Do not follow your child too closely. Hovering makes it look like something might go wrong, which of course it might, but the point of these events is to pretend it won’t. Maintain a five-foot buffer zone, just enough to intercept airborne frosting or a wandering hand. She’s obsessed with pockets: hers, yours, strangers’. If she sees one, her hand’s going in.
Do not explain your child’s diagnosis more than once. Twice, if there are cupcakes. You are not a pamphlet. No one here wants to learn; they want to gesture supportively while counting pizza slices. When someone says, “But she doesn’t look like she is autistic,” say, “You don’t look like someone who says things like that.” Then walk away before your face explodes.
Bring your own snacks. Your child can’t eat the cake: red dye #40, gluten, sugar, or existential dread, depending on the day. Someone will say, “The cake is so cute.” Nod. Do not mention the frosting smells like chemicals and cruelty.
If your child wanders off, do not panic. She is not lost. She is simply bored of Simon Says and the tyranny of birthday rules. If she hides under a table, sit beside her and call it a fort. If she eats grass, Google it. It’s probably fine.
Do not time your bathroom break to avoid singing happy birthday. That is cowardly. Stand beside your child and sing with dead eyes like everyone else. When the birthday kid blows out the candles, clap like you believe in wishes.
If your child stims in public, let her. If she flaps her hands during the magician’s act, say, “Isn’t magic wonderful?” If she bites her wrist, adjust the chewy bracelet. If someone stares, stare back until they look away or self-combust.
Do not answer any version of “What’s wrong with her?” especially from a child. This is not the moment for a TED Talk or a fistfight. Smile like a threat and say: “Nothing you’ll catch.”
If she pulls her pants down and pees in the grass and slips her hand into a stranger’s pocket before you can stop her, smile like this is the first time. Say her grandparents are nudists. Say she’s an aspiring magician, disappearing social norms one boundary at a time. Laugh like it’s your job. Like you’re auditioning for acceptance. Like you’re not already drafting the follow-up email in your head with three versions of “she means no harm."
Do not cry. Not when your child plays alone. Not when the parent volunteers start whispering. Not when a balloon pops and everyone watches her flinch and stim. Excuse yourself. Cry over the sink like a woman in a French film. Then return. Accept the juice box. Decline the pity.
Do not feel proud when your child is quiet. Quiet is not the goal. Quiet is not improvement. Quiet is not easy. It’s how they disappear.
Do not forget the gift. Do not forget the gift. Do not forget the gift.
When it’s over, thank the host. Even if they were weird about the noise. Even if they said “normal” too often. Even if you had to explain AAC five times and are now missing a laminated core word. Thank them anyway. Then take your kid home. Give her whatever version of cake she can eat. She made it. You did too. Now eat the bunny crackers and pretend they taste like freedom.
