When you’re a parent and an artist, do those roles intersect? Do they need to operate parallel to each other, or can they be entwined? This article from The Cut explores the messy reality.
http://nymag.com/thecut/2016/04/portrait-motherhood-creativity-c-v-r.html
We went to Tofino over spring break this year. It was rainy and stormy, as we knew it would be, but we expected that. We were after the feeling we would experience when our eyes alighted upon the wild waves and feasted on the forest. We wanted to experience all the different-ness Tofino had to offer, so it didn’t bother us. My six year old revelled in the house we rented. He loved everything about it, and ran through the house screaming, “I love it here! I’m never going to leave!”
My 3 year-old, on the other hand, was not as enthused. He was quieter than usual the day we trekked to the Island and he finally voiced what he was thinking as we inspected our new home for the next four days: “Why are we here?” he asked. “We’re on vacation!” I enthused, with way too much joy in my voice. He could tell I was trying too hard.
He spent the four days being sad about not having his bottle. He kept saying, “I want go home. Why we come here?”
It’s a fair question. Why did we travel for 7 hours each way and spend almost $1,000 to spend four days on a wet beach? It seemed so idyllic when I pictured it in my mind. But as we squeezed ourselves into ridiculously thick wetsuits that cost a bundle to rent, freezing in the rain and desperately trying to pull the thick material over embarrassing body parts, Travis whimpered and moped. It was clear that he was not enjoying himself. We only ended up playing for an hour before heading back to the rented cabana. And then we sat around watching cartoons and making meals, just like we would at home, except without all the stuff that makes our home ours. And we searched every store in the town for a bottle for my pre-schooler who should be way over bottles by now but isn’t and we did not succeed at finding one.
I remembered what it was like vacationing with my first son when he was a baby. Basically, it wasn’t fun. It was just getting up way too early and feeling overwhelmed in a new location. I guess I’ve been expecting that to change as the boys get older, so I just keep trying. And I continue to try. I write this from my laptop at my father’s house on a reserve in Saskatchewan. I flew here this morning on a two-hour direct flight from Vancouver. I was impressed by how quickly we went from being in Vancouver to being so far away. But Julian’s experience was not as rosy: “That was the longest, most boringest trip I’ve ever taken,” he said as the plane taxied to a stop on the runway. “Really?” I thought. “That journey would have taken your ancestors six months, you ungrateful little brat!” That’s a joke – I didn’t really think that. But it did strike me as interesting. Another case of Child Does Not Appreciate Travelling Like I Do, I guess you could call it, if you were making notes on my life and giving them strange titles.
We’re already planning a trip to Mexico this winter.
Parenting is funny. I had no idea what I was getting into when I chose to start a family. I knew I wanted kids, really badly, but I didn’t really know why or what to expect. It’s been a crazy ride for me, and for my ex-husband, one that has included an autism diagnosis, a mental health crisis, a separation (not yet divorced) and a whole whack of beautiful, unexpected and scary things. I’m still in the throes of it all, as my children are quite young (ages three and six), but I feel like I’m starting to make sense of it. And that is because I’m starting to make sense of myself.
I remember sitting in a pediatrician’s office with my son when he was 3. He was my first child and I had very little experience with children, so I had no idea how different he was from other children. I was completely devoted to his every whim, and his intense moods and demands were wearing me out. I had gone to my regular doctor, asking for a referral for Julian because he just didn’t seem quite normal. At his recent 4th birthday party, he had retreated from everyone and stayed inside his little play tent. I had gotten him an elaborate Thomas the Train cake for his party, and as everyone sang him Happy Birthday, he wore a stoic look on his face. He looked serious and stressed and did not crack a smile. He blew out his candle. I felt fear then – there was no emotion. He was completely shut down.
Something was up, but I wasn’t sure what it was. A friend of mine with a son who was autistic told me she felt something was wrong. I remember feeling helpless. My family doctor didn’t think he was autistic, but she referred me to a pediatrician to start the process of getting to the bottom of what exactly was the matter. In the pediatrician’s office, Julian played a game on my phone and refused to look up. He didn’t respond when the doctor spoke to him. I was used to this behaviour and explained that he was shy. After spending five minutes with my son and I, the pediatrician gave my son a preliminary diagnosis of autism and faxed off a referral to Sunny Hill hospital for a full evaluation. He explained that for a final diagnosis of autism, a corroboration of 3 doctors was required – a pediatrician, a speech language pathologist, and a psychologist. Then he sent me on my way.
