It always strikes me how many grandparents show up at readings. During the discussions afterward, they often ask similar questions. “I have a granddaughter with autism. What should I do when she flaps her hands?” or, “Why do the tags on his sweater bother him so much?” They are navigating a new world, one that wasn’t discussed when they raised their own children. It’s a world where understanding feels as challenging as trying to Diagnosis A Car Over The Phone Meme, where you’re getting descriptions of symptoms but struggling to grasp the underlying issue.
One time, I remember talking with a grandfather in Barnes & Noble. He spoke for a good ten minutes about his twelve-year-old granddaughter’s bright blue eyes, her fear of the dark, her fascination with Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtles. Then, he looked directly at me and asked if I thought she would ever get married. These grandparents, whether you call them Grandma and Grandpa, Nana and Pop, or Meme and Bumpa, are all grappling with sensory integration, weighted blankets, and self-stimulation – terms that simply weren’t part of the parenting vocabulary in their day. They are eager to learn, desperate to connect with their grandsons and granddaughters who sometimes seem distant, lost in their own world.
Often, I feel I don’t have enough time to give these questions the thoughtful answers they deserve. I end up stammering through something inadequate, disjointed. Packing up my books and pen, I leave feeling like I haven’t truly helped, that something is missing. It’s a bit like trying to explain a complex car problem over a crackly phone line – you know the person needs help, but you’re not equipped to give them the full picture, the accurate diagnosis a car over the phone meme jokes about.
Joe comes from a large Italian family, the youngest of six, and among twenty grandchildren, Jack is the only one diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder. Twenty grandchildren! Family gatherings are well over thirty people. Even without autism, it can be overwhelming. When we were first navigating Jack’s diagnosis, we lived in Buffalo, a six-hour drive from Joe’s parents in Lake Carmel. Every week, I would describe over the phone his lack of speech, his developmental delays, the unsettling way he avoided eye contact. Their response was consistent: “Give it time, his older brother Joey is talking for him, he is fine, he is fine, he will be fine.” It was like trying to get a remote diagnosis a car over the phone meme style – relying on limited information and hoping for the best, but missing crucial on-the-ground observation.
Jack was nearly three when we moved to New Hampshire, and my in-laws followed about a year later. By then, it was clear that Jack was not “fine.” Soon, they started having the other grandchildren over for sleepovers, teaching them family recipes and singing them to sleep. But not Jack. I remember them driving off with Joey and Charlie waving from the backseat, while Jack stood beside me, endlessly turning a Little People figure in his hand. It felt like an invisible line had been drawn – them, but not him. There was a sense they wouldn’t understand him, wouldn’t be able to manage him.
And who could blame them? At that point, Jack was a flight risk, skilled at picking locks and slipping out unnoticed. His vocabulary was limited to a dozen words. He had intense tantrums and woke up multiple times each night. The truth is, they were as heartbroken as we were. They longed to connect with their grandson, to play games, cook together, and share their skills, just like any grandparent dreams. The challenge of understanding his autism felt as daunting as trying to perform a complex diagnosis a car over the phone meme style, without seeing the actual ‘car’ in front of you.
Adding to the communication complexity, Joe’s parents had a habit of referring to themselves in the third person, especially when giving instructions. If Joe’s father wanted Jack to close the door, he’d say, “Hey, close the door, okay Grandpa?” Even for me, without autism, this was confusing. For years, Jack simply looked blankly and walked away. It was like giving instructions for a car repair over the phone using confusing, indirect language – the message just doesn’t get through.
There wasn’t a single moment of revelation, no sudden “lightbulb” where Grandma and Grandpa became autism experts. But they never gave up trying to understand this sandy-haired boy. I recall one chilly fall afternoon on our playset. Everyone was outside, leaves crunching underfoot, except for Jack. He stayed inside, watching us through the kitchen window, like an outsider looking in.
Every ten minutes or so, either Grandma or Grandpa would come inside to coax him out, to join the fun. They tried repeatedly, until finally, Jack emerged, without shoes or a jacket. Joe’s mother started to say, “Jack, you need a jacket, it’s cold…” but Joe interrupted, “Let it go, Mom. He’s here, he came out.” Sometimes, you have to let go of your preconceived notions, much like when you realize a remote diagnosis a car over the phone meme might not be perfect, but progress is still progress.
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Finally, around age six, Jack had his first sleepover at their house. He drifted off to sleep as his grandmother sang Italian lullabies. Even after he was asleep, Joe’s parents stayed awake, watching over him, just in case he wandered – even though those days were largely behind him. Their vigilance and care were a testament to their commitment.
Now Jack is nine. Sometimes at Sunday dinner, he’ll approach Joe’s mother mid-meal, a yellow pear in hand, and wordlessly offer it to her. Joe and I might protest, “Jack, Grandma isn’t finished eating yet, let her finish.” But she always shushes us, leans in to Jack, and whispers for him to give her the pear. She peels it for him, piece by piece, as he stays close by her side. They have, over time, figured each other out. Jack learned to “close the door, Grandpa,” and Grandma understands that Jack will wear a jacket when he’s cold. He now stays there regularly.
If I ended the story here, the message would be simple, almost cliché: accept what you can’t change, love them for who they are, and never give up. But it would still feel incomplete. There’s another memory, a crucial one, that keeps resurfacing.
We were at my sister-in-law’s birthday party near Boston. Jack was about three, and he and two-year-old Charlie were constantly clashing, fighting over a deflating balloon. I was hot, irritated, tired of separating them. Finally, Joe put Jack in timeout in the living room. Alone, he cried and screamed while the rest of us shifted uncomfortably. Then, Joe’s mother stood up and walked over to Jack. She picked him up and held him close. When Joe protested, she firmly said, “Enough. We are done with this.” Joe and I were both outraged – that she interfered, with each other, with our son. The car ride home was filled with arguments about timeouts, in-laws, and how to handle tantrums.
But now, years later, I understand what my mother-in-law grasped at that party. She didn’t know the jargon – sensory integration, regulation, self-stimulation – but she recognized a small boy who was overwhelmed, tired, and sad. She didn’t need complex terms to diagnosis a car over the phone meme style, two parents on the brink of collapse.
So, to all the grandparents out there, I say this: yes, there are new terms to learn, but ultimately, it’s just you and this child. Don’t be afraid. Deep down, you already understand more than you think. You know when a child has had enough. Sometimes, you’ll need to forgo the jacket.
Accept what you can’t change and love them for who they are. But never forget you have your own wisdom to share, your own lessons to teach. Sing the lullabies and make the meatballs. Autism brings heartbreak, but also many rewards. These gifts can be subtle, easy to miss – a quick hug, a shared meal, a smile. Sometimes, it’s as simple as a small boy offering you a slice of pear. It’s not always easy to diagnosis a car over the phone meme – life, or autism, but love and patience can often lead to understanding and connection, even from afar.
