lost
Over time, I've tried to make peace with the idea that parenting has become an industry. The availability of information in this day and age means that there's often way too much information, shouting at you from every corner, with very few tools to help you discern what's true, and more importantly, what's right for your family.
Usually by the time Reed and I arrive at a decision on any given parenting topic, I have to very consciously shed the baggage of what-ifs and second-guessing that I've acquired in the research phase. I have joked to my friends, "I figure that, as a parent, if you don't worry you're doing it all wrong at least once a week, you must not be paying attention."
Autism has compounded that for our family. The daily highs and lows feel so precarious. It takes weeks to feel like we can safely identify a trend of new or improved or worsened behavior, and by the time I have that sense, it is usually shifting again. And when people ask me how he's doing, how it's going, it's so hard to answer. There are highs and lows!
Yesterday morning, Tim threw a raging fit over something (a mystery to us) and kicked me in the face (I was sitting on the floor next to the couch, where he was thrashing). Yesterday afternoon, I had to throw him over my shoulder in the fireman's carry and carry him up the stairs to his room for a rare nap. He clawed and slapped and kicked the whole way, sobbing, and yet he closed his eyes and slept 4 minutes after I laid him in his bed. When we gently woke him an hour and a half later, he clawed and slapped and kicked and sobbed again, wanting to be left alone. But yesterday evening, we took him and Owen to Target and had Owen ride in the cart, asking Tim to walk and hold my hand - something we've never done for more than half a store trip. And he was an angel. Mature, capable, obedient. He stayed with me, even when I let go of his hand, and never ventured more than a few feet beyond us, always coming back when I called.
And I was elated, and it was almost like the morning hadn't happened, or the afternoon. Dinner went smoothly (he ate soup with VEGETABLES, with very little cajoling!) and bedtime was low key.
Then he came into our room at 4:24 this morning, walked up to Reed, and started yelling and hitting him.
I scooped him up and carried him back to bed, where he fought me tooth and nail, wanting to get up for the day. (Daylight Savings Time throws off many children's sleep schedules, but this is a common occurrence for us without the time change.) He sobbed. He hit me. He landed a good kick on my neck. He threw himself on the floor. He threw himself on the bed. He charged for the bedroom door again and again, and shrieked when I turned out the light. He didn't want me to touch him but then he turned over and held my hand for just a second and then he changed positions and my light touch on his shoulder sparked his rage again.
So I gave him space, and I bit my tongue, and I tried to just be present. I have been fighting with myself a lot the past few days around this - my frustration and impatience, and my anger - the sense that Tim is just making shit harder. Every time we're trying to do something - to carry Owen and all of our bags into the house when we get home after work, feed Tim something other than mac and cheese, close a door without letting him close it, run upstairs to grab something without letting him follow - everything feels like an obstacle. The past almost-eight months have been a cumulative falling behind in housework (which I was terrible about to begin with), to the point where I feel nearly crushed by what needs doing, and the shame and stress of it all undone. I do laundry and I do dishes. Pretty much nothing else.
So I live under this weight - Reed and I both do - of having so little time, and so little energy, pushing ourselves so hard just to do the absolute minimum. My days start at 5:30 and the kids are usually in bed at 8:30. Then we wash bottles, make dinner, eat, and go to bed. Then both kids are up several times a night. And we push, and we do the thing.
So when there's this tiny ball of inscrutable rage - not so tiny any more, actually, and very strong - that seems hellbent on taking issue with so many of your basic actions, it starts to feel like persecution. It starts to feel like this kid is just an asshole who's trolling you.
All this to say, I'm fighting with myself over this sense of anger and indignation. Because I'm tired, and I'm stressed, and I'm confused and I'm sad, but I know that I'm also wrong.
Because when I stop looking at this from my personal frame of reference - when I stop seeing my child as the obstacle fucking up my program - I try to put myself in his shoes, instead. And I wonder what he's feeling, because goddammit, this is the only way he has learned how give me any indication. And I don't know what it is, I don't know what's wrong, so I can't determine if it's the business of being two and on the spectrum, or if it's something more sinister, like the double ear infection he had last week.
