Once again we're in a state of emergency. But, bizarrely, states of emergency actually calm my son. Maybe it's because of the surprising synchronization between his internal world and the outside situation.
He's finally not the only one experiencing anxiety and disruption; everyone is anxious and tense and everything is disrupted, so he doesn't have to be the guard at the gate. He can simply let it go and trust us to worry for him.
I've written about this in the past, and I stand behind what I said: Parents of children on the autism spectrum understand states of emergency better than ordinary parents do, because they're simply used to it. They live in constant tension, get constant practice in disrupted plans, constantly face unexpected situations and know more or less how to react to fear and frayed nerves, simply because it happens to them all the time.
Yes, something in my son has calmed over the past week or so. He likes being at home. It's easier for him when he doesn't have to interact with others. I especially remember a time during the first COVID lockdown when I sat down on the bed and cried, and he came up to me and asked, "Mommy, why are you crying?"
"Because it's hard for me that we can't leave the house or meet with anybody, and I miss Grandma and Grandpa," I replied, embarrassed.
He drew close to me and whispered in my ear: "Mommy, you're mixed up. This actually is really fun."
Maybe I really am mixed up – he's calm and I'm having a hard time. I like having an orderly house and a bit of quiet, and not having to pretend that there's a routine or come up with meaning in a situation that's clearly not routine but is unstable, unexpected and in no way dependent on me. It's also clear that I want to have all my loved ones near where I can see them, when at any moment remaining alive is a question mark.
Like parents whose children aren't necessarily autistic, I hate not knowing. I hate not understanding the logic that's guiding events and not being able to adapt to expectations: Get on Zoom! Make healthy food! Play with the kids those stupid activities that everybody sends out on social media groups! Applaud our enormous military capabilities without asking questions!
I also hate being afraid. Everyone around me is comfortably glued to their screens, scarfing down candy and repeatedly dragging themselves to the safe room. But I'm nervous and irksome, cleaning up after the kids and cooking, politely answering all the curious questions from my students and silently cursing all the people posting photos of themselves "enjoying nature near my home," doing calming yoga exercises or taking another loaf of sourdough bread out of the oven.
In my house, there's fighting over the blanket or who stepped on who's foot in the crowded safe room; then there are the shouts for quiet as the youngest never stops humming to himself as a kind of calming technique and the oldest tries to shut him up by kicking or scolding him.
Maybe this is good practice for me – to experience firsthand how my son feels in normal times. It's an exercise in not understanding, in trying hard but not succeeding, in feeling frustrated and nervous and different from what I see around me.
It's an exercise in feeling like a child, for whom someone else makes the decisions without always bothering to explain what's happening and who gets reprimanded for not following the demands. Someone who doesn't always feel what they're supposed to feel and doesn't exactly play by the rules whenever somebody says "Now go play."
I tell myself what I tell my son in moments of crisis – that everything will be okay, that it's a wave that will pass, that everybody makes mistakes sometimes, hurts other people sometimes, makes a mess or a smell sometimes. That we do our best, and together we'll try to improve and round the sharp corners of life.
And that anything that helps is a blessing. Sometimes (many times) it's a hug. Sometimes it's a story or a screen. Sometimes it's medicine or carbs, a shower or sleep. All means are kosher.
Because life really is a complicated business, for everybody. And even if it seems that everybody else is succeeding and only we are stuck in the mud, this is clearly an illusion. Or as Oscar Wilde said, "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." In my own life, I'm trying.