Recently, I had a parenting cringe moment.
We were meeting potential landlords, an older couple renting out their home for the winter. It’s a beautiful house, and from the view off the porch, I can already tell it’s perfect. I want us to appear perfect, too — the kind of family that’ll fit right in.
So when they leaned down to say hello to my 7-year-old son, Oscar, and he ignored them, I braced myself. The woman gently persisted, but Oscar continued to avert his gaze, shouting for a screen. I handed him my phone, redirecting everyone’s attention to my 5-year-old daughter, Molly, whom I half-jokingly describe as our family’s ambassador. Molly is charismatic and personable — everything her brother isn’t in these moments.
In these moments, I feel a reflexive pressure to smooth over Oscar’s lack of politeness, to apologize on his behalf, and reassure everyone that we are, in fact, the kind of family who belongs here (wherever “here” happens to be).
Then I remind myself that my children’s behavior is no reflection on their character — or mine.
My kids are great
Oscar is a lot of great things — curious, funny, creative —but he’s none of what I just listed to describe Molly. He’s not the kind of kid who indulges grown-ups with small talk. He’s more likely to scowl, ignore, or mumble something unintelligible than charm strangers with an easy smile.
This isn’t unusual for a neurodivergent kid like him. What adults tend to read as “basic manners” — like saying hello on command, making eye contact, or feigning interest in whatever someone else is saying — don’t come naturally to folks with neurodivergence.
Oscar isn’t officially diagnosed as autistic, but he has a lot of features that fit, including something called pragmatic speech disorder, which basically means his communication style doesn’t follow the “social rules” most of us take for granted (like knowing when and how to enter or exit a conversation, taking turns while talking, or knowing how to “read the room”) If I ask him if he wants pizza, for example, he might ignore me completely, then suddenly shout, “Hungry!” instead of saying something polite and socially expected like, “No thank you, I don’t like pizza, but can I have something else?”
They are not polite kids, and that’s OK
He does, however, have diagnoses of generalized and social anxiety — as does his dad and I — which can make encounters with strangers very difficult. I know that Fear and discomfort can come off as rudeness. When people push Oscar—demanding, “What do you say?” after trick-or-treating, or insisting he explain his costume — I watch as it backfires. He shuts down and runs away. I imagine from experience that he’s feeling overwhelmed, scrutinized, and misunderstood.
Even Molly — our so-called ambassador — isn’t exactly a model of politeness. There’s no such thing as “bad” language in our house, so expletives fly freely from her lips. The truth is, it’s not just my kids. My husband and I are very direct, sometimes blunt, sometimes sweary, and always real.
Some adults still expect kids to be polite. They press for “please” and “thank you” as if these magic words prove something about a child’s character. They assume a child who isn’t polite is a poor reflection on their parents. I sometimes worry that people who don’t know my child’s diagnoses will assume his dad and I simply didn’t raise him right. Then I remind myself that it doesn’t matter what people think — even in situations where it feels like it matters, such as a rental application.
And some people do get it — like our new landlords (yes, we got the place!). The second time Oscar refused the woman’s bid for connection, I watched it click. They understood. Kids like mine aren’t broken or disrespectful, just honest in ways adults often don’t know how to handle.
I’ve come to admire that honesty. I appreciate what I learn from my kids every day: that belonging isn’t about playing by the rules of polite society but about showing up as your truest self — even if that self greets the world with a scowl and an F-bomb.
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