Why Autism Sucks: Chocolate Chips, Cheap Wine and a Big Ball of Poop

When you cap off your night with two glasses of Merlot and a bunch or raw chocolate chip cookie dough, chances are the day has been rough.

Autism. Really. Sucks.

And my rose-tinted glasses are frequently cracked.

Some days, they simply cannot be found. And I don't even bother to look that hard.

Why did autism suck today, you might ask????

Well, there were the typical, every-day reasons. My non-verbal, six-year-old son screamed in frustration about something that still is a mystery to me. He carried out his current stim with just as much intensity as he did the day before. I literally had to sit on him in order to cut his toenails.

And, for some reason, for the first time in, well, a long time, he pooped in his pants.

His swimsuit, to be exact.

At a city pool.

Thank GOODNESS (I won't say "God" because I am not in the mood to bring God into any of this), he was OUT OF THE POOL. And I noticed it as soon as it happened./

But when the "bright side" of things is that you didn't have to tell a life guard to clear the pool on account of your six-year-old's poop ...... well, is there REALLY much of a bright side?

Oh, and let me not forget, I was at that city pool with my autistic son, and my four-year-old daughter, and well, NOBODY.

My son has done great taking himself to the potty at home since we really hit the potty-training business just after his fourth birthday. And I am so glad. But, STILL, STILL, I can't count on him to communicate the need to go when we are out in public.

And the kid is a pee fountain.

I take him to pee more frequently than a chain-smoker lights up.

We had been doing so well with not having accidents, until recently ....

And when the accidents start, they seem to come in big numbers.

But, REALLY, POOP???? And at a pool????

I am Ms. Automatic-pilot when there is such a situation. I am not good at many things, but if there is an autistic child with a poop crisis in public, I am your girl.

So, when I saw the face, and confirmed the existence of a wet, messy poop, I just went into action.

I took both kids to the bathroom immediately and got my son to the potty where he finished his business. I checked out the swimsuit and realized it was NOT worth saving. Good-bye new swim trunks. I cleaned up his messy bottom and took him straight to the shower, where I scrubbed the both of us down with soap as if we were about to perform surgery. I went back to the bathroom stall and cleaned up the toilet. And, because all of the spare clothes for my son were in the car a good distance away, I let him wear my tee-shirt. (I had my swimsuit on, people, so don't get any ideas).

It was all a pain. A great big pain. Shouldn't we be well past this?

I certainly let my son know just how unhappy I was with the circumstances. He wasn't very happy either, my poor boy.

It makes me frustrated.

And it makes me sad.

Sad for me, because, yes, I sometimes allow myself a bit of self-pity. I had no idea this would be what I was in for when I first learned I was pregnant.

Sad for my son, because, after all, he deserves the most sympathy. He is the one who struggles to understand this world, and without the benefit of ANY language.

And sad for my daughter, who sat through this whole ordeal on a bench in the bathroom by herself.

She is plenty old enough to understand that her brother should not be having these problems.

She is sophisticated enough to realize that her mother is S-T-R-E-S-S-E-D. And, that, in turn, brings stress to her life. She actually worries about me. My four-year-old daughter worries about me.

Oh, lord, just pile it on.

I am so very, very sad for my daughter because there are many moments in her life, just like this one today, where she sits or stands alone, waiting .... just waiting.

Waiting for me to tend to her brother's problem, need or outburst.

Waiting for me to prompt whatever form of communication I can get from him, even if it is just eye-contact, a nod of the head and a "yeah."

Waiting for me to finish working with him -- because I feel so much guilt if I don't spend at least some time trying to help him accomplish something, even if it is as simple as focusing on a puzzle.

It simply is not fair. There should be someone else on the scene. Someone focusing on her. Or sharing the responsibility of focusing on her brother so that I can sometimes get to focus on her.

Oh, how I would love to just focus on her.

But, even when I get a moment to do so, I am so tired.

So very, very tired.

I am not what my kids deserve.

Either one of them.

And I just don't know if I ever will be.

I have my doubts.

But, man, can I clean up the poop in a crisis.

Is there a career in that, by the way, because I sure could use a job.

Leah is a single mom of two children, one who has autism and is non-verbal. She writes at fruity pebbles for dinner.

Life in an Autistic World - II

Screeching ten-year-old power walking up dusty dirt driveway.



“I am leaving. I am never coming back. I don’t trust you anymore. You are a cruel Mummy.” Tears track down dusty damp cherubic cheeks. Silver trails in the grime. I am a failure as a Mummy. Boot me off the P & C committee, I am not worthy. Do you really want to know my transgression? I’m not cooking the baked potatoes quickly enough. What sort of a woman would do that to her starving child? He hasn’t eaten since morning tea an hour ago at least! His world is broken, yet again.


Hysteria reigns in our household. Overreaction is the norm. Having a child with hypersensitive sensory perception who is prone to extremely strong excessive emotional outbursts is challenging. To say the least.


Back to screaming child. I am tempted to let him go just to see how far he’d get. We have a five hundred metre driveway so he has a fair distance to ponder his decision. When he was younger he would get right to the bit before he was out of vision. He’d walk in place, too scared to be out of sight of Mummy. At this older stage he seems quite capable of following through. So I go to him.


“Do you think you might be overreacting a little?”


“Yeeeeeeeees,” quavering voice nearly breaks between sobs, “but you say sorry Mummy. I’ll say sorry too.”


I’m stubborn. My will wars with common sense. Pick your battles woman, if you have learnt anything on this rollercoaster it’s to pick your battles. But I DIDN’T do anything wrong. The child in me can rear its ugly head at the most inopportune moments.


“Sorry baby, let’s go back to the house.” Trust restored he allows himself to be led back to sanctuary. Life in an autistic world.

Life In An Autistic World is a series of short articles on how Boy 1's world collides with mine. A slightly humorous look at quirky everday life in the world of a family affected by ASD.
Madmother can also be found randomly ranting at Meaninless Meandering from a Madmother.

Life in an Autistic World - I

Curled up in the foetal position is my five-year-old son. He is softly crying.

“I want to be dead.” He means it. It is devastating when your baby falls into the black hole of depression. The paediatrician had warned us when he was only three-years-old to watch for the signs. Three? Shouldn’t a child be consumed by dreams of The Wiggles or even the dreaded Teletubbies? Not death and darkness.


I wander nearer to the prone figure on the floor. Sniff. Sniff again.


“Ooh, he’s starting to smell. Urrggh better put him in the compost before he stinks the house out. Oh no, the worms are coming, the worms are coming to eat his guts out”.


It is at this point his stricken face starts to change. Mouth quivers and corners begin to flicker upwards. Tears diminish. I look to his four-year-old brother. We are a tag team united in dissipating the black cloud engulfing the shape on the ground.


“Can you take the legs? He’s too big for me to carry him all by myself.”


“Mummy, do I have to touch him if he’s stinky?” Mischievous long lashed eyes peer at body at his feet. He knows this routine and joins in gleefully. Born performer or moulded by life?


“I’m not stinky! You’re stinky!” Crisis over. Giggles erupt as brothers war over who won the smelly championship.


I often ponder what happens when these special kids have mothers without humour. My warped sense of absurdity has been my most effective weapon in this battle against anxiety and despair. I thank God and my parents for encouraging my twisted quick wit. Another battle won. His angelic smile beams back at me, shadows forgotten. For the moment. Life in an Autistic world.

Life In An Autistic World is a series of short articles on how Boy 1's world collides with mine. A slightly humorous look at quirky everday life in the world of a family affected by ASD.
 
Madmother can also be found randomly ranting at Meaninless Meandering from a Madmother.