When You Judge My Kid, I Might Just Ask for $25,000 (and Annoy the Piss Out of You)
You know the look.
That sideways glance that scans your kid up and down, as if behavior is a moral category. The one that curls at the corners of someone’s mouth when your child stims in line at the grocery store, doesn’t make eye contact, talks too loud, or flaps with joy at a pigeon in the parking lot. It’s the look that says, What’s wrong with that kid? But what it really means is, What’s wrong with that parent?
And sometimes, instead of shrinking, I get theatrical.
I call it coping with flair. Is it petty? Probably. Is it funny? Also yes. Does it change hearts and minds? Maybe not. But on the days I’m holding it together with duct tape and sarcasm, it’s the kind of energy shift I need.
One of my favorite tactics? I act like I’m launching a religion. I’ll say, “You know, there’s this verse about welcoming the people others exclude…” Then I pause, reach into my purse, pull out a crumpled envelope and add, “I just need $25,000 to start my church.”
They never know what to do with that.
Other times, I sit beside them and offer a sweet, weaponized smile:
“You don’t remember me? We met once. Back when you were still decent.”
Look, I’m not saying I’m proud of every interaction. I’m saying I’m real. I’ve spent years explaining, advocating, begging for basic humanity for my neurodivergent kid. I’ve remodeled systems. I’ve hosted every therapy and IEP meeting imaginable. I’ve gotten up again and again on days when I wanted to dissolve.
So yeah, sometimes I meet judgment with snark. Humor lets me take back the mic.
Why Parents of Neurodivergent Kids Get Tired of the Glare
If you’re raising an autistic child—or any child who doesn’t fit the mold—you already know this terrain. People assume “meltdown” means “bad parenting.” They treat stimming like a disruption. They can’t see the courage it takes just to show up.
And worse, they feel entitled to let you know they disapprove.
I don’t always respond with sass. Sometimes I walk right up and say it plain:
“I overheard your comments. It’s easy to judge what you don’t understand.
My child is autistic. Today was a good day—we got out of the house, got dressed, showed up in the world.
I hope you have a good day. And I hope you think before assuming you’d do it better. I’m going to try to think more generously about how you live, too.”
And sometimes? I say nothing. Because not every moment deserves my breath.
But when it does? I speak—for me, and for the other parents out there barely holding it together.
Speaking Up for Parents in Public
To the mom on the plane with the crying baby:
“I see how hard you’re trying. You’re not alone.”
To the dad managing a sensory storm in Walmart:
“You’re doing great. It’s a lot—I know.”
To the woman struggling to buckle her flailing child into a car seat:
“That was me twenty years ago. My daughter’s in college now. You’ll get there.”
To the two men at the diner talking tenderly about raising their girls:
“My son heard you. He said it gave him hope.”
They looked up and said, “We are honored.”
Sometimes, those are the moments that save people.
When Judgment Becomes Harm
Last week, a friend texted me:
“I took my kids to breakfast, and these old white men at the next table started loudly criticizing my parenting. Said their kids would never have acted that way.”
The contempt was loud and clear—wrapped in nostalgia and dripping with misogyny.
I told her:
“You should’ve asked for $25,000 and told them you’re starting a Church of Radical Maternal Inclusion.”
Or better yet: “You don’t remember me? We met before you got bitter.”
But honestly? She didn’t owe them anything—not a response, not a smile, not even eye contact.
Sometimes, we sass back.
Sometimes, we walk away.
And sometimes—those rare, sacred days—we meet another parent in a checkout line, or on a park bench, and see their eyes welling with tears.
We say:
“You’re doing a good job.”
And they say:
“Last night I didn’t think I could do this.
But now…I think I can.”
And in that flash of human connection, we are saved.
Why I Keep Speaking Up (Even When It’s Hard)
This is why we speak.
We say no to:
- Minimizing comments
- Passive-aggressive glances
- Judgments disguised as parenting advice
And we say yes to:
- The fierce, beautiful kids we’re raising
- Our own messy resilience
- The light we see in each other, even in exhaustion
Because sometimes, that flicker of recognition in another parent’s eyes?
It’s the only thing that gets us through the night.
Not every day is a fight.
Not every moment needs a performance.
But some days?
Some days are made for standing tall and saying:
“I see you.
I’ve been there.
And I’m not letting you drown alone.”
