Appreciating the Chairs:

Autism, Stress, and a Game of Sticky Notes

When stress bubbled up, my adult autistic son didn’t yell. He didn’t shut down. He carried the dining chairs outside.

Six Sentinels on the Lawn

The white dining room chairs sat on the front lawn, six sentinels in the misty evening.

I was worried about rain on my brand-new upholstered chairs.
“How long do they have to stay out there?” I asked my son.

“Ten minutes,” he said. “Then I’ll bring them back in. But then”—he turned and stared at me—“you have to make up a game with the chairs.”

Well, okay.

I didn’t really understand why Allen had carried each and every chair of my new white Delphine dining set outside. As far as I could tell, it had something to do with a video game he was playing that wasn’t going the way he wanted.

Unexpected Strategies

I’d seen him sitting at the computer, flapping his hands for the last thirty minutes while I got dinner ready. I’d heard a few vocal stims and, knowing my adult autistic son, I expected he’d come into the kitchen to complain about the game, maybe grab a Coke, because, he says, soda helps him focus.

I did not expect the chairs to take an outing.

At 39, Allen has learned to handle many of the barriers people on the spectrum face. He channels frustration into video games and building projects, takes “time outs” in his room when overloaded, and sticks to a rigid schedule that helps him function.

Our house is a quiet oasis for him. Since a stay in a psychiatric hospital last October, he takes his meds willingly and sees a therapist.

Life is predictable.
Except when it isn’t.

"Autistic adults often create their own strategies to manage frustration, whether through structured routines, sensory tools, or mindfulness techniques. These approaches help them navigate overwhelming situations with greater control."

Goldenstepsaba.com

Rain Delay and Revelation

Nervously, I set the timer on my iPhone for ten minutes and prayed the rain would hold off. Allen sat in “his spot” on the couch, his hands flapping and knees bobbing.

But he wasn’t melting down. He wasn’t pounding walls or shouting. He hadn’t retreated to his room or to his box of metal “comfort” rods.

“Tell me why the chairs had to go outside?” I asked.

“Chairs need to be appreciated,” he said. “And I was getting a little mad at my game. I had to DO something else... because when I feel the mad coming out in me, I just need to do something else.”

Ah. I got it. Sort of.

Allen tries very hard to keep his temper under control. While he is a gentle soul, like his dad, at 6’7” his size can be intimidating. I’ve had a few walls that needed patching.

A Game Is Born

My timer ticked on. I remembered how my mother used to move the kitchen chairs into the hallway so she could mop the floor. I remembered playing “train” on those chairs as a child, dragging out dolls and stuffed animals to ride along.

The timer beeped. Allen, true to his word, brought all the chairs back in. The rain had held off, and only a light mist—easily wiped off—covered the wood. As Allen dried the chairs, I grabbed a pack of sticky notes from my desk. Six chairs, six colors. Four notes per color.

“Here’s the game,” I said. “We’re going to put different color sticky notes on each chair. I’ll play music, and we’ll march around the chairs. When the music stops, we have to grab a sticky note. Whoever gets the most wins.”

“Is it like musical chairs?” he asked.

“A little. But we’re not sitting—just grabbing notes.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

Sticky Notes and Small Victories

While dinner simmered in the kitchen, Allen and I marched around the chairs, stopping to collect notes when the music paused.

It was no surprise that he won.

“That was a pretty good game,” he said. “Especially since you just made it up. What should I do with the sticky notes?”

“Well,” I said as I turned back to the kitchen, “put them in an envelope and save them. In case we need to appreciate the chairs again sometime.”

Final Thought

Sometimes supporting an autistic adult doesn’t look like a therapy session or a treatment plan.
Sometimes, it looks like six chairs in the mist, a mother with a timer, and a made-up game.

And it always looks like just what my son needs.

How about you?

Have you ever witnessed someone trying to find a unique way to handle frustration? What did you learn from it?

Do me a favor?

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