They check their phone. They smile once more, warmly, efficiently.
The parent nods back. Of course they do.
They always do.
The conversation fractures slowly as ever increasing topics start with " I think…". Chairs scrape softly. The room exhales, sighs and yawns,
They walk together for a few steps, exchanging neutral words, until the acoustics change and they're no longer within earshot.
That's when it happens.
The other person releases a long breath they didn't know they were holding. Their shoulders slump. They shake out their hands like someone coming off stage. A small laugh escapes them, more relief than humour.
"God," they mutter to no one,
"That was intense."
And then they keep walking, lighter now, already telling themselves they handled it well.
Subscribe to 'UglytoolCo'
Subscribe to my site to be the first to receive notifications and emails about the latest updates, including new posts.
Join Slashpage and subscribe to 'UglytoolCo'!
Join Slashpage and subscribe to 'UglytoolCo'!
