Smelly Pebbles

For the past two months women from the church have faithfully shown up on my doorstep to offer their help. Every Saturday, one or two women set aside a few hours just to spend time with me and the girls, assisting in any way they can.

I am very blessed, yes?

Note: If you are ever reluctant to attend church because you have a special needs child, think of me. Sunday mornings are always an adventure, but my family has been totally embraced at church. People genuinely care about Rhema; they try to understand her and meet her needs. I never imagined I could find such a supportive, loving community.

Anyway. Yesterday, a woman whom I recognized but had never met before came to help.

I suggested we walk to a new playground. Normally I would just drive, particularly because Rhema is in a squat-walk phase (she takes a couple steps and then squats, takes a couple steps, then squats). But it was such a beautiful, warm fall day, and I had an extra helping hand, so we decided to walk.

The walk took a looonnngg time with Rhema squat-walking the whole way, but we finally made it to the playground. I was glad for the adult company and the chance to get to know a new friend. I was happy to tell her more about Rhema and how her autism affects her. She was great with Rhema and did not hesitate to try and engage her, which I truly appreciated.

Rhema squealed and ran around the playground while R and I chatted.

Then I looked up and saw Rhema near a slide and her pants were down, her creamy bare bottom a contrast to the autumn leaves.

Uh oh.

I sprinted over to her with my new friend right behind me.

“Pants on,” I said a little too cheerfully as I quickly slid her pants back up.

Rhema stuck her hand in the back of her pants and dug around. I pulled her hand out, but she stuck it back in. I pulled it out, she stuck it back in. Starting to feel eyes on us, I yanked her hand out again.

Finally, she acquiesced. Round 1 to mama.

Then, with her fingers on the outside, she started slowly working something down her pant leg, intending for it to fall out the bottom.

“Oh!” my friend said. “She must have put some pebbles in her pants and needs to get them out!”

Um, yeah. Sure. O.K.

I knew the truth, but oh, I hoped I was wrong.

There we stood, by the slide, waiting expectantly as Rhema worked the “pebbles” down her pant legs to her socks. One by one, they rolled out onto the new playground turf.

We bent over to inspect them and then got hit in the face with a bad odor.

They were the smelliest pebbles we’d ever seen.