My autistic seven-year-old went missing

He was walking himself home. Next time, I just might let him.

I called the police department after he'd been missing for about 30 minutes, after a handful of us scoured the vicinity top to bottom, backward and forward. We were at Finn's final t-ball game of the season with the whole family - Grandpa, aunt, uncle, baby cousin, me, Dad and Gus. As the game was wrapping up, quarter to 1, I realized Gus was not in the bleachers with us, nor was he were I last saw him, near the baby's stroller. He'd been telling me for the prior 15 minutes that he wanted to go home to his swing - a sensory swing that he uses daily. He also wanted to put on his own baseball gear - his A's uniform from when he played t-ball two years ago. He went through a very long stretch where he would only wear his A's shirt, which preceded his McCaffrey jersey phase. Lately he's been a bit more flexible with his clothing, but he does like to be on theme. I was bummed that I didn't think to anticipate this request - that watching baseball would make him want to dress the part too.

But more so I was annoyed - the game would be over within half an hour, yet I wasn't able to watch any of it as I tried to quell Gus's downward spiral. I tried distraction: Look, there’s a swing on the playground over there. No, it's not blue. Blue is my favorite color. I want my swing.

How about some library books? I got you some new ones, one about a fire station. OK. I got them out of the car, and he was still sitting in the shade right where I left him. But the books lasted only 60 seconds.

Apparently he really had his heart set on going home. And since I wasn't obliging, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

That's how I found myself on the phone with the police, giving the dispatcher a description of my missing child - a black Mario t shirt, brown and white checkered shorts, no hat, light brown hair, blue eyes. How tall is he??? To myself: Is he 3 feet, 4 feet?! Shoot how do I not know this?! To the dispatcher: He's 7. He's a little tall for 7. (Not to self - figure out kids heights and commit to memory!) The cops never asked about his shoes, but he was wearing black Birkenstocks because we'd been at Grandpa's pool and those are the only one’s I packed.

Many people commented on how calm I seemed through this ordeal, and the reasons are a. That's just my normal mode. I don’t wig out (usually, unless there is blood involved.) And b. I knew, or was pretty sure, that Gus wasn't upset or having a hard time, because to him, he wasn't lost. The few times I've lost him (i.e. he wandered away from me) have never phased him. He knew where he was, we didn't. In those instances it was Finn, the four-year-old always glued to my side, who asked me, Mom, do you think Gus is scared? And I always assured him, no, I don't think he is. He's just on a mission.

Like the time about a year ago when I couldn't find him at the outdoor shopping mart - the hottest spot in town every Saturday for its farmers market, kids play area and various coffee and foodie options. This time we were there in the afternoon, hitting the farmers market fish stand just before it closed at 2pm. Three of us got in line and pretty immediately Gus wandered away. I went in pursuit quite quickly, but I had a preschooler dragging alongside me. Our first stop was the toy store, an obvious choice, but if he had been there, he wasn't by the time we got there. I checked the quarter-sucking mechanical car and carousel - no luck. Then it dawned on me - his primary goal most days we came here - a walk up donut window on the far side of the mart. I thought they might even be closed by then, but as we rounded the corner, me on the phone with Gary telling him where I was headed - I spotted Gus sitting at the picnic table with not one but two large chocolate sprinkle donuts. One in a bag in front of him and one en route to his mouth.

I got one for Finn, is all he had to say for himself.

But this time, he'd already had a donut at the game and he didn't know more would be available as the after-game treat. I don't know why I didn't bribe him with that earlier. Even if I had, he had his sights set on something else.

At least six of us adults, plus a few kids, looked all over the baseball fields, circling then asking as we passed each other, you see anything over there? Did you look in the bathroom? Those ones? That grove of trees? No? Ok I will. The playground? Yes, twice. The bleachers? Yep.

The announcer at the big kids baseball game - a friend and neighbor - let me call Gus’s name from the loud speaker. She did it a few more times. Nothing.

Even though I knew he wanted to go home - in the next town over, across a freeway - I couldn't believe he would actually attempt it.

Officer Jordan arrived - completely unflustered - and took my details. It felt surreal to be talking to an officer about my child while concerned parents looked on. He had me walk with him across the grounds, asking me if Gus had ever done this before. Not like this. I told him all Gus really cares about is firetrucks and police cars (and apparently sweets). In fact, he would really want to be here right now with you. It gave me a little comfort to know that if a police unit rolled up next to him wherever he was, he would be pretty stoked.

