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How Organization Creates Chaos

January 28, 2011 By

This morning I took my Christmas decorations down.  Yes, I know that it is January 28th, and that the 12th day after Christmas passed some time ago.  I have a history of being very last-minute where this kind of thing is concerned, and this laziness is, in fact, the reason we have an artificial Christmas tree.

When you have a real Christmas tree dropping dead pine needles and crap all over your carpet until February, things can get very messy.

The thing is, it’s always a bit of a hassle, not only to take the decorations down, but to put them up in the first place.  You have to dig out boxes that are buried under eleven months’ worth of crap in the storage room, then you have to clear a space for the Christmas tree and figure out how to make your home look festive without being tacky.  Let’s face it, I ain’t Martha Stewart.  I always envy those people who can casually throw a rug over a sofa and make it look like a designer item.  I can spend an hour arranging the rug on the sofa and it will still look like the results of the room throwing up.

Taking the decorations down is worse.  I mean, when do you get the time?  You’re so busy trying to recover – and get your kids to recover – from the remnants of the Christmas season.  You’re trying to catch up on work that’s fallen behind because no-one was at work.  You’re trying to figure out how the kids’ new toys work so you can show them, and you’re trying to figure out where the hell to put all of this new stuff.  With all of this going on, it’s no wonder my Christmas decorations stay up for so long.

This year, I have had an extra excuse, and its name is Autism.  You see, George’s autism hasn’t really affected the comings and goings of the Christmas decorations before, because George has always been pretty cool about things changing.  I always used to think that for a kid with autism, he was pretty adaptable.

That has all changed.

About six months ago, a fear of routine changes reared its ugly head. Now, understand that I’m not just talking about a dislike for or a resistance to change.  I’m talking about actual anxiety fear near-panic that sometimes gets intense enough to make George throw up. We had such an incident recently involving a mirror, and in that case, Gerard and I felt that the best thing would be to restore the mirror to its rightful place to ease George’s anxiety.

So today I took the day off work, with the intention of making a few changes while George wasn’t around.  They were necessary changes that included taking down the Christmas decorations and getting my scary mess of a desk organized (cluttered physical space translates to cluttered mental space and all that).  The kids went off to school, I took a brief moment to relax, and then I started working.  I got the Christmas decorations down and put away, and then I had a major decluttering session.  All of the boxes that were under my desk are now stored more appropriately, meaning there’s room to put my feet.  My filing cabinet has been rearranged, so my files are actually in the cabinet instead of in a broken plastic container on the corner of my desk, which now boasts two stacking trays instead – one for incoming mail, and one for the kids’ homework and school forms and stuff.

When George came home from school, World War III broke out.

First it was the Christmas tree.  Kiddo was insistent on the restoration of the Christmas decorations, and went so far as to start dragging boxes of decorations out of the storage room.  I firmly took said boxes from him and put them back.  He kept mentioning the Christmas tree, but I don’t think it took him long to realize that he wasn’t getting his way with this one.

My desk proved to be the bigger issue.  The broken plastic box that I had discarded?  George wanted it back.  George wanted it back so badly that he was almost panicking.  The poor boy was looking directly into my eyes – something that he only does when he’s feeling emotionally distressed and is desperate to impart a message to me.  Those eyes, those eyes… They had such pain and fear in them.  They were brimming with tears as George begged me to put the box back onto my desk.

I had to say no.  I’m always one to pick my battles with George.  If it doesn’t matter, I don’t make an issue of it.  I let George get his way from time to time.  But sometimes the battle does matter, and this is one of them.  I need for my home office to be organized.  I always have so much to do, so much admin to keep on top of.  The way I was going, I was paying bills late for no reason other than the fact that the papers were getting buried.  I had to arrange things so that I could keep up with everything.  This is definitely a battle I needed to win.

I felt so conflicted, though.  My friend Amy went through the heartbreak of burying her child yesterday, and here I was, with my child alive and well, and I was allowing him to be sad and fearful and distressed.  What kind of mother was I being?

Even with this conflict going on, though, I knew that I was right.  I knew that this was a storm I would just have to weather.  I needed to rearrange things on my desk, and George needed to see that things could change and he would still be safe.

The storm appears to be over – at least for now.  George was upset for a long time, but gradually calmed down.  He started walking around without looking suspiciously at my desk out of the corner of his eye, and he started jumping on the trampoline, making the kinds of sounds he makes when he’s happy and settled.  When he said, “Charlie is a girl” (with reference to Charlie the Unicorn), I knew that he was OK.

