As we drove away from Eve, Phil and Dubbers, kids sticky from recently devoured ice cream in the back seat, I said to my eldest, “So *Paige, how was that?”

“What do you mean, Mamma?” she asked.

“Well, with Dubbers this week.” I said.

“I don’t know why you worried, Mamma. He’s just a kid. And his talker is cool,” she said matter-of-factly, shrugged her shoulders and asked what was for dinner. That was that. Out of the mouths of babes.

In the days leading up to Dubber’s arrival, I talked with Paige (6), Felix (5) and Katie (3) (*names changed to protect identity) about Dubbers a lot. There were discussions about how he might behave, how he might not want to play with the kids at times, and most importantly about how he uses his talker and why. We also looked at pictures.

To watch innocence collide with reality can be terrifying, or it can be beautiful. While I often have conversations with my children about the differences in people – shapes, colors and sizes – usually on the back of a too loud and inappropriate proclamation about someone in a supermarket aisle, their experience with special needs children has, until this point, been limited. (They attend a small, private international school in London with a disproportionately, and at times worrying, homogenous student body.)

With Dubbers, I wondered if they would be inclusive, would they be sensitive, would they ask the ‘right’ questions to Eve and Phil. Within about 15 minutes I realized that my children process so differently than me, without hesitation or judgment, and so my worries faded quickly. They simply saw Dubbers as another child, a child who wanted to play but was a little shy, a child who liked ice cream and chicken nuggets but resisted vegetables, a child who had a lot to say and managed, just in a different way. A child who was not all that different from them. And so it went.

In the four days that followed, the four children were fast friends. Paige took the role of big sister, showing Dubbers around the house and holding his hand as they jumped in the waves on the beach. She was inquisitive and insightful, asking both Eve and me questions about his talker, his school and his friends. Felix, my gentle giant, was quiet, curious, willing to return hugs, and surprisingly generous with his beloved trucks and Legos, happy to have another boy around who appreciated cars and trucks as much as he does. And Katie, our youngest and notoriously wild child saw him as nothing more or less than an equal. Almost immediately inseparable, they held hands often, even across the aisle in our rented Mom-mobile minivan, sat as close as they could on the sofa watching their iPads and traded cuddles often. For her, I don’t think she clocked the fact that Dubbers wasn’t talking – at 3, she has friends who are less verbal – and there was nothing particularly strange about it.

Remember when I said innocence colliding with reality could be beautiful? This was the moment. I felt proud, but also wondered why I thought it would be any other way. Yes, their experience with special needs children is limited, but rather than a hindrance, it worked to advantage. They met Dubbers with few preconceived notions about how he might be; and as a result, they got to know Dubbers for the truly remarkable little boy that he is: smart, affectionate, kind, funny, even cheeky at times.

For me, the learning curve was much more steep, and I realise now more than ever why autism is explained on a scale or spectrum rather than a simple diagnosis. Just when you think you know it, or understand just a little bit – at least enough to explain to your children – your ideas about autism are challenged. I think of a child who will be guarded, unwilling to engage: I saw Dubbers as a child who wanted to be part of the group. I think of a child who needs routine and struggles to deviate from plan: I saw Dubbers who made new friends and happily went along with a somewhat fluid schedule. I am not so naïve to think these particular examples are true of all children who have been put on the spectrum, nor are they true of Dubbers every day, but what I do know is that no child with special needs fits in a box. That was never more clear than during those four days.

I could write a separate blog post praising the patience and understanding my best friends showed for their child, and how Dubbers thrives in the loving and patient home they have created for him. As a mother who frequently loses her cool with her own kids, I will forever remember the words of my dear friend Eve when I praised her patience: “Well what’s the alternative?” That should really be a battle cry for all tired, fed up parents: what is the alternative. Challenges aside, Dubbers is Eve’s style, loyalty and grace, Phil’s ease and sense of humour; and I feel so privileged that my children have Dubbers to call friend, just as I am privileged to have Eve and Phil.

*Written by one of my best friends from college, after our recent visit in Hilton Head, SC.