It started out like any normal day at a major attraction. The lines into the building snaked around the facility’s grounds, the sun was beating down on us. Children complained, parents grumbled. Finally getting into the building was a treat. We paid our admission fee and blended into the crowd of stroller pushing shlubs.

We meandered through the aquarium’s many vignettes, alcoves and rooms that peppered the facility until we came to a large enclosure that housed animals of the Pacific Northwest coast. Because it was supposed to emulate the Northwest I looked forward to it being nice and cool. Instead it was hot, crowded and noisy. A very large group of people dressed in bright yellow T-Shirts had taken over the facility and were climbing all over the chairs, handrails and static exhibits, shouting, laughing and yelling as they cavorted around the furniture. There were other people with the same yellow shirts with the words "STAFF", or some other similar word, emblazoned across their shirts scurrying about trying to keep the peace, but because of a combination of the staffers ages, inexperience, and general "outnumbered-ness" they were doing a pretty inefficient job of it.

I took a quick assessment of the situation and realized that the group was made up of individuals of varying ages and mental disabilities. I loosened my jaw and calmed down a bit. I have a difficult time with unruly behavior. I don’t allow my kids to act like wild animals, specially in public, and I expect other parents to do the same. This situation was different however, so I went from rolling boil down to tolerant simmer.

My baby sister belongs to a "Type C" group and they go on field trips all the time. She is considered "High Functioning", similar to some of the aforementioned yellow clad individuals, and is extremely affectionate – sometimes to the chagrin of family members. I am pretty familiar with individuals, and groups, of this nature.

I scanned the main room and found a small observation area tucked away behind a submarine display where we could view the Beluga Whales under water . I navigated my family through the melee and hustled them into the cavern like doorway. I breathed a sigh of relief as we ducked in and I started looking at all the informational plaques and doodads on the wall

Only a couple of minutes went by before I heard exited female voices shouting a boy’s name and "NO! STRANGER, STRANGER!" repeatedly. My parent radar snapped on as I whipped around and looked towards the source of the commotion. I fully expected to see a little boy running towards a group of people he didn’t know as his smother-mother ran after him, instead all I could see was a large, towering, big boned man on the other side of the little room as he lumbered quickly towards me. Two 5′ 2"/ 100 lb. women were wrapped around his waist and arms, trying desperately to keep him from walking in my direction. We locked eyes as he barreled towards me, as oblivious of these two small women as he would have been had he had dryer sheets stuck to his shirt. I reluctantly readied myself for a physical confrontation.

In the few seconds after bracing myself I realized that although he was much larger than I was, and his unblinking gaze looked very determined, he meant me no harm. He wore a yellow shirt, just like the rest of the group, and an inordinately small child’s backpack was strapped to his back. The "dryer sheet’s" shirts helped clue me in also.

He finally reached me and grasped my shoulders as I put my hands on his shoulders to hold him at bay. This finally gained the girls some leverage. He struggled to pull me towards him as one of them caught her composure and sternly said his name along with "He’s a stranger! We don’t hug strangers!" to no avail.

I realized that developmentally he was probably the equivalent of a five year old and only wanted some affection, so I told the girls that it was OK (like there was any difference at this point). I loosened my grip on his shoulder and he gave me a big bear hug (something my sister likes to do to me). I hugged him back and patted his back. After a few seconds he gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek, released his hug, and allowed the girls to easily lead him away from the small crowd that had developed behind us. One girl gently, but firmly, tried to reinforce the "STRANGER!" rule to him as the other, in damage control mode, apologized to me profusely, and thanked me for understanding. I waved off her apology telling her there was nothing to apologize for.

As they walked away I unclenched every joint, and muscle and tried to shrug off the adrenaline. I knew that I had just broken a cardinal rule that the staffers try to reinforce to all their "kids" time and time again, but just saw no other way around the situation. I hoped they understood my position, and I hoped I didn’t just undermine everything they worked so hard to instill in their wards.

I replayed the incident in my mind several times over the course of the day and tried to figure out why he was so focused on hugging me specifically. There were other people in that room, and I am not particularly cuddly or huggable, just ask anybody who knows me (If I were a zoo animal I’d be more of a porcupine, skunk, or possibly even that dung flinging monkey). Of all the people that it could have happened to that day I’m glad, and thankful, it happened to me! Can you imagine how bad it could have been for him had he chosen to hug a jumpy homophobe, jacked up on testosterone, as he tried to impress his cadre of similarly minded, intolerant friends (I saw a few of those in the facility that day). The outcome could have been very, very different.

This particular park does an excellent job of helping parents keep track of their kids. They go so far as to sound an alarm every 15-20 minutes which serves as an opportunity for the kids to exit the water so they can be counted. The lifeguards are pretty relentless about this too. If some kid decides he doesn’t need to get out then no one else goes back in until he does get out. There’s even a drill that takes place in the event a child comes up missing. The parents are asked to lock their arms and wade into the water together (as long as they don’t have small children to tend to) searching and clearing the area directly in front of them. I lean toward the overly cautious side so these steps are just the kind of thing I like to see.

On this day the alarm sounded and kids were counted. Just as everyone was heading back into the water a mother cried out. She couldn’t find her daughter.

My wife and girls were at the park with our neighbor, another mom, and her two boys. They quickly sat the kids down on a blanket and directed them to NOT MOVE. The parents locked elbows and began wading into the water while others began looking in other areas of the park. My wife was looking over her shoulder at our kids almost constantly. The children sat on the blanket. Stock still and wide eyed.

Within minutes the girl was found. She had wandered outside the water area and was just out of sight. She was returned to her mother and I imagine there was a collective sigh among the parents and lifeguards.

