I’ve found that every weekend lately, I’m learning something new about how our family functions with autism. And as the twins are of the age where their friends are all having birthday parties, many weekends are dictated by who is celebrating what, where the event is, if we think our kids could handle it, and if it’s worth all of the domino effect that it will inevitably put into play by attending said friend’s celebration. Yes, I will admit that there are many “school-related” birthday parties that we politely decline because of this domino effect that can require a week’s worth of clean-up due to sensory overload and an overwhelming anxiety attack for the twins that sends them so far off the irregular edge that regularity can literally take days of a routine to remind them, calm them, and re-regulate them. But when one of your best friends is celebrating a birthday, even though it’s at one of the least friendly places for children with autism and sensory issues, you figure out how to show up.
Towards the end of last week, as Steph and I were gearing up for whatever the weekend would entail, she noticed the birthday invitation reminder on our fridge, and asked me if I thought we should ask our old Nanny to come with us, so we could be 3 vs 3 (three adults vs three kids). Typically, I would have said yes, but for some reason (Insert FOOT IN MOUTH and KICK MY OWN BEHIND), I said, “Babe, these are our people, we will have plenty of friends who can help if we need it. Besides, the kids will follow J & P’s lead, like they always do.” I’m not really sure why I was so confident, as I’m usually far more aware. And, as the very open helicopter parent, my wife just assumed because I said it would be ok, then it would be. This wasn’t just another friend’s party, this was our very best friends party. We would know everyone there, including all the extended family. Our boys knew their extra “uncles” and “aunts”, who were all friends turned into chosen family because of our friendship with the parents, and we knew they knew our family- so we knew if we needed help we could ask. But this, this decision to not bring extra help, would be my Strike One.
On Saturday night, Jack was having a hard time wanting to go to bed, so I reminded him that his friend J’s birthday party was the next morning. He LIT up, saying how he was going to hug her and sing her happy birthday, quickly getting into his pjs and tucked under his covers in the hopes falling asleep would bring him closer to celebrating her. He woke up that morning, cheerful and practicing singing, in great anticipation for the party. (Thank goodness it was a 9:15 am party or practicing patience until an afternoon event may have been pretty trying for a Sunday!) He even shared with Luca and Alex about our special trip that morning, and they all practiced singing together.
When we pulled up to the parking lot for the party, we noticed our friends standing outside, hands and arms full of bags, waiting for the event venue to be unlocked. After a few moments, when they were allowed inside, we headed in as well. Cowabunga’s is a large indoor play area, with plenty of jump houses, a maze, some party rooms, and then games, etc. As it would not open to the public for another hour, the music was on low, and there weren’t more than 20 of us inside yet, providing a very low key for our kids to start their morning off at ease. They ran after the birthday girl to play on the maze structure with glee.
I’m not sure why for a moment I stepped off my game, but I saw the stress on my friend’s face, looked to my wife for the nod of the go-ahead, and jumped in to offer my help. The cupcakes had toppled over in the carrier, the cake topper had been forgotten at home on the counter, and she looked at me and said “I may need you to…” to which I immediately I nodded and said of course! She handed me the cake mess, extra frosting, paw patrol rings for toppers, and I went to work. It felt so familiar in this strange comforting way, that I think I stopped worrying about my kids for a beat. (WINCE) Ya’ll… I’m a helicopter parent - there’s a reason why you don’t stop worrying about your kids for a beat - ESPECIALLY in an autism-nightmare of a location. But, I was selfish, because as ridiculous as it sounded - it felt so good to be needed by my friend. As I watched the other moms arrive with their kids - moms from the school where all their kids go together - moms who I watch their relationships with my friend play out on Facebook of all of these amazing trips that only neurotypical families could do - and I watched them smile and laugh about the same eye lashes they had tried out (which sounds so simple but always something that is very “girlfriend-esq” and something that I had missed with my friend for the last few years), I don’t know... something selfish in me wanted to be the friend who was helping with the stupid cake. So instead of checking on my spouse and three children, not doing the math calculating if more moms were arriving, so were their kids, which meant the noise level and body count were rising where my kids were, two key triggers for the twins that could turn a good situation bad very quickly, I focused on frosting cupcakes to be “that friend” who helped her friend in her moment of need.
I may have spent a total of seven minutes helping my friend re-ice the cupcakes, throw decorations on them, and move them to the party room. SEVEN minutes. Shouldn’t be a big deal. But when those seven selfish minutes were over, I walked back into a very small enclosed space with two large bounce houses that the party had been moved into, with over 30+ kids and their parents, where it was so loud I couldn’t even think, and as my eyes fell on my wife inside a bounce house - the severity of those seven minutes sunk in. It was almost like that scene from Four Christmases (if you haven’t seen it, it’s hilarious, but the scene that played out before me of a grown woman in a bounce house was not bringing on the laughs of Reese Witherspoon chasing down a toddler for the “pee stick” she stole... it was more like in the terrifying way of if my wife is in the bounce house, something is wrong), and as my gaze followed her arm reaching to the top of this very large bounce house, there stood Luca petrified, tears pouring from his eyes over his beat red cheeks, too scared to come down, but frozen and unable to save himself from all the children pushing past him to get to the slide. I quickly felt Alex grasp my legs, and Jack yelling “Mommy” on her coat tails. My wife looked back at the sound of his voice to see my arrival and ya’ll - it was not a great look in my direction - then she refocused on saving Luca. I yelled for him, and when he saw me, he let Steph get him down, and we took our three crying children out of the room to find a quiet spot to calm down in the large portion of the facility. This, this was my Strike Two.
