Some days, living in the gaze of my gorgeous children, I really wish that life had a rewind button. Or at least that button on the DVR remote that lets you jump back 30 seconds: "Wait! Ignore that last thing I did! I can do better!"

Yesterday, we were coming out of the McDonald's drive-through where I managed to keep my cursing at the price of two cokes and a small fry under my breath for the most part. Billy gets a treat when he does particularly well at therapy or school, and inevitably, the treats he asks for are "Coke" and "Fry-Fry" (French fries). He could easily say "French fry" at this point but we continue to say "fry fry" in our family because we think it's cute ... and to be honest, half the time I forget that it has a different name. I even once, flustered, asked for "fry fries" at the drive-through.

So we're coming out, stopped at the red light, and I'm juggling my Diet Coke and my cell phone charger. And I see a man out of the corner of my eye, holding a sign and clearly asking for money.

A million things run through my mind at a moment like this, and all of them make me sound a little crazy. I worry that if I start rifling through my purse for money, the light will turn green and I will hold up traffic. I worry -- I kid you not, this goes through my head -- that other cars will think I'm showing off. I worry that I'll get his attention and then find that I don't have any cash. I worry, to a lesser degree, that the person might be dangerous and try to car-jack me. In broad daylight. In front of all these cars that I'm sure are bad-mouthing me for being a self-righteous show-off who holds up traffic and is kind of asking to be car-jacked.

Well, yesterday I came to my senses and realized that I had just spent nearly five bucks on two cokes and a small fry, and this guy might not have anything to eat. This might be one of those moments when I could talk to my kids about giving to others. So I scrounged up a couple of dollars, tapped my horn, and saw out of the corner of my eye that he was walking over.

"Billy," I explained to my son, who was happily stuffing his mouth with fries and slurping on his Coke in the back seat, "this man doesn't have any money for Coke or fry-fries, so why don't we give him some? We've got plenty."

"We've got plenty," he repeated, seeming to agree.

The entire time, I had never really looked at the man, and by that point, he was at my car window. I looked up, into his eyes, and I froze.

He clearly had Down's Syndrome. What was a mentally challenged person doing begging for money in front of McDonald's? I was outraged -- at someone, though I didn't know who. Weren't there people who were supposed to be taking care of him? Wasn't there an agency in charge of this?

But all I did was reach through the car window, hand him two bucks and drive away. After all, the light had turned green and people were starting to blow their horns.

As we drove off, Billy looked back --at the man, I guess -- and said something like, "No coke."

The whole drive home I was edgy and unsettled. There was a time when my greatest fear was that my autistic son might end up unable to care for himself as an adult. It certainly happens, and there are plenty of parents who deal with that nightmare thought every day. Now we're pretty certain that Billy is going to be fine, to be able to communicate normally and catch up with his peers within a couple of years. And even if he were more severely challenged, God forbid, he now has a loving sister and two beautiful cousins who would never, I know, let him end up alone.

I would love to tell you that by the time I got home, I immediately sprang into action and tracked down the relevant agency or homeless shelter and got that man some help. But I didn't.

By the time we got home, I was more concerned about the fact that Billy had emptied his fries all over the back seat, Willow was screaming bloody murder and needed a diaper change and life went on.

In fact, I forgot about him. I forgot about him all afternoon, and all night, and until this morning, when I was emptying the trash and saw the McDonald's bag, I hadn't given him another thought.

I immediately thought of all the things I could have done, a million ways I could have helped and shown my kids that some things are more important than a honking horn or fries in the back seat.

But the morning bedlam of the Broadfeet had already ensued and we were frantically trying to get Billy's breakfast, listening therapy, Floortime and dressing completed before the 8:10 a.m. go-to-school deadline.

After he and Dave were off, I did finally manage to call someone. There is a church across the street from that McDonald's, so I looked up the number and gave them a ring. When I explained what had happened and asked that they keep an eye out for the man, the lady on the phone was very nice. She said she knew just who to call and would see to it that someone got him the help he needed the next time he showed up.

I hung up the phone, relieved. Was I relieved because I believed the man was getting help or because it was now someone else's problem? Hard to say.

I write a lot about autism advocacy and for obvious reasons, Dave and I are very motivated to help kids with challenges get what they need and deserve. But adults with mental challenges need advocates too. They aren't as cute, and they may be harder to help sometimes, but I got a well-needed wake-up call about just what happens when they slip through the cracks of the system.