I checked out of a hotel yesterday (actually went on vacation – woohoo!) and as I pressed the elevator button to go to the lobby, a little boy and his mom showed up. The boy let out a disappointed sigh.
“Aw man. I wanted to push the button.” He looked at me like I’d just stolen his Christmas present.
“Sorry dude. You can push the one inside the elevator if you want,” I thought that was sort of a consolation.
“Okay,” he said, and pushed the 1 button. Then he proceeded to tell me, “We were going to stay at the Howard Johnsons across the street but…” with disgust in his voice, “they were sold out.”

“Jake!” his mom hissed. “You don’t have to tell your life story to everyone you meet.” She looked at me apologetically.
Since I’ve started working with autistic kids, I find that I’ve wanted to encourage every kid who attempts to engage with me, because I find communication just that damn precious and fragile.
“Yeah,” I said to the kid, “we were going to stay at the Residence Inn but they were sold out, too. I know what you mean, but this place wasn’t bad, right?”
“It was okay, yeah.”
The scene reminded me of this:


I feel your frustration, man.