Sighs of relief all round.

At least for now.

Filed Under: autism, Christmas, postaday2011 Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , ,
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Being Sick Is Crap

January 26, 2011 By

I have a confession to make: I’m not a nice sick person.  Some people take being sick in their stride.  They get their blankets and their cups of tea, and they curl up on the couch and enjoy the opportunity to watch a bit of guilt-free television.  I turn into a pathetic cry-baby and start whining about the fact that I can’t go for a run.

I have a thing about needing control over my body, and in this respect I’m probably no different from anyone else.   Where I might differ, however, is in the level of anxiety I feel when my body lets me down.  I don’t like the fact that I am always overwhelmed by all of the stuff I have to do on a daily basis, but I need to know that I can.  If I am not able to get up in the morning, go for a run, go to work, and do everything associated with parenting my kids, I get very stressed and anxious, almost afraid.  I don’t like the feeling of being physically weak and unable to do things.

So when I suddenly started feeling ill yesterday I was not pleased.  What started as a sore throat yesterday afternoon progressed into a full-blown cold by bedtime.  The kind of cold that comes complete with aches and pains, and ice-cold chills.  I was lying on the couch watching TV with Gerard last night, wearing about four layers and with three blankets piled on top of me.  By the time I woke up this morning, my voice was a thing of the past and both of the kids had a cold as well.

I had to stay home today.  Not only to be with the kids, but to try and rest a little and shake the cold myself.

The chaos started when James appeared by my side at about 11:00 a.m. telling me that he had made a swimming pool.  When I went to investigate I found that there was indeed a swimming pool – right in the middle of my mattress.

An hour later, James told me that he had made a water factory on his Dad’s desk.  Against my better judgment, I went to take a look: there were several bowls on the desk, precariously balanced and filled to the brim with water.

Later in the day, the two kids worked in collaboration to empty a dump-truck full of water all over the living room floor.

Dear Lord in heaven…

There was the upended stationery drawer, the melted Popsicle on the bedroom floor, the melted Popsicle on the couch, and the milk spilled in the kitchen.

Is it any wonder I don’t like being sick?  Look what happens!

I am exhausted, and mysteriously feeling well enough to go to work tomorrow.

Filed Under: Children, Illness, postaday2011 Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,
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Mirror, Mirror, On The Wall

January 17, 2011 By

Before I go into the story of what happened last night, I should set a bit of context.  When Gerard’s Dad died almost eight years ago, we moved in with Gerard’s Mom, who at the time did not want to be alone. We live downstairs, she lives upstairs, and each of us has own own fully equipped kitchen and whatnot, so we can live completely independently of one another and yet still be in the same house.  For a while, things were kind of tumultuous, but now they have settled down and we are all getting along famously.

My mother-in-law – or future mother-in-law, if you want to get technical about it – is making my wedding dress.  The woman is a phenomenon with a sewing machine, and she is going to create something spectacular – far better than anything I would find in a store.  I am not even intimidated by the fact that my wedding is the day after the British Royal Wedding.  My dress is going to be much prettier than Kate’s.

Last night’s drama started because my mother-in-law and I needed a mirror. A full-length mirror that we could prop up against the wall in her sewing room, that would allow me to see the dress in all its full-length glory during fittings.

Gerard and I just happen to have a spare mirror.  I think it was originally part of some long-gone piece of furniture, and for the last three years or so it’s been propping up the wall in an impractical spot in George’s room.  No-one ever uses the thing, so last night Gerard took the mirror upstairs to the sewing room (after the work-in-progress that is the dress had been securely hidden away, of course).

To say that George got upset would be like saying Donald Trump has a little bit of spare cash.

The kid exploded.  This small change to his immediate environment made him go into utter meltdown.  He was frantically running around in circles, screaming, “Put the mirror back!  Put the mirror back!”  It wasn’t angry, tantrummy screaming.  It was the kind of screaming borne of frustration and anxiety.

You see, George doesn’t cope with change.  When the slightest thing changes – a lightbulb burning out, the laundry hamper in the wrong place, the cordless telephone not in its docking station – he gets really stressed.  A few weeks ago we thought our dishwasher was leaking, so we pulled it out to take a look, and this sent George into such a flurry that it was days before he would set foot in the kitchen again.

