I was angry with my child on his birthday. The night before I waxed poetic about his three beautiful years of life, although the past three months have been punctuated with extreme tantrums and violent outbursts often aimed at me. My consolation is that it could be worse. This is the meditation that I internally harmonize on as I’m getting the shit slapped out of me by my baby boy. And he’s ruthless with it, too. But, nevertheless, it could be worse. Olu’s brand of autism smiles and laughs and makes eye contact and runs in circles with his siblings. The stimming behaviors make a rare appearance and most of his frustration seems to be the result of not being able to communicate his needs.
Each morning I wake up with new hope and passion, and meet defeats of some sort throughout the day. I’ve learned to cook and shoo away his little body when he bites me on the back of the thigh. I’ve learned to silence his cries when he’s overwhelmed by his sister and brother’s noisy routine. I split myself in three parts, though never equal at any time, I damn sure try. We are a family and this is our journey and I am incorporating my older babes while still trying to honor their autonomy as babies in their own right. They need Mommy. Yet, they’ve learned to set aside their needs when Olu has an emergent circumstance. Unless they have completely had it, for the most part, they’re little soldiers. I hate it. I want to have time for each of them, I don’t want to tell Djimon to wait to talk about his homework because Olu is having a meltdown. But here we are.
Yesterday, I wanted to celebrate. I opened my eyes and within seconds I was met with a slap to my nose. Flat hand, limp, yet strong. Even still I smiled and sang, “Happy Birthday” to my baby boy. Olu didn’t acknowledge the gesture. The day continued as a tug and pull of myself and my family wanting to honor Olu’s special day and Olu’s unawareness and disinterest in anything pleasurable. Maybe he wanted to feel joy but didn’t know how to achieve it. I can relate. In deep, dark moments of depression I can be staring at the sun with no awareness of light. But, I tried anyways. Because that’s what we do. We celebrate life, all of our lives and I refused to make adjustments because of autism. Maybe I was wrong. I don’t know. It’s all so new.
We went to dinner. I decided that we would get out of the house and ride in the car to a restaurant because car rides are Olu’s favorite things. He’s a “Go-Go Baby” as my grandma calls him. So, as expected he was happy to get out and ride with his family, but the joy and exuberance that I sought just. Wasn’t. There. He had no awareness of the occasion and so he didn’t realize that by having a bad day he was shitting all over Mommy’s plans. My plans to celebrate him, to rejoice in his birth.
That is what he has done at every turn. He has challenged my thoughts and ideas about occasions and celebrations. He has taught me how to be flexible, how to be selfless, how to truly let my needs go and find joy in the definition of another. I’m still fighting. Cussing. Fussing, learning and growing, but we’re getting there. Through many years, nervous breakdowns, and meltdowns; we are getting there.
the makings of mama 