About once a week or so, it happens.
The awkward dance.
Emily meets a new person.
There’s the initial, “Hi sweetie, what’s your name? How old are you? What grade are you in?”
Then there I am, either answering for her, or repeating the questions to her, in a vain attempt to get her to say something.
More often than not, what she says (if anything) is something like, “kangaroo!,” or “ice cubes!,” or “hi” (if we’re lucky).
Then my internal argument with myself begins, “do I tell them she has Autism?”
“I could tell them she doesn’t talk much, but they just heard her script a full minute of dialog from Numbers Ahoy.”
“I could say she’s shy, if it weren’t for the dance routine she just did for anyone who cared to watch.”
Eventually, my desire to escape the situation takes over and we make a hasty exit.
I never was a very good dancer.