Within minutes of our time together the officer told me that someone might have spotted him on the main thoroughfare between the freeway and the baseball field. I told the officer that's where his Dad's gym is, where Fire Station 14 is. Yes, he might go there.

In hindsight it makes me laugh to think about various units circling the area, plus my husband and father-in-law too, each on the hunt for a little boy who is doggedly making his way by his own compass. They must have all just missed him. It played out like a comedic skit in my mind.

Then the officer got a radio call. He's home. That's all he said. And I was relieved and not mad at all, and honestly even a little impressed.

I couldn't see it yesterday, but now I realize, he's seven. That's a big kid. To us, he will always be our little guy, and yes, developmentally he is younger than that in some ways. But he sure showed us - he's seven. Seven is independent, seven doesn't need constant supervision. Seven is self-sufficient. Seven is on a mission.

That must be a lightbulb moment for a kid at whatever age they come to it: I can do this myself.

We have certainly turned a corner now. There is no going back. It's like when your baby first starts to crawl and everything changes. One whole stage of their life - the immobile one - is over. You can't just expect to put them down, do a quick little something across the house, and come back. No, they could have their tongue in an electrical socket or be ingesting a stray Lego. Or likely, they are completely fine - just roving around entertained enough by their newfound mobility.

That's where we are now, on a bigger scale. That may be why I have been struggling with Gus for some time now. He does need more independence. He's pushing against our little bubble of family and home. What he needs is more risk (natural dopamine), a larger radius (2 miles large!?). Maybe a 2-mile-radius is exactly what seven year olds should have.

I want him to be able to visit neighbors' homes and hang out with friends, to ride his bike to the local park and convenience store like I did at that age; to be out exploring, adventuring, through an organized sport or otherwise: Doing things that make him feel accomplished and alive.

And I feel responsible for the fact that none of this is true for him right now. It's not at all because I'm afraid for his physical safety, as is the general societal trend according to Jonathan Haidt, as well as the the organization who is trying to buck it - Let Grow.

I am a huge proponent of the Let Grow movement, born out of co-founder Lenore Skenazy’s nine-year-old son’s inaugural solo subway ride, and the bad mother fallout that it created, as chronicled in her book, Free-Range Kids.

I wholly embrace the fact that kids need unstructured and unsupervised time outdoors. And yet, I am the parent who is, although not not allowing it, not actively encouraging it for my kids either. And the reason, the excuse that I need to come to overcome, is autism.

When I finally got home to Gus - it seemed to take forever to drive the two miles that he just walked in seemingly record time - I gave him a big hug and told him, Wow, you walked a long way! I explained how scared we were, and how the police officers all came to help find him.

He told me he was watching Sing 2. He also went pee and drank some milk.

He told me highlights from the trip: I walked by Station 14. And I saw engine 13! And I saw two police motorcycles.

Were you scared? Just a little.

Did anyone talk to you? Yes, someone asked me if I was alone, where are my parents and if I had a bike.

I sang on my walk, he reported merrily. In your head? No, out loud.

We quizzed him on our address. He nailed it. But my phone number - which he started memorizing last summer - no recollection.

Did you walk by the gym, the bookstore? Over the freeway? Under it?

All of these answers were unclear.

As much as I want to be a free-range parent, I realize there is a gap there between the current skill set of our autistic son and his desires.

There is a big challenge ahead for us: How do we build safe independent skills in our autistic child? How do we build safe neighborhood relationships so that he can continue to grow them on his own? How do we impart the rules of acceptable time and distance away from home? How do we convey stranger danger, versus the importance of asking strangers for help when needed? For all kids these are crucial skills, yet for the neurotypical they are much more instinctual - understanding safety by a person's facial expressions or the ability to resolve conflict instead of getting overwhelmed and reactive; the ability to make friends in the first place without adult involvement. With autism, these skills are not innate.

So we have lots of work to do, including the addition of an air tag to our lives.

With that work comes another reality that we must accept - he is seven. And seven, whether we’re ready or not, is on a mission for independence.

Next time, I just might let him walk.