Aidan is crying again, and teetering on the edge of a meltdown. Again. He’s been stuck to my body all night long, hand leading me all over the house with no distinct destination, and I’ve not been able to eat my dinner or get anything else done. I need to change the bedsheets before putting Aidan down to sleep, but don’t know how to manage to.
“Can you watch him while I make up the bed?”
“Yeah.”
Not two minutes later, I hear a howl of frustration from the room down the corridor… dad is trying to keep him occupied, but Aidan only wants to be with mom. I hear him flop, drop, and start screaming. My husband audibly sighs from the other room. Soon afterwards, there came the pitter patter of bare feet down the hall.
“Aidan, mummy is trying to change the bed. Please get down.”
“Aidan, now please?”
“Aidan, get down!”
Monty shuffles into the bedroom to see what’s going on and now there are two people in my space. I feel a surge of annoyance ripple through me. And just like that, my husband and I turn on each other.
“Why did you let him through here?!”
“You know I can’t stop him! It’s either a meltdown through there or rolling on the bed through here! He wants his mom.”
“Mom is busy and super touched out!”
“I tried.”
A rumble of aggravation fills the room. And for a moment it’s hard to think. We stare at the each other’s furrowed brows, and watch while Aidan begins to systematically undo everything I’ve been trying to setup on the bed, throwing sheets and pillows to the ground in every direction. Sigh. Although angry words hang between us, we both know we’re not upset with each other so much as frustrated with the situation. It’s us against autism, but in those high emotion moments, it’s sometimes easier to point fingers at each other.
Aidan has been very focused on me the last two weeks. He’s my constant companion. He won’t let me out of his sight. And he also doesn’t want to follow me from chore to chore, he wants me to follow him around the house. If he gets on his ride-on bike, he’s got one hand on the handlebars, and the other holding mine, guiding me forwards in tandem with him. We scoot around the dining room table together, round and round, over and over. He wants me to sit with him while he hovers by the window looking out at the car, or keep pace while he runs the length and breadth of the house, or sit on the floor when he drops to play on the ground. No matter where he goes, he wants me with him.
Though it personally annoys me to be restricted when I’m on a mission and running through my To Do list, this is pretty standard toddler behaviour, to be honest! But what doesn’t come as standard, are the howling, screaming, kicking, vomiting meltdowns that take place when I let go of my son’s hand. Or when I get up off the floor to use the bathroom. Or when I try to sit down to grab a bite to eat. Or even when I sit up to charge my phone. Though it’s the most extraordinary privilege to be so wanted and needed by a precious little being, it also feels suffocating at times. I swing between wanting to be my son’s “person” forever and ever, by his side whenever he needs me, and wanting to break free – if only for a few minutes of time completely on my own.
And when Aidan’s caught in this kind of inflexible and very bossy mindset, tensions arise more easily in my marriage too. I need help and I need a break. And though Monty is more than willing to give me one, Aidan won’t allow it. Every time Monty tries to intervene, our big little boy forcibly pushes him a few feet away, or even completely out of the room altogether. He’s occasionally closed a door on him! Monty eventually gets frustrated and gives up, as anyone would! And that’s when I become super overwhelmed and my temper frays. Suddenly… we’re fighting. Even though we needn’t be. Even though it only makes everything far worse, because Aidan soaks up tension like a sponge and mirrors it back with the force of a thousand suns.
Rather than getting into it and having our argument snowball into a toddler tantrum, we silently battle on to get through the bedtime routine as efficiently as possible, but we’re both fuming. After Aidan has reluctantly fallen asleep, I walk through to the kitchen, utterly exhausted. I need to fill up the diffuser, I need to grab my water bottle, and I’m looking for a couple of Nurofen to combat a tension headache. And there… on the countertop… is a gesture from my husband. A steaming cup of hot chocolate. Lovingly made, mixed with extra care, no lumpy bits, no sugar, and poured into my favourite mug. And that first warm sip fills my tummy and heart with loving goodness, reminding me that my husband is full of kind and sweet gestures, even on the harder days. Even when tensions rumble, and cross words are said, he always knows how to put an argument to bed. Sometimes all it takes is a steaming hot chocolate that I can drink alone and in silence, to remind me that everything will be ok. Tomorrow’s a brand new day and a chance to do better.
