“Brian, in five minutes we are going to start getting ready to go to Corbin’s school to see his project.”
A simple request immediately met with crying and whines.
Transitioning out of the house lately has been rough. The typical transitions, like going to school, are no big deal. But anything that doesn’t happen on a regular basis is immediately setting him into panic mode, regardless of how much prep work we do before the transition.
I set the timer and pull up a picture of the school on my phone to show him.
“Corbin is showing his Albert Einstein project at the Academic Fair. We have to go support him.”
He yells at me a little louder.
I wait until the timer goes off and he slams the laptop closed.
He has tears coming down his cheeks and he’s flapping his hands with anger.
I hand him the clothes.
Brian wears pajamas at home, at all times. Sometimes, if we are just running errands, I don’t push it and I let him wear his pajamas. I could care less if he’s wearing pajamas while we are grocery shopping. But sometimes I want him to get dressed. And I think it’s important for him to know, that sometimes we need to look presentable.
At the sight of the clothes, he hits his cheeks with open-handed slaps. He rips his pajamas off and throws them across the room. He pulls on his clothes, all while crying and yelling.
I pull him into my lap and I rock him. I whisper to him, “You are safe. It’s okay. You are loved. You are safe.”
He leans back and yells louder and hits his cheeks again. I admit it, I wince a little as the hands reach out, worried that I might also get a hit. But I don’t. He’s still in control enough that he’s not at that point.
I stand up and he has a death grip around my neck. One arm is wrapped all the way around my neck so his thumb can still reach his mouth. His legs are wrapped around my waist. I stumble across the room to grab his favorite essential oil blend. I ask him if he wants his oils. “Yeah. Oils,” he responds between sobs.
I lay him back on the couch and give him a foot massage while applying the oils. I practice deep breathing and I hear him trying to as well.
My husband and I exchange that look. We’re both thinking it. We’re not saying it out loud. Should one of us stay home with him? But no, we won’t. We have to give it a go. We have to support our oldest son and his hard work. We are a family and we have to do these things together. We have to help Brian be able to handle these outings.
I stand up and he cries a little and reaches out for me and again wraps his body around me like a monkey.
We walk around the house like that. With his 75 pound body hanging on to me for dear life and with me bent backwards a little to handle the weight, pointing to the items we need for our outing and my husband follows the points to collect them all- his talker, noise-cancelling headphones, a favorite animal, my cough drops, and my phone.
We stumble out to the car and I place him in his booster seat. His cheeks are still tear-streaked but he buckles himself in a bit more quietly.
I’ve been fighting a cold and Brian’s meltdown definitely kicked up the coughing. I cough the entire car ride to the school. By the time we arrive, my breathing and Brian both seem to be regulated.
My husband meets us in the school parking lot. Like any outing that we are unsure of we bring two vehicles. We have to be prepared that someone might have to leave earlier than desired. Brian is at my feet with his hands up to me, “Up, up,” he pleads. Knowing, I can’t carry him anymore without another coughing fit, I tell him no.
My husband offers a ride but unfortunately in moments like this, Brian refuses him and walks on my feet with his head tucked into my stomach, trying to be as close to me as he possibly can. We walk into the school with this awkward gait.
And then we enter the school and he finds his brother and an inner switch clicks on. And he decides he is okay with this transition.
And we hang out at a very crowded, busy, noisy environment for an hour and a half with just an amazing sweet happy boy with autism.
The question I get the most from strangers, from people I’ve known for decades, from curious people, from well-meaning people is, “How do you do it?”.
I often respond, “How do I not do it?”.
But this is how we do it. We meet the challenge with a plan, with patience, with calmness, with compassion, with empathy, and with love.
This is our life. This is our boy. Our amazing, beautiful, perfect child that has been handed challenges that we can’t fully understand because we don’t have the same challenges. A boy that doesn’t have a choice in how his body and his mind and his disorders react to simple transitions and input in his life.
So we meet him where he is and we love him where he is. We offer a hand to help him jump each hurdle as we meet it and that’s how we do it.
How could we not do it?