Encouragement for Life with an Autistic Child: When the Light Breaks Through

In late 2019, when our eldest son was 3 years old, my husband and I arrived at the end of our parenting selves. 

Our son’s struggles with life were baffling and exhausting. Constant outbursts. Anxiety around new things and new people. Food aversions. Everything was a fight. His slight speech delay left us all frustrated. He needed our patience, and we had none left. He needed our reassurance, and we were drowning in uncertainty. His needs demanded our care and our energy. But we were also caring for his newborn brother, muddling through life in a sleep-deprived fog. 

Different opinions flew in thick and fast from well-meaning loved ones. We needed to be more firm (“He’ll eat if he’s hungry,” or, “Maybe he needs a time-out”). We needed to be more lenient (“Make him a different dinner,” or, “This is just what 3-year-olds do”).

I vacillated between the two, but I’d heard the term “threenager” too and figured we just needed to weather this storm. Every parent limps through this stage, right?

But no, that day nearing the end of 2019, we’d reached a level of despair I’d never known. This could not be him ‘just being 3′. He was massively struggling, and we weren’t coping. And so, as winter’s dark came early, my husband and I lay in bed at 4 p.m. while my in-laws took the kids on a walk. We were too tired to sleep, too heartsick to talk.

We simply lay there and cried.

NAVIGATING THE DARK

Those days I took him to a weekly playgroup, and he would get upset as soon as we entered the noisy room. He’d run into the corner. During the session he would hit other kids. While other children danced during song time, my son huddled near me. While other moms drank coffee and talked while their kids just…played, I was a helicopter, hovering to make sure he didn’t hurt anyone.

Once I turned away for a second, and he rugby-tackled an angelic 9-month-old girl. The mom comforted the baby, but I knew she was waiting for me to correct him. 

Those situations wore away at me. I was embarrassed, confused, and frustrated. I still remember that pit in my stomach; how I’d swipe away angry tears. When I couldn’t take his behavior anymore, I’d scoop him up and walk out of the playgroup—my tea and cake untouched, my need for friendship and adult conversation yet again unmet.

He was all we knew, our first introduction to parenting. No new parent truly knows what they’re doing, but we felt especially in the dark. His outbursts and struggles often left us paralyzed, unsure how to respond.

What Was Going On?

Was it sin needing correction, immaturity needing instruction, or (what we’d later discover was a thing) a sensory issue? Was this a tantrum or was he emotionally overwhelmed? It was often a mix. Did he need discipline? A hug? A quiet room? All three? 

He continued to hit other kids. We know now it was his way of coping with anxiety, but one particular hitting incident (and our handling of it) cost me a 13-year friendship, which I still hope can one day be restored.

Despite having a strong support group, I found myself slipping further into isolation. On especially vulnerable days I would avoid meeting with other moms, unable to face another morning of mumbled apologies while pulling my son away from other children; unable to face another morning of administering half-hearted correction to a child who was not, it seemed, hearing one word.

He was not changing. Nothing was changing, except those ideals and hopes I once had for motherhood.

AN UNREALISTIC IDEAL

He needed more exposure, I convinced myself, so I planned my days around him. I planned my life around him, taking him to places I assumed he’d enjoy. He would often resist, unwilling to try much of anything. I look back on those moments now and feel compassion for both of us. Then, I tamped down resentment. I didn’t want to be in a large room full of inflatable bounce houses, either. I wanted a book and a cup of tea and silence. We were there for his sake, and he was crying. 

Where was his anxiety coming from? I thought anxiety bloomed in homes fraught with conflict, even violence or abuse. Our home was generally happy and safe. His temperament tore my assumptions to pieces. 

I can see now how unhelpful this mindset was, but back then I was doing the ‘mom thing’, the things I thought good moms do. ‘Good moms’ take their kids to baby groups and music class and indoor play places and ceramic painting and sensory class and story time. I was fulfilling the good mom role. Why wasn’t he holding up his end of the bargain?

He was 3 years old, I want to tell my past self. 

I’d like to tell her other things, too. I’d tell her not to force her child into some idea of what she thinks childhood should look like. Because every child has different struggles and likes and dislikes and temperaments. I’d tell her to think about what she responds to best when she feels anxious—a hug? Someone’s gentle presence?—and to do that for her child.

I’d tell her that God is with her, whether things change or not.