The Laundry Diaries

What I learned about neurodiversity from two years at the laundromat

I AM tempted to ignore my cell phone when it rings. I know it is my adult autistic son, Allen, just calling to give me another update on his day. My English as a Second Language students are returning from lunch and the lesson is up on the board.

“Aren’t you going to answer your phone, Miss Linda?” Jose asks

Photo by Jonas Lee on Unsplash

I shrug.“It’s just my son. Probably wants to tell me what he had for lunch.”

“Well, answer it!” says Mariana. “It’s cute that he calls you all the time.”

I sigh. Sometimes it is more annoying than cute, but Allen’s need to keep in close contact with me is part of his recovery from his father’s death. As my students settle themselves into their seats, I pick up my phone and press “Answer.” Fourteen pairs of student eyes watch me intently.

“Hi, Mom!” My son’s voice is upbeat. “I wanted to let you know I fixed the washer!”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Yep. It was pretty easy. Just needed to drain the water out with a garden hose and now it’s all good again!”

“Wow,” I say. “That’s great. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Okay,” says Allen. “I’ll see you when you get home. Bye!

I place the phone on my desk and walk to the blackboard in the front of the room.

“What did he want?” asks Idaly.

“He wanted to tell me he had fixed the washer.” I start passing out papers when a thought suddenly occurs to me. “Wait. I didn’t know anything was WRONG with the washer!”

And thus began my two-year odyssey at the laundromat.

I’m curious—and a little frightened—to see what awaits me at home. I think about the Leafblower Conundrum and the way Allen’s brain works. I mull over the Rich Club network that makes my son’s mind function like multi-layered highways with confusing exits.

I remain as calm as I possibly can.

Once home, I tiptoe down our creaky old basement steps with trepidation. There is water on the concrete floor. Actually, a LOT of water. And it seems as if every towel in the house has been used as a soaking cloth. Allen has snaked a garden hose from the washer’s tub out the basement window.

I make my way carefully over the various puddles. Wisely, Allen has unplugged the washer. Balancing on the concrete ledge my dad made to hold the appliances, I plug it in and push “start.”

Nothing. Not a whirr or a ding or a beeping light. I sigh and gather up the soaked towels, tossing them into the laundry basket on top of the dryer.

Allen doesn’t take well to strangers in the house so getting a repairman over will require some gentle conversation. I also need to applaud my son’s efforts to fix a problem—however erroneously—and pull him into the solution.

But right now, I’m tired from a long day at school and while I know I need to open the dialogue with Allen, I just don’t have the energy. I do what needs to be done in the moment.

I go buy new towels.

LESSON LEARNED: Unless it is an absolute crisis, dealing with most situations benefits from a breathing space.

What methods do you employ to problem solve? Have you ever had to solve a problem with someone who was neuro-diverse?

Hi, Readers, I’d like to ask a quick favor. If you’ve enjoyed this post, maybe even learned something from it, would you consider sharing it on your own social media or email or even restacking it here on Substack? I’d appreciate it as I try to spread the realities of adult autism and widowhood!