It took a solid 10 minutes of breathing (for everyone, not just the kids), and redirection before we all got back on track. Steph explained that everything had been fine for the first few moments, but as more and more kids had arrived, Alex wanted to keep up with the “big” kids, getting herself into the actual bounce house, which forced Steph to take her gaze away from watching Luca climb the structure, and then to find Jack as she instantly realized he had disappeared to a corner, scared of the noise and extra friends. Steph had quickly asked 6-year-old P (the older sibling of our best friends kids) to go find and comfort Jack while she worked to remove Alex from getting squashed by larger children in the bounce house.
Once P brought Jack back, and Steph had gotten Alex out of the massive blown-up structure, she began to search for Luca again. Unable to find him, she looked to one of our “chosen family” friends and asked him where I was, to which he explained that I had been helping with the cake. She gave him a serious plea to get me quickly, but by the time he had exited the room, I was already on my way in. The thing is… yes, our amazing friends there that day knew us… had been around the kids since they were born… but they didn’t really know the severity of what could have happened in that moment. They didn’t know what kind of danger Luca could have been in at the top of that bounce house if we couldn’t get to him in time. Because unless you are living with autism… unless you are parenting it during some of your children’s most scared moments, most vulnerable experiences, you can’t understand what SEVEN SELFISH MINUTES can mean.
We were beyond grateful that the staff said our kids could play in the larger portion of the space and didn’t have to go back to the small enclosed room. Another mom had headed out with her toddler as well, and so we all played together, enjoying the space in quiet. We watched the kids chase each other up and down the slides, rushing throughout the maze to play hide and seek, eventually discovering the area where they could send soft small balls up an airshaft, into a bucket, that they could eventually release like a rain shower back into the pit. This became the favorite part of the morning.
The kids played throughout the space for nearly 45 minutes, even after it opened to the public, and families we didn’t know continued to enter the indoor play facility. We followed them in their exploration, ever aware the birthday party was continuing on behind closed doors without us, in a space our kids simply couldn’t function.
At one point, Luca entered a jump house of two large slides. He explored the area with the ladders that allowed you to climb up to the top, ever curious but too scared to climb.
Thinking he would love the large slide if I could just help him up there, I climbed into the bounce house behind him, and began to help him up the stairs. I didn’t force him, but he held on to me so tightly as we hoisted ourselves to a new height, should have been an indicator to me that he was more scared than excited. At one point, when we were at the very top, he said “No, Mommy, no” and threw his arms around my neck tightly. I reassured him, “I’ve got you buddy, it will be fun!”, and quickly slid our bodies down the slide to the bottom. When we got to the bottom, I looked eagerly at my son, expecting to see pure delight in his face, but my gaze met anything but. “All done,” he said as he wriggled out of my arms, “socks and shoes, buh bye” he finished with. That was it, my Strike Three.
And just like that, what I had expected to be an awesome Sunday, had me benched from that “mom-of-the-year” game, chasing after my son who’s fight or flight risk had kicked in and he was headed toward the door. Although I was able to distract him by the toys for sale until I could grab my wife’s attention, our morning was rushing toward a close. Once all three kids were together, Steph allowed them to look for a toy, and I reentered the private party room, searching for our shoes and jackets, and stealing a quick hug from our friends, apologizing for having to leave in such a rush. We got all three kids layered and shoes on, leaving Steph inside with Jack to pay for the prizes they got for good behavior, so I could exit the building safely, holding Luca to my hip in a way he couldn’t run away from me in the parking lot, letting our Toddler walk herself out of the party holding my hand. Half his age, our neurotypical daughter could control herself with more discipline than her brother, understanding the dangers she faced in a parking lot in a way that Luca simply can’t. When he is in sensory over load, he does not look, he simply runs. He does not get scared about a parent not following him, or not finding him for whatever reason, because he isn’t even scared about or aware of what dangers could face him where he runs. Both Alex and Jack, they look to us when they fear danger - Luca, however, merely runs from it- into the unknown. So when he is in flight mode, the only focus we can have is how to get him safely secure in to the car, until he calms down.
Jack never got to sing Happy Birthday to his friend as she blew out the candles of her four-year-old cake. The moment when we were all in the car, he realized that he missed the ever-important birthday milestone, the one he had practiced all morning to make sure he could do just like the other kids, and became very upset. We promised we’d find a way to celebrate her at another time, even offering to bake her a cake, but there was no consoling this loss for him. Kicking and screaming, crying uncontrollably, he eventually exhausted himself into silence, falling asleep in his chair.
