Who said being a parent had to be boring? And what does neurodivergency have to do with it? Welcome back, everyone, to the next episode of #BehindTheScenes where you are going to learn another part of our lives. This segment will talk about another tale to my parenting.
This past year, I had been diagnosed as neurodivergent. It would have been a full autism diagnosis had I found someone who could truthfully answer questions about me prior to age fourteen, to confirm my information. Honestly, I could not. My husband had known me since the years I went to school with his brothers. That might be more than half my life ago.
I am getting off track, hold on...
Growing up, I was told to do things a certain things. The abuse made it engrained in me. There were also certain things that drove me nuts. Some things, like being forced to listen to adult conversations or school lessons, were so boring that I'd daydream the time away, even at school. I was considered intelligent for my age, so when I was stuck on something, people would call me dumb and prompt me with "You are smarter than this!"
When you have heavy expectations placed on you, you begin to question your own state of mind.
And then, you know the pathway before you, fair and square, no bargaining.
When I became a parent, I was a baby. I am not going to sugarcoat it. I was twenty-two years old. I was living with my parents, desperately trying to find housing for myself, my then-boyfriend (now husband) and our child and unsure of where to find help anymore. That whole year, I was finding dead ends and was so scared. All I wanted was a happy family.
Shortly afterward, we moved to Maine and lived there for a few years. It was the very first time that I was completely on my own. I knew nobody expect for two people and their kids (and then, our eventual landlord). Later, we got jobs, met new people, got our son into some kind of daycare, and began the process of getting him evaluated for autism. There were limited services where we were, though, and it was difficult.
To me, Calvin was normal. Hands stimming, saying a few words, organizing things. He could already count and put colors together. I have to admit too...I knew he was going to be the only one. I coddled him a lot. I also bore the scorn from the family for the lack of development, i.e. I have not done enough for my child and was not a good enough mother.
Now, I thought: if your thinking was the same as your child's, what do you call normal? If I was supposed to show him the ropes, where did I go wrong? Why couldn't I get him to function like we do?
Well, I later learned from my husband that normal was a setting on the washing machine.
All jokes aside, I know what I did was wrong. It was a secret family shame, a masking of autism. We quickly remedied it once we were able to get better services (after we moved back to Connecticut, which was not even a month after we met with someone about evaluating Calvin). It took a few years to get a full diagnosis because of other problems, but that's another story.
This is parenting always on edge, like I was the child on edge. I was not a saint. Nobody is as a parent. We all make slips somewhere. We get back up and try again.
Except I felt like I was always failing my child because I stumbled a lot.
He was always telling me to take it easy.
There are days when I know my child is smarter than I am, and I am in awe of this. I am glad we gave him the love and support and protection we never received as children. Parenting him is the best choice we both made.
There are no buts!
One of the pieces I found was verifying that I was autistic too. After I felt like I was validated, it was breaking down my behavior and identifying what it is. It's telling myself time and again what is a sensory overload, or why my tongue gets so tied when I am around other people. Random burst-outs that are outrageous, blunt and rude. Piecing together random things and making the conversation awkward.
It's also understanding human behavior. In order to do that, I have to do a LOT of self-reflection and ask myself how to blend in. I have to sit down and think about what I am feeling, why, and how I can process those feelings. With patience, I can hang onto a single thread of sanity.
It reminds me of something that recently happened. My husband and I were cleaning our room, and I found a small box. My father had given it to me after my grandfather died. It has stayed on my nightstand ever since. And yes, I was aware that it was dusty.
Well, something was rattling in there. Curious (because I forgot what I put in there), I opened it...and found one of Calvin's marbles. I showed this to Brian. We were laughing. The jokes about finding marbles ensured.
And I'd like to think of my parenting as that: holding onto that last marble.
Namaste, everyone! Have a great day!
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