AGXStarseed
Well-Known Member
(Not written by me. May not be suitable for some readers).
My 11-year-old autistic daughter was pleased and proud to get her period. I cried – because I was proud, and for all that comes next that she will miss out on
‘I never expected to have to lifelong care for my own child. That is accepted now and I can do it until I die.’ Photograph: Joe Castro/AAPIMAGE
Today my 11-year-old daughter got off the special school bus, as usual, ponytail falling loose and messy, as usual, but, most unusually, she had some news for me. “I got my period!” My heart sat up and sang something nostalgic, probably by Enya.
She took care of the entire business all by herself. Her teacher was so impressed that she could barely believe it was the first one. All year I have been sending a cute purse packed with the necessities (colourfully wrapped pads and fresh undies) in her school bag, and very recently I reminded her about the changes that would happen sometime “soonish”. Today she was pleased with herself and proud – markedly different to my own first period, which was traumatic, painful and tinged with a preference for death.
The payoff from an effective school-based life-education program, together with pre-emptive home coaching, was evident. Gold star to us. This child was ready for her next little beginning. Then the tears fell; they were mine.
On the cusp of womanhood and all it may encompass – fertility, sexuality, pregnancy, motherhood and menopause – there is a natural course anticipated beyond the physical changes: love, relationships, children. Any number of circumstances may rob someone of those human callings. Would my daughter’s disability deny her motherhood, and if not, should I?
My daughter has classic autism. Among the traits that characterise her diagnosis are a moderate communication delay, anxiety in public spaces, minimal empathy for others (a nice way of saying none), oppositional defiance, reduced awareness of danger and sensory issues I could fill this page with.
She has, many times, surprised and defeated me. She is an excellent reader, a prolific artist, a wonderful dancer, a responsible student and, of course, just today, she stepped into her womanly adventure unperturbed. I watch her stuff her baby doll under her top and play with her toy cradles and prams. She loves babies and wants one. I try to hold onto that hope for her, but I lose faith when I imagine a real baby, real work and very real responsibility. Will she be all that a baby needs? Will a person who cannot recognise danger to herself avert the dangers obvious to a baby?
There are also things that my daughter does not know – may never understand. She has autism, but that concept is not something she can differentiate. She imitates and emulates people from life and characters from film, but she does not consider herself unlike them. I love this about her, but how, then, do I explain to her that autism is strongly genetic and her child may also be autistic?
My life was rewritten when I learned my daughter had an autism spectrum disorder, but I would be the parent to embrace all I could learn, instinctively, selectively, choosing the way forward. It’s not martyrdom. It’s what made me.
I accept my daughter’s disability; it’s harder to accept what she must lose because of it. My secret to dealing with this grief is working out the difference between what my daughter perceives as a loss, and what I am grieving for. Parenthood holds expectations that your child with a disability can never fulfill. Their life throws up a periodic loss and even the little things hurt: the absence of party invitations, the impossibility of holidays, the fear of grandchildren.
My child wants a baby, but, as much as I want that baby for her too, she is incapable of being a mother to a child at any stage throughout her life, or theirs. I admit it: I don’t want a grandchild with autism. I don’t want to be the parent to my grandchild. I never expected to have to lifelong care for my own child. That is accepted now and I can do it until I die.
What I do find difficult, excruciating in fact, is making these choices for a dearly loved girl who I wish, so deeply, could be celebrating her first flush of womanhood and all that it means. Instead, I’ll think of her bright eyes, proud of today’s discovery. There’s no map on this journey, no need to look too far down the track, so we pause at times to refresh and assess. We got this far. It’s a special moment and there will be more. We are braced for a special life.
SOURCE: My autistic daughter coped with getting her first period much better than I did | Gina Boothroyd | Comment is free | The Guardian
My 11-year-old autistic daughter was pleased and proud to get her period. I cried – because I was proud, and for all that comes next that she will miss out on
‘I never expected to have to lifelong care for my own child. That is accepted now and I can do it until I die.’ Photograph: Joe Castro/AAPIMAGE
Today my 11-year-old daughter got off the special school bus, as usual, ponytail falling loose and messy, as usual, but, most unusually, she had some news for me. “I got my period!” My heart sat up and sang something nostalgic, probably by Enya.
She took care of the entire business all by herself. Her teacher was so impressed that she could barely believe it was the first one. All year I have been sending a cute purse packed with the necessities (colourfully wrapped pads and fresh undies) in her school bag, and very recently I reminded her about the changes that would happen sometime “soonish”. Today she was pleased with herself and proud – markedly different to my own first period, which was traumatic, painful and tinged with a preference for death.
The payoff from an effective school-based life-education program, together with pre-emptive home coaching, was evident. Gold star to us. This child was ready for her next little beginning. Then the tears fell; they were mine.
On the cusp of womanhood and all it may encompass – fertility, sexuality, pregnancy, motherhood and menopause – there is a natural course anticipated beyond the physical changes: love, relationships, children. Any number of circumstances may rob someone of those human callings. Would my daughter’s disability deny her motherhood, and if not, should I?
My daughter has classic autism. Among the traits that characterise her diagnosis are a moderate communication delay, anxiety in public spaces, minimal empathy for others (a nice way of saying none), oppositional defiance, reduced awareness of danger and sensory issues I could fill this page with.
She has, many times, surprised and defeated me. She is an excellent reader, a prolific artist, a wonderful dancer, a responsible student and, of course, just today, she stepped into her womanly adventure unperturbed. I watch her stuff her baby doll under her top and play with her toy cradles and prams. She loves babies and wants one. I try to hold onto that hope for her, but I lose faith when I imagine a real baby, real work and very real responsibility. Will she be all that a baby needs? Will a person who cannot recognise danger to herself avert the dangers obvious to a baby?
There are also things that my daughter does not know – may never understand. She has autism, but that concept is not something she can differentiate. She imitates and emulates people from life and characters from film, but she does not consider herself unlike them. I love this about her, but how, then, do I explain to her that autism is strongly genetic and her child may also be autistic?
My life was rewritten when I learned my daughter had an autism spectrum disorder, but I would be the parent to embrace all I could learn, instinctively, selectively, choosing the way forward. It’s not martyrdom. It’s what made me.
I accept my daughter’s disability; it’s harder to accept what she must lose because of it. My secret to dealing with this grief is working out the difference between what my daughter perceives as a loss, and what I am grieving for. Parenthood holds expectations that your child with a disability can never fulfill. Their life throws up a periodic loss and even the little things hurt: the absence of party invitations, the impossibility of holidays, the fear of grandchildren.
My child wants a baby, but, as much as I want that baby for her too, she is incapable of being a mother to a child at any stage throughout her life, or theirs. I admit it: I don’t want a grandchild with autism. I don’t want to be the parent to my grandchild. I never expected to have to lifelong care for my own child. That is accepted now and I can do it until I die.
What I do find difficult, excruciating in fact, is making these choices for a dearly loved girl who I wish, so deeply, could be celebrating her first flush of womanhood and all that it means. Instead, I’ll think of her bright eyes, proud of today’s discovery. There’s no map on this journey, no need to look too far down the track, so we pause at times to refresh and assess. We got this far. It’s a special moment and there will be more. We are braced for a special life.
SOURCE: My autistic daughter coped with getting her first period much better than I did | Gina Boothroyd | Comment is free | The Guardian
if my mom sent me to school with a minipad and a fresh pair of underwear I would be the happiest kid on earth 
