Page 17 of When I Thug You Like That

“Then don’t question my hmph.”

I chuckled. “That’s valid.”

“Listen, you already know how I feel about India as a person, but I’ll never take away from the parts of motherhood she does show up in. My grandson is always clean, he has manners, got more clothes and shoes than most adults I know, and he’s a happy child overall. She loves her son. There’s no doubt about that.”

“Agreed.”

“But taking care of him and being aware of him ain’t always the same thing.”

I went quiet. There wasn’t much that I could say to defend that.

“India is young-minded,” she continued. “Not young, young-minded. There’s a big difference. She can put him in all the fly shit she want, buy him the moon and the stars, and love him fiercely, and still have room for improvement. And while you may not admit it out loud, in this autism category, she’s failing miserably.”

“She knows she can be doing better, Ma. This shit ain’t easy.”

“Baby, being a parent ain’t easy. I know. I raised you. Can’t tell you how many times I almost went out for Pampers and didn’t return.”

I frowned, and she fought a smile that eventually broke.

“Okay, you were never that bad,” she admitted. “You know my husband don’t even play. He wouldn’t have let you terrorize me.”

We both laughed.

“But seriously though, Jamison. My issue with India isn’t what India does for Baby Jay; it’s what she keeps refusing to learn about him. And I hate to say it, baby, you allow it.”

My smiled faded.

“Hol’ up. How I get on the chopping block?” I asked with my brows pulled together tightly.

“Jamison, a school tour doesn’t feel important to her because in her mind, you got that covered. You do the research. You ask the questions. You request meetings with the teachers and talk to the doctors, then you come back and relay what was said to her. You are the hands-on parent.”

“So, I’m supposed to be some deadbeat ass nigga who doesn’t show up because his mother doesn’t?!” My voice carried as I felt myself getting defensive.

“Ummm,” she looked around the kitchen, “let’s remember where you are and who you’re talkin’ to, son. If the truth got you that up in arms, then we can cut the conversation short now.”

“My bad, Ma.” I sighed, running my hand over my waves. “I ain’t mean it like that. You know I’m just…”

“Passionate about your boys,” she cut me off. “I get that. But push that passion in the direction it’s supposed to go. I love how you come behind your boys, Jamison. You my son, and you come from men who take care of theirs regardless of what’s going on. All I’m saying is don’t let India’s lack of understanding continue to make her comfortable with not showing up when it counts.”

With no further words, she went back to what she was doing, and I looked through the glass doors outside at my father and Baby Jay. Pops stood a few feet away from the playset, watching as Baby Jay made his way up the small climbing wall. And knowing my father, he wasn’t watching to make sure he didn’t fall; he was watching to make sure that if he did, he dusted himself off and got back up to try again. Pops was not with that soft shit at all. Not with the boys.

Determined, Baby Jay made it to the top on his own, threw both hands in the air, and looked back at his grandfather like he’d just climbed the Empire State Building.

“I did it! I got high!”

“Yeahhhhh!” My father celebrated loudly. “That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!”

I chuckled, remembering myself at that age. No matter how big the win, he was always just as loud. When Baby Jay was diagnosed, he didn’t know shit about autism. In fact, for a minute, he was right with India, feeling like it was just a label the doctors were trying to put on his grandson. He wasn’t feeling that shit at all. That was until he started to pay closer attention. He asked questions and opened the door for learning what worked for Baby Jay and what didn’t, all while never treating him differently.

My mother had given me some food for thought. Although I wasn’t going to start showing up less, India was going to have to start showing up more.

It was a little after six when headlights flashed through the curtains in my living room before the sound of a door closing followed seconds later. I knew it was India making her way up my driveway because she had texted a half hour before, letting me know she was on her way.

“Aye, champ, ya mama here,” I told Baby Jay, who was laid out on the couch next to me with his hand behind his head.

We’d been planted on the couch for the last hour watching Spider-Man after eating a hearty meal of lasagna my mother packed us for dinner.

“Mommy?”