Autism parenting stories

Dear Future Historian,

I had two home labours.

Not really because I am brave, but because I was with my sister when she had her baby, in a private posh clinic. She was induced, but then they didn't let her push because her doctor was late, and the happy ending of a beautiful, healthy boy distracted us from the fact that that night, her first night as a mum, she didn't stop crying on my solder, after 26 hours in a labour that could last much less. I was 19 then and didn't pay much attention to the underlying PTSD that I also got that night.

When I got pregnant, 8 years later, all this trauma was suddenly released, and I freaked out completely. After a lot of though, I announced to everyone that I will not go to a clinic or a hospital. ‘I prefer to give birth under a tree!’

My sweet mum, who could tell that I was serious about it, managed to find me the best doula ever. A magical lady that was -bless her soul- like a Gaia priestess. She made me trust my body and helped me transform from a girl to a mum. She guided me through breastfeeding, attachment parenting, and everything I needed to know.

After labour I thought I was a superhero. That I could do anything. That I can totally trust the universe and Mother Earth. She provided everything. We had created a real human being out of nothing, and my body could feed her and nutritious her endlessly. Without boundaries, without limits. When I had to spent days without enough sleep, with a new-born, I felt that I was built to take it. I thought I could do anything.

Then, after many months, I got breastfeeding agitation. So, I thought 'she will wean herself soon, maybe that's why the endless-milk-tab started having issues.’

More months passed; other babies in my breastfeeding group were weaning... but my girl increased even more her milking. She was bigger now, and more thirsty, I thought.

Back then, I didn't know she is autistic, I didn't know I was her stimming toy; I didn't know breastfeeding agitation meant it's time to wean. I didn’t know that I am autistic too, and that I have sensory issues. I thought it was my turn to give back to mother Nature my devotion proof. I had to endure the frustration, I had to not give up, I though.

Tree years past and I was getting more and more irritated. My daughter was growing up, happy and healthy and amazing, and I would give the world for her... but, bless her, she started biting me when she was breastfeeding!

Did that passed the message that it was time to wean?

Not to me, no. I was determined to go till the other side of the tunnel. I would not lose the satisfaction of the day she will self-wean, just because I couldn't wait for a couple of more weeks. It would happen, any day now. I just had to be a bit more patient. Mother Nature will give me the strength to continue, the willpower to face it. Any day now it would stop anyway.

And then it didn't. Days passed. Months passed. Till my patience passed its limits. That was it. I had failed but I had to face it. I couldn't neglect me any longer. It would just backfire. It was obvious that I wasn't copping anymore. I was jumping up with every touch, and I avoided any human contact.

Facing my failure, I asked my sister to take my girl for a week in her country house. I then explain to my girl that in some days she will stay with her aunt and cousins for a week, and when she will come back there will be no more mum-milk, because she grow up, and also because she is biting me.

I felt like all my expectations from myself where scattered by my failure to wait for the magical day that she won't need my milk anymore. I was week. I was broken. I was a failure.

My daughter took it unexpectedly well! Maybe it was time after all. Maybe we are a system, mum and kids. Maybe I should respect my agitation, and instead of calling it a failure it was just a message, a vessel of blessings. Maybe I should take my agitation as a sign that it’s time to wean activity, instead of just waiting passivity in an unbearable situation.

Did I learn my lesson?

Emmmm. Well, five years later the whole story was repeated, with my boy, without me having realised anything at all…

I thought that this was my second chance to experience natural weaning. My chance to overcome my shortages.

Little did I know he is also in the spectrum. I ended up being his stimming toy too! He was grabbing my hair, harder and harder, while he was breastfeeding. Wearing my hair up, didn’t help much. He could still find a way to do it, somehow.

Every day I was the ‘holly martyr;’ the ultimate definition of motherhood and self-sacrifice. Or in other words... I was stubborn as a mule. Denying my feelings by naming them unnatural and denying to myself even the right to complain. Until again I reached my limits.

So, I had a conversation with my boy. He wasn’t so cool about it as his sister was. But he didn’t freak out either. It took him about a week to stop asking for it, but still it was so much easier than I was afraid of.

Some more years passed, with me carrying the guilt of my ‘failure,’ till one day, I read on Facebook, in a breastfeeding agitation group, a very similar story with mine.

A veil was reviled. Reading ‘my’ story, with someone else being the protagonist, I was able to detach myself and my inner, judgemental dialogue, and finally realised what was happening to me.

Earth, Motherhood, my sweet babies, they did their best to show me how much I dismiss my own needs, not just with breastfeeding, but in every aspect of my life, in every relationship, since I was little. And instead, I took the opposite message. I thought that I must endure my discomfort, and I even felt bad for having it.

But not anymore. Now I know. I know that taking care of my children does not mean neglecting my own needs. Now I know that having friends does not mean saying ‘yes’ in every request. Now I know about my autism -thanks to them being diagnosed, and me reading about the spectrum, for them- and how to avoid over-stimulation. Now, I am in my priorities too. Now I know, thanks to my children, that I should always listen to my body, and trust it, and respect it. Yes, thanks to my children, I learned both the power of will, and the importance of taking care of myself.

And, actually, I am really wondering sometimes; is it us that teach them what we know… or is it them that teach us what we don’t?