Attention all subway passengers. Farida Peters wants you to know that if she had time, she’d stop and explain.

She would apologize and tell you she’s doing the best she can on the crowded train. That she’s not a bad mother who doesn’t care about manners, and that when her son gets agitated and unruly, it isn’t his fault.

If she had time. Which she doesn’t. Because she’s too busy trying to avert a meltdown. She’s busy reassuring her little boy that he’ll be okay even though there are no seats for him to sit on today, handing him his yellow toy car, promising him an M&M if he can keep it together for just a few more stops, softly urging him not to make that high-pitched screeching noise.

Instead, she made a sign.

“My son is 5 years old and has autism,” says the laminated message in large black letters.

“Please be patient with us. Thank you.”

The sign is clipped to Peters’ backpack on weekday mornings as she and Deckard make their way, hand in hand, across the city to his behavioural therapy appointment. They take the bus and two trains, followed by a walk. Seventeen subway stops and one train change. When all goes according to plan it takes about an hour.

At 3 p.m., they do it all over again to go home.

Peters has mixed feelings about labelling her son in public. But last fall, after almost a year of commuting, Deckard started becoming more aggressive in the crowds and delays that plague the TTC.

On good days, he was a happy guy with an impish grin and a ton of energy who raced to push the elevator buttons at the station and loved to watch the trains approach. But on bad days when he was overwhelmed, he’d begun to rebel by squealing, kicking or hitting.

On the bus one day, a lady told her to control him when he was swinging his legs as they dangled beneath his seat. Other passengers have scolded him and then complained “wow, he’s not even looking at me.” Children with autism often don’t make eye contact.

He’s had fits after being knocked over in crowds or being pushed out of the way by passengers clamouring for seats.

Peters had to do something to stop the glares, gasps and comments, which would only ratchet up their anxiety levels and exacerbate his behaviour.

“Honestly, I don’t always have time to apologize to everyone when I’m in crisis mode,” she says. “I try to, but I have a kid who needs a lot of support.”

The homemade sign shifts the dynamic.

“It has been helping. It makes people more aware and I think they are more understanding.”

Dressed in his Spider-Man ski jacket and yellow toque, Deckard looks like any other 5-year-old. His disability is invisible. And that means people don’t always understand why he might be on the verge of exploding.

Autism is a neurodevelopmental disorder that impairs communication and social skills and affects behaviour. Like many kids with the condition, Deckard is extra sensitive to sensory stimulation like noise and tight spaces, which heighten his anxiety and overwhelm him.

He can manage with support, but needs extra compassion and patience, says his mom. At a time of dramatically rising autism rates, she’d like people to think twice before making harsh judgments about families like hers, who are doing their best.

Peters never leaves home without a knapsack full of distractions and head full of strategies.

On the train, she hands Deckard a chocolate chip cookie, then reaches for a package of wipes to clean the crumbs off his face. She has a stash of granola bars and other snacks, small squishy toys, a light-up ring, his favourite cars and a miniature handheld fan that calms him down because he’s fascinated with things that spin. After each “perfect train” ride, he gets two M&M’s, an incentive for next time.

“Gentle, buddy,” she’ll murmur if he gets pushy. “Too close,” she warns when he leans over into the lap of a fellow passenger to peer at an iPad screen.

She’s got the trip down to a science too, from the elevators at Davisville station where he gets to press the buttons, to the far escalator down the westbound platform at Bloor, which is less crowded than the close one.

She knows exactly where to stand to make sure they board the train near the special priority seats for the disabled. Deckard insists on the folding seats on the newer trains — especially the ones that have been converted from red to blue.

Sometimes she resorts to negotiating skills if she feels his anxiety rising and asks able-bodied passengers using the seats if they would mind switching because her child is having a hard day.

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She and Deckard don’t run for trains and often let several pass if he shakes his head because they look too full. When they reach the station near their house, he’ll only take the one bus that has blue priority seats. So these days his dad, who runs a business from home, often meets them in the car.

At home, if a tantrum is building, parents or therapists can often redirect an autistic child’s behaviour. “But in public, it’s not so easy,” she says. Especially when you’re under the spotlight, trying to keep your kid calm while your own blood pressure is rising and you’re “trying not to cry your face off on the train.”

Peters doesn’t blame people who don’t get it. She just hopes the sign will plant a seed.

“I was one of those people myself. I didn’t know what autism was either until after his diagnosis.”

Peters and her husband Gord first noticed some of the warning signs when Deckard, their only child, was in his second year. He wasn’t using any words, pointing or making eye contact, and had started repetitive rituals and major tantrums. They requested an assessment at his 18-month checkup but it took another year of referrals and wait lists before he was diagnosed.

That was followed by another frustrating year-and-a-half on the wait list for intensive behavioural intervention, the provincially-funded therapy he now receives at the Geneva Centre for Autism in midtown Toronto.

Peters has had plenty of feedback about the sign she uses while taking him there, both in person and on Facebook. One woman applauded her but said she shouldn’t have had to resort to a sign, because people should be more patient.

Others frown at this public declaration. One friend remarked that she should only disclose her child’s autism on a “need-to-know basis” because it’s nobody’s business.

Peters hopes her strategy will provoke discussion and awareness about invisible disabilities and people’s attitudes.

There have been many times the sign has helped take the pressure off.

Just the other day when Deckard was upset, a man tapped her on the shoulder, pointed and said “here’s a safe spot for you to stand.”

Once when he was spinning his hands (one of his repetitive behaviours) and accidentally hit a woman beside him, the passenger told his mom not to worry, she was fine.

With the sign prominently displayed, some people smile from across the aisle. Others have told her they have a family member with autism, that she’s doing a great job and encouraged her to hang in there.

On rough days, she says she appreciates the difference that a simple “are you OK, do you need a hand?” can make, or people’s willingness to back off and give them space.

She thinks back to one of their first days with the sign.

Instead of frowning at Deckard, a couple of people on the subway admired his T-shirt. The positive attention was followed by positive behaviour. By the time they got off the train one woman told Peters her son was “awesome” and a few folks gave him high-fives.

As the doors slid open, Deckard was beaming and called out “bye people!”

His mother was in tears — but this time of relief.

“I felt like he finally felt safe and comfortable on the train,” she recalls.

“It’s really nice when people are encouraging.”