When my wife returned to our kids, who still hadn’t moved, our four year old girl Ava asked, “Did you find her?”

“Someone did honey. She’s right over there with her Mommy. Everything is fine. Are you ok?”

Ava looked up and asked, “Kids really do go missing?’”

My wife responded, telling Ava that kids do sometimes go missing and our occasional warnings to she and her little sister are real. She explained that we just want to keep everyone safe and together.

Ava said she understood and had a great big hug for her mom. The littler one, Jada, was also keen to what was going on and wedged herself in between the two of them.

My wife relayed this story to me on the phone after they had come home and the kids were down for their naps. I was obviously relieved there had been no tragedy’s to report.

When I got home that evening Ava met me at the door. She filled me in on what had happened at the park. The detail she remembered was impressive. The hair color of the girl that had slipped away. The color of her bathing suit. How she had hugged her mom when they were reunited. Ava also told me that “sometimes kids do go missing, Daddy”.

I told her, “I know” and we hugged for a good long time.

This may have been a tough way for her to learn the truth of the dangers that are out there, but I’m grateful she learned.

We took a long drive to Colorado last year. While we drove, and the kids slept, we listened to “The Secret Life of Bees” audio book. Great story. One of the main characters carries sorrow on her sleeve with such urgency and transparency that her sisters send her away to their version of the wailing wall when the emotion gets too intense. She always returns looking a bit lighter for having shed the weight of the sorrow, however temporary it may be.

When we listened to this part of the story my wife and I looked at each other and said, “Jada needs a wailing wall.”

Jada is one emotional little girl. She’ll be fine one moment and just crushed the next. For her there’s always some act that justifies her sorrow. The issue is the lack of rhyme or reason. She may crash because she’s frustrated she can’t get her shoes on properly, or because she woke from her nap too soon. Maybe a bug landed on her while playing outside. Who knows. What sets her off one day, or hour, may not set her off the next.

She’s also a master at bringing her mother, sisters or I into the breakdown. If she feels slighted in the least by ones actions the response has been, “but you’re my daaahhhdddeee (or mmaahhmmeee or siiissttaahhh)” with the saddest little eyes you could possibly imagine. It’s kind of adorable when it isn’t making us twitch.

To try and combat this behavior, and help Jada work through it, we encourage her to use words to express herself rather than sobbing. She has a great vocabulary so the notion that she can’t express herself shouldn’t apply. We try introducing distractions also. We’re hoping the older she gets (she’ll be three next week) the less the meltdowns will occur. Hoping.

What seems to work best is just sending her to her room. We don’t do this in some disciplinary fashion. We simply tell her if she can’t calm down on her own, or won’t let us help her get over whatever crisis is unfolding, there is little reason the rest of need to listen to her. Nine times out of ten she takes this request and runs with it, emerging minutes later with the proclamation that she is done crying.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t share that Jada is an exceptionally happy kid most of the time. Let’s just say she has a firm handle on the extremes and we’re going to continue to work on living in between them.

For the moment we’ll just stay stocked up on ear plugs and tissues. Something tells me that living in a house full of girls these items are going to come in handy anyway.

I thought little more about the parade until I got a heartwarming phone call from my wife yesterday morning. While she was dropping my son off at his classroom, one of the other moms came up to her and told my wife how much she thought of my son. She had just moved her slightly Autistic child to the school a couple of months ago and was impressed at how caring everyone was towards her son, my son especially. Her son is still involved with the scouts at his old school, and was marching with his old pack someplace else in the parade lineup. She told my wife that she and her son were behind a fire truck that just kept blowing its siren and horn and that all the noise was a little more than her child could handle.

Towards the end of the parade route we all started disbanding and moving off to the side of the street, and we suddenly had a mélange of scouts from different packs milling about the sidewalk. I lost sight of my son momentarily but had instituted a buddy rule at the beginning of the parade, so I wasn’t too worried. Sirens, lights, and marching bands added to the cacophony as we stood aside to let the large vehicles go by.

Little did I know that while I lost track of him my son saw his new classmate in the crowd and came up to him and held his hands over his classmates ears until the noise subsided. My son remembered his new classmate’s Autism, and how loud sounds affected him. I’m not sure if what he did helped, but the fact that he thought of someone’s anguish, in the middle of all the revelry, and even refrained from watching the sights to help someone else makes me proud of him. The child’s mother expressed her gratitude to my son, and my son took his place by my side, never once telling me about he had just done.

When kid’s are well behaved the parents can take the credit, but I don’t think compassion is something that can be taught. You either have it, or you don’t.

I played with her and made her laugh moments before the nurse came in. She was in a great mood, laughing, clapping, and chirping, oblivious to the sharp objects being prepared on the table beside her. Then came the finger poke for some test or other. The nurse squeezed her tiny fingers repeatedly until my baby’s blood filled a little glass tube. I was so proud of her. She was more curious than afraid. Then the nurse asked me to lay the baby down for her shots. Three shots in rapid succession. Two in one leg, and one in the other. The nurse has always been good at this. She was fast, efficient, and caring.

The little girl’s demeanor changed after the first needle. The betrayed look was almost more than I could stand. It wasn’t until the third needle that she started crying, and the tears began to flow. I knew all this was for her own good, but I don’t like hearing her pitiful sobs amid gasping for breath. I hugged her tightly when it was all over.

I quickly took her out of the room for a change of scenery, and to let her play with the toys in the waiting room. More distraction on my part to distance her from what just occurred. She started playing happily, and probably already forgot the episode, but I still felt pretty rotten about my part in the deception and distraction. I always do.