I often wonder what course my life would have taken if I had met Tom back when I was a teenager twisting and turning my way through youth. I am tempted to think he would have saved me from the turmoil I swirled in; tempted, not convinced. I think it was best we met later on in life, because it took me years of self-study to recognize who I was and how I worked and what I needed to fix me up. Had Tom, or anyone else for that matter, caught me each time I fell, I worry that I would never have been able to figure out what made me tick. I needed to fall, scrape my knees, knot my heart, and try my very hardest before I could really see that I was more than simply a bit different. I needed to come face to face with all of my issues before I could admit I needed the support I now get from Tom. As I go on to lose more and more of my AS, I caution myself never to overburden him with my needs, to never fall in on him, to lean on him only when I am faced with those things that toss me in circles and make me take unusual turns. And as I continue to refine how and when Tom can help me, I try desperately hard to give him the kinds of things I can, things like loyalty and honesty and reliability and shared interests. Like bookends, we have learned to support each other when the stuff in the middle pushes us apart.
6
Rocking My Babies
Oh My God!
A one act, one scene play hosed on a true story.
The setting: The hospital ultrasound laboratory.
The characters: an ultrasound technician, a nurse, an Asperger Mom-to-be and the nervous Father-to-be.
The plot: Things are not progressing as they should be during what should have been a normal pregnancy and the primary care obstetrician is concerned for the baby’s safety. An ultrasound is ordered and is just beginning…
The technician: Here we go. This might be a bit cold (pours lubricating jell on the Mom-to-be’s stomach and begins using the ultrasound wand). Alrighty, I can see what I need to now. Here’s one head… (takes a pause and a deep breath) and here’s the other head.
The Mom-to-be: Two heads? You see two heads? The baby has two heads? (Mom-to-be gasps and with horror in her eyes, looks over at nervous husband who is beginning to slide to the floor).
The technician: Dad? Dad are you all right? Looks like we lost another one. (Shouting to the outer office) I need help in here, we’ve got another dad on the floor.
ENTER the nurse who begins to tend to the nervous husband, helping him to sit up, catch his breath, etc.
The Mom-to-be: Oh my God! I can’t believe my baby has two heads.
(She begins to shake uncontrollably.)
The technician: Two heads? Heavens no. Didn’t you know you were having twins?
The Mom-to-be: Twins? Oh my God!
THE END
They say truth is more unbelievable than fiction and if my life is any indication, I would have to say, I agree. It is true that when the short scene above played before me in real life, I truly did think my baby had two heads. While I am not certain this illustrates the literal mindedness that often grabs hold of my AS, I do know it sets a perfect stage for my life as an AS parent. For the past twelve years, I have felt as if I live in a topsy-turvy world of bemused consciousness, somewhere in between what should be and what is. In our home, for example, my children provide me with just about as much role modeling as I provide them. While I am able to set forth the more mature hierarchy of moral and ethical standards, the kids are able to show me how I should act and behave in public. In fact, they often lead me through public arenas knowing that without their help, I am likely to both literally and figuratively lose my way. The kids force me, by their very existence, into a realm of reality that before their arrival was hardly of any matter to me. Because I deeply care that they are well cared for — well educated, happily engaged, and in all other ways, satisfied young beings — I try as hard as I can to control and monitor my behaviors and thoughts consistently. I try to be Every Mom.
While parenting brings out the most normal in me, it also showcases that about me which is the most unconventional and at times unacceptably challenging. As it is with most things, I find I cannot point to one or two of my challenges as an Asperger mom and shout — «Ahh, I am a failure!» No, it takes more than one fall to trip me up completely. It is in the sum total of my confused state of parenting awareness that gives me reason to quietly whisper — «Oops, I think I have made a mess of things, again!»
It has been my experience that each stage of my daughters’ lives is not only new to me, but foreign as well. Just when I think I have mastered one set of demands and expectations, another surfaces and throws me off balance. I realize I am not alone in this thought. Every parent I have ever spoken to confesses to a shared set of common complaints, confusions and mistakes. What intrigues me is their identification with the situations and difficulties they discuss. The parents I know seem to have the same kinds of experiences to recount and the same kinds of problems to relate. My worries and blunders come from places they do not seem to know exist. My issues are as foreign to them as their issues are to me. This used to bother me tremendously. It used to make me feel I was incapable of being an acceptable mom. Now that I know more about AS, I am not so hard on myself. I am not so critical. Finally, I can talk to other parents about their thoughts on parenting and discover, if not many, then at least one similarity: we are all able to understand it is possible to adore our children without adoring everything that goes hand in hand with childhood.
I was glad to hear other parents admit their tummies turned over and their ears hurt when their baby came home from the hospital. It made my problems with baby overload seem a little bit more normal. A little bit, not a lot. When I spoke to new parents it was obvious they were terribly bothered by the thing that challenged their sensory system, but only while it was in the middle of its challenge. They were able to tell stories of extra stinky days or extra loud middle of the nights, but none of their stories were filled with the kinds of strong emotional reactions mine were. They would tell me something like, «There is sure nothing worse than a had diaper» or «It really drove me nuts listening to my child scream all night». And that was that. When I asked them to elaborate, to tell me what it did to their system, they would tell me, «Oh it bothered me all right. Really made me nervous». I would sit and wait to hear more, to hear something that would have been more familiar to my own experiences, something that went way beyond words like bothered and nervous. I never did. It occurred to me that my experiences might be over the top for neurologically typical parents.
Virtually everything about new parenting had the potential to knock my sensory system out of control. Even the most simple and refined events could prove to be an ambitious opponent fighting to win my calm. When my first child was born, I took a bit of interest in designing the perfect nursery; trouble was, the baby stores and I never agreed on what a nursery should look like. For example, why pastels? Why do colors that look like they are covered in a fine mist of chalk dust throw themselves over so many nursery accessories? I find pastels difficult to look at. I tried them once. I painted my entire home in light colors. Two weeks later, I repainted everything in clear, deep tones. Each time I walk into a room filled with washed-out hues, my mouth fills with saliva and my head hurts. They make me feel icky, queasy, uneven. I can take them in small doses, in crayon boxes or mixed in a fabric that is based in a darker color, but I do not like to feel immersed in them. They drown me.