The mirror being taken away sent him right over the top, in a way that nothing else has before.  I’m guessing it’s because the mirror was in his room; that it was his own space being violated.  It’s not that he looks in the mirror, it’s just that he’s used to it being there.  And when something he is used to is taken away, it represents a wrinkle, an interruption of stability.

At some point during this wild, frenzied activity, George ran up to his Dad sobbing, and beseechingly wailed, “Put the mirror back, please!”  He turned and looked at me, and in his eyes I saw utter desperation and fear bordering on panic.

Some people might argue that we should have stood our ground, that “giving in” to George would set a bad precedent.  They might say that the only way to get George to cope with change would be to desensitize him to it, to expose him to change and weather the storm, no matter what.

But you know something?  Sometimes, it just ain’t worth it.  Nothing is worth seeing your child in that much pain and anguish. Gerard and I agreed that we would just pay twenty bucks for a new mirror, and he went back upstairs, retrieved the mirror and put it back in its place.  When the mirror had been restored, we picked George up from where he had been cowering on the couch, and took him into his room.  He refused steadfastly to look at the wall, but he must have seen the mirror in his peripheral vision, because that heartbreaking wailing came to an end.

At that point, the stress of what he had just been through must have caught up with him.  All of a sudden, he jumped up off his bed, ran to the bathroom, and threw up.  A lot.

I wanted to cry.  My poor beautiful boy was in such a state of stress that he actually threw up?  That is awful. Do you know how stressed you have to be for it to make you physically ill?  No mother wants to think of her child going through that level of anxiety.

I gently cleaned my son’s face and dried his tears, and then I turned out the lights and hugged him as lay in his bed.  Right before he drifted off to sleep, I asked him how he felt.

“Happy,” he whispered, as he closed his eyes.

That’s all a parent really wants for their child.

(Photo credit: Flickr Creative Commons Attribution License)

Filed Under: anxiety, autism, postaday2011 Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , ,
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Taming the Butterflies

November 23, 2010 By

Sometimes I wonder how I stayed sane before I started running again.  The answer, of course, is that I probably didn’t.  Several years ago things got kind of hectic in my life.  I left my job in a whirl of negativity on the same day that my Dad, on the other side of the world, started chemotherapy. Six weeks later he died, and my guilt about not having made it home in time to see him alive plunged me into depression.  A year later, my second son was born, and I learned the hard way that post-partum depression does, in fact, exist, no matter what nonsense Tom Cruise may have been spouting at the time. A year or so after that, we were hit with George’s autism diagnosis.

So for a period of three years or so, we were very unsettled.  As soon as we came to grips with one thing, something else would crop up and derail us again. And in those days, I didn’t have running. I had no means of escape, no way of letting off steam.  Anger, despair, and sadness reigned supreme in my household.

Several years on, I look back at those days and wonder how on earth I got through it all. How did I endure the stress, the confusion, and the absolute lack of self-esteem without blowing a gasket?  My life now is so different.  I have a job that I enjoy. I love being Mom to my two beautiful boys.  I am getting married next year (the day after the Royal Wedding, no less!) to the man who has been by my side for the last ten years.  I have rediscovered running.  I am, for the most part, happy.

For the last little while, though, a certain level of anxiety and nervousness has been creeping in.  It’s not all bad – it is attributable to the fact that I have been making decisions to make some changes in my life, to make things better, and to confront ghosts from the past. The destination that I am aiming for is positive, but the journey to get there is somewhat unnerving.

What this means is that I have entire herds of butterflies constantly jiving around in my belly. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind them being there.  Butterflies are lovely, and every healthy belly needs a few of them from time to time.  I just wish they weren’t breeding like rabbits, and I wish the little buggers would all dance to the same tune.  And I wish they were waltzing instead of breakdancing.

I get relief from this state of astonished nervousness when I run.  I am very focused as a runner.  When I’m on the road, I do not think about what’s going on in my life.  I think about what’s going on in my run.  How is my pace? Is my heart rate within range?  Does my body feel good enough for me to kick it up a notch or do I need to hold back?  Am I hydrated enough?  Do I need to take a gel?  And so on and so forth.  From time to time my thoughts drift into non-running-related territory, but they always come back to the running.

When all of this is going on, the butterflies don’t get much airtime.  They probably realize that no-one’s watching their manic performance, so they lie down and take a nap.  For whatever reason, when I am running, the butterflies are still.  I feel a sense of calm that is almost surreal. I always know that as soon as I stop running, the butterflies will wake up again, but in the moment, the lack of nervous agitation is a beautiful thing.

