Kids on steroids

     I’m often looking for a quick explanation to give to people when they ask what it’s been like raising C. I realize it’s difficult for people to understand what other people’s lives are like, and I want to be able to share in a way that helps people understand both the challenges and the joy.

     I think having an autistic child, no matter where on the spectrum they fall, is like multiplying everything by 10. Much of what C does is hyped up in one direction or another. While I have been thankful not to have to attempt to figure out how to teach C to read, I would give just about anything to get him to eat a new food. Learning the states and their capitals? No problem. Blowing his nose? A zillion steps that have taken years to process.

     And skipping developmental steps, or going through them at different times than “normal” have also presented interesting challenges and non-challenges as well. While my friends were desperately child-proofing every single thing in their homes to protect their toddlers, C was busy working on sitting up. We never really had to worry about him hitting his head on the coffee table; by the time he decided he was ready to walk, he just stood up and walked. There was no toddler stage in our house.

     Not only are tasks often out of whack in terms of the ease or difficulty with which they are learned, but emotions are often very strong as well. While the tantrums and extreme distress are difficult for not only us, but for C as well, it’s tempered by the great and absolute joy he experiences over minute little details in life. New toothbrush? Tantrum. Getting an extra 5 minutes of computer time? Sheer giddiness. Outgrown shirt? Tears. New yellow shirt to round out his “closet rainbow?” Worthy of a press release.

     Husband and I often laugh at ourselves in wonderment at the fact that we would probably have no idea what to do with a “typical” child. And honestly, we consider that fact a bit of a badge of honor. Not that we deserve a pat on the back; rather that we are in some kind of cool, secret club. Sure, the dues can be high, but it’s worth every figurative penny.

When all else fails

     After a particularly distressing evening with C, one where I am striving to keep my patience and calm (and not particularly succeeding), I always enjoy going into his room for the last look after he falls asleep.

     In sleep, he brings me back from frustration to calm. His angelic little face resting on his pillow, blanket and stuffed dog Bill wrapped up in his arms do wonders to make me forget the rest of the evening. No trace of his screaming, defiance and tears are left. I cease to wonder how we’ll get through this latest behavior challenge and gently brush my lips across his cheek. And smile.

It’s a Dennis day

    We have different days at our house. Today was a Dennis (a.k.a. “The Menace”) day. It’s a day when I count the hours until C’s bedtime hoping we can all survive relatively unscathed. C is wound up, sassy, hyper and completely “wiggy.” My Nana would have said he had the devil in him today. I never know what triggers these days, and fortunately they come fewer and farther between as of late. We have various solutions to Dennis days; at the moment C is in a shower, happily contained, putting sticky letters on the shower walls and hopefully being soothed by the warm water. Nevermind we live in the desert where water is scarce. Some days our environmentalism simply goes down the drain, no pun intended.

     There’s also my favorite type of day, the “Calvin” day. An enormous fan of the now defunct comic strip “Calvin and Hobbes,” I have long adored the trademark triangle smile of Calvin that truly does appear in my C. I think Calvin was somewhat reincarnated when I gave birth. On these days, C is mischievous and adorable, doing such things that make me laugh even though I probably shouldn’t.

     Last is a Rainman day. Punctuated by questions such as, “Mommy, what is negative 200 minus negative 200?” (Um, I dunno…???), Rainman days are by far the most interesting. I catch surprising glimpses of how his brain works and things he’s learned I had no idea he knew. Lists of planets, great big fancy words such as “cartographer” or “communication,” and other random assortments of facts and figures leave me wondering if he really is a species of sponge.