And then holy shit, I realize I'm the shitbag. Because my child is anxious or confused or sad or afraid or angry or frustrated or feeling overwhelmed or any combination of those things, and I'm getting angry because I want him to get out my way and let me DO things. Because running upstairs to get something or shuffling through the laundry room before the cats get in are so much more important than the way my child feels.
And I just don't know how to do it. Part of me wants to drop everything and just give him love and nurturing. And the behavioral therapists say no - that you have to ignore the bad behaviors and reward the good. But sometimes I worry that ABA is just a carrot and stick training method that pushes autistic children to live by neurotypical standards - as if everything about how he sees and interacts with the world is wrong, and it's our job to fix it. To make him conform. To make him stop making US so goddamn uncomfortable with his behavior.
Because let's face it - I'm so uncomfortable. He lies on the floor and starts stimming and it's like the autism is creeping in from the corners and covering his body. When I see him there, in this echo chamber, his eyes vacant, it's like I'm losing him. Like I'm failing him. The only way to chase it away is to be out, out of the house, out in the world. And we try, we really do, to get out every morning and every afternoon, to let him run, to let him see people and go places. But there are chores to do, and errands to run, and a baby whose schedule often dictates our own. And some days, I think all 4 of us doing the same thing together helps us more than splitting up so each child can get their needs met. And other days, I think I'm very, very wrong in that.
And I know this is a season in our lives. I do. Tim is acquiring language like gangbusters now - blowing us away with new words almost every day. Having a conversation with him is almost within reach, and I know that will change everything. And Owen will be walking in a few months, and hopefully talking, and maybe he won't need so much protection from his well-intentioned big brother.
Or maybe Owen will start showing signs of autism.
He has a 1 in 4 chance. Tim had a 1 in 64 chance, and here we are.
I have the sweetest interactions with Owen, and I can't let myself think about autism too much where he is concerned. I start to picture dark shadows snatching both of my babies from my arms, and it's a bad fucking scene. I don't have the luxury of wallowing in that fear, which is probably for the best.
I know Tim hasn't been taken from me. I know he's amazing and brilliant and special just as he is, and that mourning him or his condition is the worst thing I could do, both for my own wellbeing and for his.
But some days - many days - like today, I'm lost. And I have to at least write it down and anchor the thoughts long enough to disentangle myself.
Usually by the time Reed and I arrive at a decision on any given parenting topic, I have to very consciously shed the baggage of what-ifs and second-guessing that I've acquired in the research phase. I have joked to my friends, "I figure that, as a parent, if you don't worry you're doing it all wrong at least once a week, you must not be paying attention."
Autism has compounded that for our family. The daily highs and lows feel so precarious. It takes weeks to feel like we can safely identify a trend of new or improved or worsened behavior, and by the time I have that sense, it is usually shifting again. And when people ask me how he's doing, how it's going, it's so hard to answer. There are highs and lows!
Yesterday morning, Tim threw a raging fit over something (a mystery to us) and kicked me in the face (I was sitting on the floor next to the couch, where he was thrashing). Yesterday afternoon, I had to throw him over my shoulder in the fireman's carry and carry him up the stairs to his room for a rare nap. He clawed and slapped and kicked the whole way, sobbing, and yet he closed his eyes and slept 4 minutes after I laid him in his bed. When we gently woke him an hour and a half later, he clawed and slapped and kicked and sobbed again, wanting to be left alone. But yesterday evening, we took him and Owen to Target and had Owen ride in the cart, asking Tim to walk and hold my hand - something we've never done for more than half a store trip. And he was an angel. Mature, capable, obedient. He stayed with me, even when I let go of his hand, and never ventured more than a few feet beyond us, always coming back when I called.
And I was elated, and it was almost like the morning hadn't happened, or the afternoon. Dinner went smoothly (he ate soup with VEGETABLES, with very little cajoling!) and bedtime was low key.
Then he came into our room at 4:24 this morning, walked up to Reed, and started yelling and hitting him.
I scooped him up and carried him back to bed, where he fought me tooth and nail, wanting to get up for the day. (Daylight Savings Time throws off many children's sleep schedules, but this is a common occurrence for us without the time change.) He sobbed. He hit me. He landed a good kick on my neck. He threw himself on the floor. He threw himself on the bed. He charged for the bedroom door again and again, and shrieked when I turned out the light. He didn't want me to touch him but then he turned over and held my hand for just a second and then he changed positions and my light touch on his shoulder sparked his rage again.