At the end of the day, though, I find that I have to embrace the nervousness, because it is symbolic of positive change. To cross the finish line, you have to run the race, even if the road you travel on takes you past places you weren’t sure you wanted to go.

Filed Under: life, running Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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Things that go snip-snip in the night

May 31, 2010 By

I felt very weird last night, sneaking around my in my own house in the dark, hiding not one, but two pairs of scissors behind my back. I was dressed like a burglar: black shirt, black pants – both tight-fitting to avoid the tell-tale sound of rustling clothing.  In the interests of being as quiet as possible, I was in my stockinged feet.  I could not risk turning the lights on: I had to rely solely on the moonlight coming in through the open window.  I would have worn a balaclava, but since all I was doing was cutting my son’s hair, that probably would have been overkill.

Like most children with autism, George has sensory issues.  He cannot tolerate wearing shirts with collars. He will not eat something if he doesn’t know how it will feel in his mouth.  He stims by running around manically and jumping, jumping, jumping, to send as much deep pressure as possible through his body.  When he’s upset he tries to calm himself by banging his head (not something we allow, for obvious reasons).  He wore pull-ups for about a year after he was toilet-trained because he liked the way they felt.

And he wears a hat.  I suspect that the hat serves a dual purpose.  It creates a slight feeling of pressure around his head that gives him a sense of security, and it discourages people from touching his head.  Now, George doesn’t mind being touched.  He enjoys exchanging hugs with people he trusts, and he seeks the kind of games where you chase him, wrestle him to the floor, and tickle him.  He is always asking me or his Dad to scratch his back.  But he hates having his head touched.  His reaction to being touched on the head ranges from quiet but unmistakable discomfort (for light fleeting pats on the head) to out-and-out screaming, kicking panic (for hair-washing and haircuts).

I have a confession to make: I don’t brush my son’s hair.  I have so many other battles to contend with where his hair is concerned, and frankly, I don’t want him to start every day on such a negative note.  I know that the day will come when I will have to revise this policy, but for now my focus has to be on helping him overcome this issue he has. I cannot just go in with hairbrush a-blazin’ and expect him to be OK with it.  Fortunately, his hair has lost much of its toddlerhood curl and tendency to tangle, so he can get away with it not being brushed.  Besides, the ever-present hat tends to flatten the hair into submission.

However, George’s hair is still somewhat unruly.  The unruliness combined with the fact that I cannot give him proper deep, scalp-massaging hair-washes (hairwashing – a regular event that is fraught with trauma for the entire family) means that George’s hair has to be cut fairly frequently.  But since the sight of scissors coming anywhere near his head would send him into a state that he wouldn’t recover from for weeks, I have to cut his hair at night, when he is asleep.

Hence the dramatic sneaking-around-with-scissors behaviour.  When George goes to bed, I have to wait until he is in a deep sleep.  I have to make myself as invisible as possible, so he doesn’t hear, see or feel my presence.  I sneak silently up to his bed and reassure myself that yes, he is asleep, and that no, he probably won’t wake up anytime soon.  I swoop in – silently, of course – and cut whichever bits of hair I have easy access to.  Between cuts, the scissors are hidden.  I cannot take a chance on George waking up and seeing me there with scissors.  It sometimes takes up to a week to complete a haircut, because what I can do is completely dependant on how George is lying.  So the poor kid invariably spends a few days with his hair looking a bit patchy.

If the haircutting for the night has gone well, I don’t stop there.  I put down the haircutting scissors and pick up the second pair of scissors that I have brought along for the excursion.  I pick up one of George’s hands and experimentally run my finger along his nails.  If he stirs, I leave well enough alone – it is a sign that his sleep is not deep enough for me to proceed.  If he doesn’t react, I pick the longest nails and cut them – another task that George will not tolerate during his waking hours (I suspect that this stems from a babyhood incident in which I accidentally nicked one of his fingers).  Like the haircutting, it can take several days to cut George’s full set of fingernails.  Fortunately, I never have to bother with the toenails – George has the same brittle toenails that I do; they break off during regular day-to-day activity.

Someday all of George’s personal grooming tasks will be done during daylight hours, without any subterfuge on my part.  Getting there will take time, though.  It will require gentle desensitization, social stories, a regimen of reinforcements and rewards.  And lots of patience.

And love.  Never forget the love.

Filed Under: autism, parenting Tagged With: , , , ,
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