In truth, I could understand what he was feeling. I might not have thrown a temper tantrum, but I knew what it felt like hoping we could have been there when the lights went down and the candles awaited wishes to be blown to celebrate J’s birthday. My selfish seven minutes where I just wanted to be “that friend” again, “that friend” that could be relied on to fix the current disaster, or “that friend” who was in on whatever the “current thing” was - even if it was silly eye lashes - those selfish seven minutes weren’t any different than my four-year old throwing a fit as we drove away from a birthday party he so desperately wanted to attend, but couldn’t really handle.
I cried on the way home, sharing with my wife how sad I was about how the morning played out, admitting that I was selfish because I missed my friend and was jealous of all the other moms who were living the friendship I thought I’d eventually get to live with the person who I thought would be my “mom-person” during the chapter of raising our kids. I admitted how ridiculous I felt in being proud to have been the person she needed to fix the icing - I mean, it was ICING! How ridiculous is that?
I cried like my four-year-old cried about his disappointment of the day. I cried as I shared that lately I felt like outside of her (my wife), my best friend was my Mother-In-Law, because she was officially Granny Nanny, and my greatest confidant because I never got out any more. I never had girl’s nights, because they always conflicted with bedtimes for the kids and the kids needed their routine in order to get any sleep, a routine that required I be present from the hours of 6-7pm. Granny watched my children every day after school so that I could continue to work. She understood that their behaviors weren’t something that needed to be “disciplined” and that my parenting wasn’t causing their outbursts, like many liked to judge when they would watch us in public places. She understands that it can take everything you have, on a night after no sleep, to be patient and be what the twins need. We don’t go to salons and get our nails done together. We don’t stop by the mall for a cappuccino and to buy a new blouse. We do drink wine together- but that’s a different story. Granny has become my person because she understands what it is to care for someone with autism in a way that my friends with neurotypical families simply can’t. I couldn’t be more grateful to have someone like that present in my every day.
Steph held my hand and let me cry as we drove home. No judgement, no longer angry that she was the solo parent during my seven selfish moments, and when I was done crying, she simply said, “I get it. It’s ok. It’s just not our life.” She looked over her shoulder quickly and said, “they need us. And you and I, we just aren’t those type of parents who can ignore that.”
Living with autism can be very lonely- for both those with the diagnosis, but also those effected by the diagnosis. As lonely as it can be, I wouldn’t change a thing about it for our family. Next time, I’ll make sure we bring a third adult. I’ll make sure I fully understand what the party structure is like. I’ll make sure I remember it’s a kids birthday party, not a girl’s night out catching up with my best friend, and let someone else take care of the icing. The wins from that day, the really important moments that I would rather focus on, are that our kids over came fears, had so many happy moments, and that Luca was able to tell me when he had had enough. It’s all about perspective. There will be another birthday party where we can do better for our kids. Where we can ensure they get to experience all of the magic of celebrating important moments with their friends, and where Jack gets to sing when the candles get blown out.
What I learned this weekend was that despite all the challenges we knew we would face, we still showed up. Yes, we couldn’t last very long in the greater scheme of the party, but we were present in attendance for the people we cared about. Yes, I may not be the friend that could set-up all the food, but I am the friend that showed up 10 minutes early and who wanted to be who fixed the cupcakes so my friend didn’t feel alone in the chaotic panic of the moment. Yes, we had to leave early, but we lasted nearly an hour and a half, in one of the most chaotic sensory-overload locations you can think of. The photos we posted that day were of smiling children enjoying a typical childhood experience at a play place. They didn’t capture the images of Luca terrified at the top of a bounce house, or of my wife trying to juggle children while I iced cupcakes, or of Luca trying to escape through the exit, or Jack screaming and crying strapped in his car seat, frustrated he couldn’t just go back in to sing to his friend. It’s not a lie, what we post to social media, it’s the memory we want our children to remember about how we enjoyed their childhood with them. That when their friends had a birthday party, we showed up, had a great time, and made sure they knew we were there.
And yes, I may have completely struck out, but like any amazing game of baseball, I have the most incredible teammate to rely on for support, for council as I tried to understand what I did wrong, for reassurance that it was only “one up at bat” and who reminded me that we learn something every time we are open to learn. The point is, if we teach our children anything about life, I hope it’s how important it is to show up for the people you care about, even when it scares you or makes you uncomfortable; that anytime you strike out - whether hypothetically - or hopefully, actually playing baseball/softball (because we seriously love baseball/softball!!!) - you can learn something from it, something that will make you stronger and wiser the next time you step up to that plate; and that the very best part about the game of life is who you chose to play alongside, for they show you what being a team truly means.
***For the neurotypical parents reading this, please note, the moral here is to not host your parties at venues like Cowabungas, because that is why those venues exist and 98% of the kids that day enjoyed every aspect of it. This is merely our experience in case others are getting of the age to approach how to handle birthday parties, in the hopes it can help their navigation to make it the best experience possible.