I was shocked, but Julian had hardly noticed the appointment. He also hardly noticed the woman at the cupcake store speaking sweetly to him as she gave him the cupcake I bought him for enduring the appointment. But I noticed how sweet she was. And I noticed that he didn’t notice.
After a little cry and some shaking, I broke the news to my family, who were mostly unmoved. I think they thought I was overreacting, which is something I’ve been accused of many times in my life. I sort of specialize in it, actually. But nine months later, after all the doctors had done their thing, it was confirmed – Julian was on the Autism spectrum. I remember the long face on the psychologist as she spoke the words to me, “Your son is going to have a very difficult life.” She and the Speech Language Pathologist went on to say all the other things to my husband and I – that no two autistic kids are the same, that he could grow up to be very independent and employable, that his test scores varied wildly and that he was a unique child. Blah, blah, blah. Autism.
Well, it’s only been two years since that meeting – almost to the day, as it happens – and so much has transpired in that time. I had a bit of a nervous breakdown. So did my marriage. Julian started getting treatment with a Behavioural Interventionist and an Occupational Therapist. (Why do small children on the autism spectrum need occupational therapy? I don’t know, but it is amazing. Turns out that the occupation they’re getting therapy for is mostly being a happy kid.) To my husband’s credit, he agreed with me that we should hold Julian back a year so that we could get all his therapy in place and give it a chance to work before we thrust him into the crazy new environment that is school; especially since my son’s hallmark personality traits at that time were 1)not wanting to do anything, ever and 2)not wanting to leave my side. Anxiety was a thing in our house.
But here’s the thing. Things are different now. I’ve changed, and because of that, Julian’s changed too. I have taken a turn for the better and he’s benefitted. My life and his have taken on a different shape. I went through my dark night of the soul and came out shining. I’m feeling better than I have in years, and the changes have completely transformed Julian. It’s hard to fathom how different he is now.
In short, I will say that he mostly functions happily in the world now. In fact, he is almost unrecognizable to the lonely, anxious, isolated little boy that I spent years dragging around to appointments. All that amazing, helpful therapy. All those sweet yet firm women who played with him and connected with him and coaxed him into their worlds. The passage of time, which allowed his brain to mature at it’s own pace. The extra time with us. My own transformation from severely depressed, anxiety-ridden mess to healthy woman, connected to herself and her community. All of these things and so many more unseen miracles. I’m grateful.
So, I’m a mom to a six year-old who talks a lot, has many friends, gets invited to birthday parties, plays with the neighbour kids, stares at his iPad whenever he’s allowed, eats fairly well, sleeps normally, and is physically healthy (and drop-dead gorgeous, of course). He also hits himself in the face fairly regularly, can’t stand certain things touching him (still not band-aids!), has bouts of anxiety, sometimes never wants to leave the house or let go of my hand, and refuses to speak to almost everyone until six months of acquaintanceship. He’s never said he loves me.
And all of this is fine! It’s all totally fine. It’s fine because I’ve come to see that every child is different. Yes, like the doctors told me as they were delivering the blow that was his autism diagnosis, every child really is different. Any of you who are parents and who are reading this know what it feels like to be embarrassed by how unkind or impolite our children can be. We all know what it’s like to be concerned about how our children measure up to the norm, to other kids. We know what it’s like to worry that they won’t have any friends, that they won’t be liked. And so I’ve come to see that Julian is just like other kids after all.
And I am just like like other moms. I’ve had my lows. I’ve had my highs. And I’m still here, wiping bums, making grilled cheese sandwiches and loving my children more than I ever knew was possible. I’ve come to see that mental health itself is a spectrum and we’re all on it somewhere. No one is perfect. No one is pain-free. No one is so well-adjusted that they don’t occasionally trip and fall. My healing journey of self-discovery led me to be okay with me the way and I am in turn that led to accepting Julian the way he is.
He started Kindergarten this year and the other kids and parents seem to think he’s pretty much the same them. The few that I’ve told are surprised when they hear about his diagnosis. So I’ve stopped defining him in that language. It’s only a tiny part of who he is, really. He’s just a little bit autistic.
