She lies in the middle of the kitchen floor wearing a plush lined pink hoodie, flannel ducky pajamas and her perennial “cow boots” (no socks). It is 82 degrees outside. The nanny wants to move her to the couch. “Leave her if she’s comfortable”, I suggest gently. “There might be something about the floor that feels good.” We leave her on the cool tile to nap.
Tavi is always a little odd, but it is days like today when I come back to the uncomfortable consideration that this is autism. We began private occupational therapy last Friday at the suggestion of the county’s limited resources. We will go every week until they deem differently, our insurance refuses payment and / or we run out of money. The latter might come first.
Every Wednesday, an MECD (Multnomah Education Service District) designated special ed teacher visits our home and offers suggestions like: use a visual schedule, give her a two step process such as First we eat breakfast, Then we go in the car and have her take turns with 10 second allowances. All these strategies have been successful in taming the tantrum monster that hurls her to the floor screaming in pitch registers that threaten our leaded glass windows. To say Tavi has difficulty with transitions is an understatement.
On most days I can take her behavior in stride. It has become our lives. But some days it is too much for everyone. Bea shifts her personality to the middle child syndrome, when technically she is not. My husband, who is not home often enough to have adjusted to our new routines, throws his hands in mock exasperation. Ivy stares at me, waiting to read my reaction and decide to cower away from angry mama or be soothed by compassionate mama. Yesterday I was angry mama.
With the turn in good weather, a mere fickle pause for Portland in May, I feel inspired to cook a grand meal on the grill. I slice the polenta, break the asparagus and season the chicken for skewers with peanut sauce. Everything is prepped and drenched in extra virgin olive oil. I install the new tank of propane in the cabinet and re-secure the childproof latch. But when I turn the knob and push in the safety-rubber ignition button, nothing happens. Angry mama begins to curse. On closer inspection I notice the line has been cut. It’s choppy strands unfurling from the synthetic encasement like hot wires that could jump-start that cool car on Starskey and Hutch.
But this chrome heap of assembled parts does not start. It does not even sputter. Now angry mama is really pissed. Last weekend I was sure the reason the grill did not roar to life was because Tavi had left the gas on, hence the childproof lock now protecting the new propane tank. But now I realize she has sabotaged our meal by cutting the electrical line that carries spark to gas. I was also chagrined to realize this meant I had returned a full container of gas to Lowes, retail $20. I grit my teeth and spit profanity through my barred lips.
She cut.
What?
She cut.
Her twin tattles on her, confirming my suspicion. She, Tavi, was the culprit. Not some super species of wire splicing spider. I mutter more obscenity under my breath and begin dismantling the barely one-year-old grill to inspect the damage. I did not know where to begin. Even after perusing the manual, I could not figure out how to repair or replace the line. Tavi is our practicing engineer, always eager to deconstruct. It is this challenging trait as a child that I know will ensure her some success as an adult, but dealing with it in the midst of dinner preparations and an already altered daily routine at 5:30 pm is difficult to say the least.
On other days when I am feeling generous with my role as Tavi’s mama, I can take these quirks and habits in stride, choosing to see her antics as amusing anecdotes; be the other mama, the compassionate one who reassures her children with open arms. That mama would never storm out of the house, leaving charge to the father who just arrived and slam the front door. The compassionate mama smiles wryly when other parents encounter her child’s strange behavior and look quizzically, searching her face for answers.
And if I am in an especially indulgent mood, I may even offer explanations doused in humor as if I am also a third party coming on the scene. Dispensing commentary from the side of my mouth, I do not scoop her screaming into my arms and leave the scene embarrassed. Compassionate mama is above the personalization of her child’s lurid display of displaced emotions. I may casually ask the time and quip, “Hey kid are you all done now? Do you feel better about having to wait for a drink at the water fountain?” All while I turn to the other parent and casually remark how these little things set her off.
And even other times I feel like I should preface any pending maneuvers with explanations. I fight this compulsion during Romp and Roll and Messy Art classes at the community center. But sometimes in my hesitation, as much as I long for consoling looks from strangers and musings behind my back about how strong I must be, I know enough to let Tavi challenge her diagnosis, whatever that might be. Instead of the explanations about sensory integration, I offer Tavi the benefit of experience without caution. I see them, when I have explained; their mouths caught in an “O” as they stop mid stoop and uncoil back to standing. With arms crossed they no longer engage my daughter; they turn and assist the other, normal children. But without explanation, the interaction continues and I am the one held in surprise.
And I am delighted that Tavi is not as limited as I think she might be without biting my tongue. She giggles in delight to a reward by Teacher Nancy of bubbles blown across her face as she jumps into a soft foam pool of plastic balls. I cannot limit her if I want to continue to challenge some diagnosis. That is what my husband was afraid of by having her assessed two months ago. But I might be the one holding her back.
When I can be the compassionate, Zen mama, I relish Tavi and think of our relationship as a teaching model. I would be the angry desperate mama if Tavi were my first child. Like most second time parents, it is only after the exasperating trials of my first pancake that I have relaxed. Finding amusement instead of danger lurking in the playground. And adding twins to the second experience has relaxed me even more. There are some situations I physically do not respond to because, by circumstance, I am forced to issue commands to keep one’s little fingers from the snarling jaws of dogs while I run across the the yard to catch the other one mid-fall from the top of the slide.
Last week, another mama bulged her eyes in fear as I nonchalantly watched Ivy swing her little sister in a two-foot arc by the arms. Her face pulled an expression questioning my cavalier consent. “I have another one if anything happens.” I chuckled as I thumbed the child on my back. My oldest might have endured my overly cautious pitfalls as a first-time parent, but Tavi is my spare, my extra pancake. I am more willing to let her be, let her surprise me and challenge what I perceive as her limitations.