So I gave him space, and I bit my tongue, and I tried to just be present. I have been fighting with myself a lot the past few days around this - my frustration and impatience, and my anger - the sense that Tim is just making shit harder. Every time we're trying to do something - to carry Owen and all of our bags into the house when we get home after work, feed Tim something other than mac and cheese, close a door without letting him close it, run upstairs to grab something without letting him follow - everything feels like an obstacle. The past almost-eight months have been a cumulative falling behind in housework (which I was terrible about to begin with), to the point where I feel nearly crushed by what needs doing, and the shame and stress of it all undone. I do laundry and I do dishes. Pretty much nothing else.
So I live under this weight - Reed and I both do - of having so little time, and so little energy, pushing ourselves so hard just to do the absolute minimum. My days start at 5:30 and the kids are usually in bed at 8:30. Then we wash bottles, make dinner, eat, and go to bed. Then both kids are up several times a night. And we push, and we do the thing.
So when there's this tiny ball of inscrutable rage - not so tiny any more, actually, and very strong - that seems hellbent on taking issue with so many of your basic actions, it starts to feel like persecution. It starts to feel like this kid is just an asshole who's trolling you.
All this to say, I'm fighting with myself over this sense of anger and indignation. Because I'm tired, and I'm stressed, and I'm confused and I'm sad, but I know that I'm also wrong.
Because when I stop looking at this from my personal frame of reference - when I stop seeing my child as the obstacle fucking up my program - I try to put myself in his shoes, instead. And I wonder what he's feeling, because goddammit, this is the only way he has learned how give me any indication. And I don't know what it is, I don't know what's wrong, so I can't determine if it's the business of being two and on the spectrum, or if it's something more sinister, like the double ear infection he had last week.
And then holy shit, I realize I'm the shitbag. Because my child is anxious or confused or sad or afraid or angry or frustrated or feeling overwhelmed or any combination of those things, and I'm getting angry because I want him to get out my way and let me DO things. Because running upstairs to get something or shuffling through the laundry room before the cats get in are so much more important than the way my child feels.
And I just don't know how to do it. Part of me wants to drop everything and just give him love and nurturing. And the behavioral therapists say no - that you have to ignore the bad behaviors and reward the good. But sometimes I worry that ABA is just a carrot and stick training method that pushes autistic children to live by neurotypical standards - as if everything about how he sees and interacts with the world is wrong, and it's our job to fix it. To make him conform. To make him stop making US so goddamn uncomfortable with his behavior.
Because let's face it - I'm so uncomfortable. He lies on the floor and starts stimming and it's like the autism is creeping in from the corners and covering his body. When I see him there, in this echo chamber, his eyes vacant, it's like I'm losing him. Like I'm failing him. The only way to chase it away is to be out, out of the house, out in the world. And we try, we really do, to get out every morning and every afternoon, to let him run, to let him see people and go places. But there are chores to do, and errands to run, and a baby whose schedule often dictates our own. And some days, I think all 4 of us doing the same thing together helps us more than splitting up so each child can get their needs met. And other days, I think I'm very, very wrong in that.
And I know this is a season in our lives. I do. Tim is acquiring language like gangbusters now - blowing us away with new words almost every day. Having a conversation with him is almost within reach, and I know that will change everything. And Owen will be walking in a few months, and hopefully talking, and maybe he won't need so much protection from his well-intentioned big brother.
Or maybe Owen will start showing signs of autism.
He has a 1 in 4 chance. Tim had a 1 in 64 chance, and here we are.
I have the sweetest interactions with Owen, and I can't let myself think about autism too much where he is concerned. I start to picture dark shadows snatching both of my babies from my arms, and it's a bad fucking scene. I don't have the luxury of wallowing in that fear, which is probably for the best.
I know Tim hasn't been taken from me. I know he's amazing and brilliant and special just as he is, and that mourning him or his condition is the worst thing I could do, both for my own wellbeing and for his.
But some days - many days - like today, I'm lost. And I have to at least write it down and anchor the thoughts long enough to disentangle myself.