When I did manage to discover a section of true colored furnishings and bedding, my troubles were not ended. An array of different, but no less irksome, problems stood in my way. I brought my fixation on symmetry with me wherever I went, always relying on it to set the reliable standard. Baby things tended to be rotund and round, no doubt because sharp edges can hurt little hands and bodies. My logic understood and appreciated the reasoning behind the designs, but my sensibilities were unaffected by the vision behind the forms. My eyes wanted to see solid forms crafted from squares and triangles. They did not want to look upon a string of black and white abstract patterns, farm animals that looked like they had been flattened by a tractor, or clowns wearing pastel costumes. I could not imagine that my baby would want to lie beneath the belly of any of that either. The things were frightening, not comforting; distorted, not cute.
It was just as bothersome trying to find nice bedding, curtains and wall hangings. Once again, I had to face the pastels and endure the convoluted patterns, but now, I had to deal with their textures, as well. All sorts of sensations apprehend me when I touch certain surfaces. I do not like to touch raw wood, though I like to smell it; but then again, I do not like wood that is finished too glassy. I like to touch wood furniture and floors when it feels like the very last sanding was left beneath the varnish. I am pleased with furnishings that could withstand a strong wind, not pieces that look like they will break when I sit in them. I like very finely woven cottons, very bumpy chenille and rough velvet. My fingers withdraw when I touch satin, polyester, nylon, unbleached linen, and hairy yarn. I will not lie under blankets advertised to be as light as air, nor under blankets too heavy to kick off. Mid-weight fabrics with a subtle nub, bring me comfort. Anything else, brings me goose bumps. I was not certain if my babies would share my idiosyncracies with such matters, but I knew that if I was going to handle the materials they touched, I would have to surround them with necessities that appealed to me. When all was said and done, I did manage to decorate my daughters’ rooms in a fashion that was warm and welcoming. I never was able to find any bedding, though, and turned to my mother to make draperies and covers from white cotton. It was a relief to know I could go to the nursery with focused energy. It was not a relief to know the rest of my senses would not be so easy to tame.
Motion is not my friend. My stomach tips and spills when I look at a merry-go-round, or drive my car over a hill or around a corner too quickly. When my first baby was born, I soon learned my troubles with vestibular motion went beyond amusement parks and car rides. I could not rock my girls. I could sway, though, and this I did even in my rocking chair. Leaning forward toward the edge or far back into the chair, I would move my body left and right while I patted the babies to quiet their tears. When that made me sick, I would stand and sway, only a few inches in either direction. If that proved to be too much, I walked the floors, bouncing my daughters up and down as I went. My attempts routinely fell short of perfect for my young ones who preferred the wild ride their father could provide them. Too bad that excuse did little to convince him he should take all the night shift duties from me.
Each time I made any decision to do anything with my babies, I faced the possibility of sensory overload, especially if any smells were involved. Nothing, not colic that woke the neighbors, midnight trips to the store for diapers or all night feedings, could compete with baby spittle, soured formula, cradle cap crust and nasty diapers. The best parent has to hate those things, but I suspect I may have been more affected than most. I would pale, throw up and have to lay down when the odors were too rank.
Surprisingly, I was pretty tolerant of my babies’ noises. I did not like the crying and toy clanging, but I could tolerate it. I wonder if this was because I was more focused on the reasons for the cries than I was on the sound of the cry itself. My father always tells me to try and find something to take my mind off my own thoughts and anxieties. He knows me well. The thought that my children were crying because they were seriously ill worked wonders to shove other thoughts, and all other concerns, quickly out of my mind.
There were times when I ended my day worried I had let my children down because I walked out of their room when it was filled with noxious odors or called my husband to rock them for me, but there were never mornings when I did not wake up and tell myself I was doing my best to give my babies the best parts of me. I realized early on, way before I heard the words Asperger’s Syndrome, that I reacted to the world in unusual ways, but I never told myself this would mean I could not become a loving and good mother. I was not put together like other moms, but I was still my daughters’ mom and I was determined they would have the kind of care they needed from me. I soon learned to put the parenting books away when I came across passages that seemed to suggest there was only one mom, only one way to love a child.
As the girls grew older, new horizons shed a bright light on virtually each of my Asperger traits. And while I could find ways to deal with, or at least mask, my sensory integration dysfunction problems, I could not shirk away from those traits that would follow me no matter what. If we were at home I could do quite a lot to contain my most obvious AS traits. I could control the environment, taking away those things that annoyed me or I could choose to ignore those problems I had not learned to control. At the very least, I could rely on my husband to bail me out if something was happening that would not go away or be ignored. But my husband was not always with me. If I was out on my own when I got too distracted by too many images and situations, I would run the risk of losing my edge over the AS. My language would become too pedantic, my facial expressions too exaggerated, my thinking too rigid, my temper too rude and my pragmatics too problematic.
The situations that caused me the most stress and so the greatest risks, involved my children. I think of my family as a closed entity, one that can invite people to visit on our own terms, when and if we feel up to it. I am easily upset when people do not seem to understand I have a protective shield around my children and my husband. I never interfere with other people’s family dynamics, at least not to my knowledge, and I think it only right that I expect others to respect our privacy My expectations are rarely met and this bothers me. Before we had children, my husband and I were in complete control of our environment. If company came to visit when we were uninterested in entertaining, we would pretend not to be home. If we walked into a restaurant and found it to be too crowded, we would leave. If too many people wanted too much of our time, we quit answering our calls. If the outside world became too invasive, we turned it out and off. We never tried to be rude. We were trying to be honest.
When we had children our privacy vanished. Our closed doors turned to open windows. Our quiet walks down the block became parades all the children in the neighborhood followed. Our phone rang until we picked it up. People knocked on our door and peered in our windows, waving us over to come greet them. I smiled a lot then. I did not know what else to do. I gabbed and laughed and poured lemonade and made cookies and planned elaborate parties for my children and their friends. I was learning the tricks of the trade by reading the neighborhood like a «how to» book. The only problem was, this book was incomplete. It did much to tell me what to do, but little to tell me what not to do. I could not figure out how not to have children over when the noise was too much for me; how not to speak to neighbors when I had nothing to say; how not to act cheery when I felt closed in on. My emotions were scrambling and my insights were fogged. I knew what I needed to be content but I did not know how to meet those needs without stepping on the needs of my family. I could go back to locking the doors but my children wanted their friends to come play. I could ignore people but this would embarrass my family. I could refuse friendships but this would leave my family lonely. I did not know how to make graceful exits or give subtle hints. I did not know how to make transitions. I did not know how to separate the girls’ needs from my own needs without tearing us apart.