Skip to main content

Hate the struggles, don't hate Autism.

Its 7 pm. Your child is yelling his head off because he does not want to hop in his bath. Tears are running down his face leaving clear trails in all the grime. Bribes have been offered. Voices raised in despair. Visual schedules and timers have failed to move him. He does not want to have a bath and that is it. You're exhausted and stunned by the intensity of his tantrum. Unfortunately you cannot budge and you cannot give in because you're scared that it will set a precedent : Mom's a pushover. But you also know that this tired little boy is soon approaching meltdown junction, where all bets are off and nobody wins.

You take deep breaths and tell yourself its not about you right now! How do you help him navigate this ? He loves bath time. He loves water. He'd practically stay at the pool if you'd let him. So why is it suddenly so hard for him?  Why does this bright boy who can do math in his head and talk at length about how to build an airplane struggle with a simple concept of "grimy body = needs bath". 

Its impossible to be truly mindful and empathetic at all times. When kids have a meltdown, it's far more natural to gnash your teeth, blame autism and hunker down till the storm passes over. Heck, I do that more often than I like to. I'm not one of those evolved moms who have a handy bag of tricks and snippets of wisdom. 
 But here's what I do know: Autism cannot be wished away. Some kids outgrow their diagnosis with age. Some kids progress to the point of being virtually indistinguishable from their NT peers. And some kids continue to remain visibly or subtly on the spectrum. The day will come when your child may question you about autism or start to read about it in the media.That's the day you want to prepare for. 

That's the day that's keeping from losing my mind and having my own meltdown.My son already knows the word "autism" pretty well. We have a lot of “autism positive” clothing we all wear. He knows its something to do with the way he sees the world. He’s 7 but he knows that he is different. I’ve tried very hard not to show him how much the autism label terrifies me sometimes. On those dark days when its an avalanche of upsets and behaviors, I do my hardest to not blame autism because, lets face it - that would be a very slippery slope. “Oh he’s not engaging well today - autism!” or “why won’t he just socialize - autism”.  By the very nature of how it is defined, I find it easy to use autism as a catch-all reservoir of reasons why my son isn’t doing well on any given day. So I work extra hard to look at my son as who he is, autism and all. Sure he's  autistic. That's a core part of who he is, but not all that he is! He’s a happy, smiley, moody, chatty, sometimes angry, sometimes feral (:P), always silly little 7 year old who also happens to have autism. He is not defined by his diagnosis, rather he uses it both as a strength and as a reason why its sometimes OK to have a good old meltdown. 

Autism is a warship our kids need to steer all day everyday. Sometimes they take prisoners and sometimes they get knocked around a bit, but it is an integral part of them . And that is what I try to live by everyday. I need to be by his side and help him work out some of the kinks in his day. But more importantly I also need to let him feel his way around new experiences and learn to handle some of those new challenges himself. His tears teach him as much as his successes do. As a mom (who has an advanced degree in helicopter parenting), that is awfully hard for me to accept. He bounces back easily from those tumultuous moments, while I'm still jittery 2 hours later. Because again, its not about me, its about him. He's the one who has to fight in the trenches, while I stand by in the far outfield. Because when he’s 13 and we have a grown up discussion about autism, I don’t want him to remember my tears and worries, but rather my awe at how far he has come. 

I wipe some of my own invisible tears and sit down on the floor with him. His angry body is starting to calm down. I give him deep squeezes and offer him choices of a quick shower or maybe a plastic bath tub in the backyard. I sprinkle some water on him which makes him giggle. He's back. He's happy to jump in the bath I originally ran for him because that's how fast he can rebound. He will be OK. Tired and spent, but OK.
And so will I.


Photo by rawpixel on Unsplash

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Do Mice wear shoes?

The woman hitched up her skirt and continued kneading the dough. Her kids ran around, chasing each other in a quiet pantomime of the real game. They knew too well about bruises and broken bones - presents from their father if they were too loud. The woman cast a sour glance at her husband, asleep in the corner of their shack, his skinny chicken legs peeking out from under his discolored Long Johns.   Outside, the snowstorm raged on, driving the sky to an ugly gray color.   Rather like one of my bruises, the woman thought, with a little flash of anger. She rubbed the small of her   back (which still hadn’t recovered from the “rearrangement” her husband had done two winters ago).   “Mama Mama”, a little voice squeaked next to her.   “Da, my little p rintsessa ?” “Do mice wear shoes?”   The woman didn’t know what to make of that. Mice? In this Russian winter? Her first thought was the beating her husband would give her if he noticed any holes in his sweaters. Ivan di

Sssssh!

I have always been a wuss around creepy crawlies. Insects of all manner and snakes. Big problem for me. In fact, as a teenager in Mumbai, I often walked past snake charmers and their kind - mostly on Railway bridges and near temples. I took a wide detour every time I spotted a scaly head bobbing outside that wicker basket. To overcome my fear, I befriended a few of the snake charmers and much to my dismay, one of them invited me to touch her snake. I didn’t want to seem stupid. One shaky finger on the reptile and I promptly regretted everything. From then on, I have been a vocal opponent of all things slithering and I have often been accused of being rather a bore on the subject. The other night, I had finished watching a rather gory episode of the Walking Dead. Gut and brains everywhere and much bashing of zombie heads. Usually I sleep like a fat baby after my nightly zombie dose, but that night I had this intense nightmare. (You know how dreams are trippy? One minute you’re fli

The Cargo - Part 1.

The wispy shrub grew without too much fuss. Shy plant, Shame Plant, the Touch-Me-Not. Many names, for the same little fern who withdrew from the slightest touch. A soft breeze, a sudden movement - all of these made the plant fold inward. All it wanted - a handful of soil and a quiet corner of the land. In the early hours of a March dawn, Kalambhai stretched his burly arms and sniffed the air. Might rain today. The Tv predicted Thunderstorms for the entire state. He hoped that wouldn’t mess with the travel time. His clients were rich Europeans, and a bad review from them would not help his fledgling business. News traveled fast in their circles, and he always had goods to move. Almost time. Lajwanti should be ready with the lorry. Kalambhai was an atheist, but having a woman in his line of work? An absolute Godsend. Of course, she was ugly as sin, but he didn’t employ her for her looks now, did he? As he marched toward the large barn, he could see the gray blue fumes of the lorry