Sensory Madness

I posted a letter to my son the other day where I told him some of the things that I love most about him. I cried writing it. It was quite overwhelming as I'd had a tough day with him and I'd lost my cool over and over again. I'd yelled more than once. I'd sworn- more than once, and by the end of the day when he kissed me good night and gave me an extra big hug before bed I felt like I had absolutely failed him. I'm feeling like that a lot lately.

The first word that comes to mind when people ask me what The Bubbly One is like is "happy"- and he is. The second word is "sensory"- and there are times when this innocent sounding word becomes akin to a swear word in our house. Master Bubble flies through life like a little cyclone, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. "Sensory seeking" is a mild term to describe the sheer chaos he envelopes himself in most days. He runs, non-stop. He jumps, he spins, he throws things, he bangs on walls with his hands and feet. He pours, sifts and throws things to see them fall, he smears anything he can get his hands or feet on (yes I have cleaned up more poo than any mother should ever have to), he blasts the iPad at full volume, he rips his books to shreds and he strips off his clothes so he can feel the breeze, or his blankets on his skin. He lives in a sensory world- and he loves it.

The problem is, that despite my best efforts to meet The Bubbly One in his world, there are times when he has to join us in ours. Our world is foreign to him. It is a world of being still, of wearing clothes, of looking but not touching. It is a world where you are assaulted by sounds and lights of which you have no control, of people directing you where to look, what to do and how to do it. We try so hard to minimise the shock of this to him by catering to his sensory needs as much as we can, but lately the balance has begun to shift too far and his sensory world is taking over. He is immune to my attempts to engage him in play, he is amused by my futile attempts to slow him down, to get him to eat, to dress, to do all of those things so necessary to us, yet not so important to him. He is unfazed by my frustration, my impatience, my raised voice. He is happy, ecstatically so, and he smiles and giggles at me as if to try to share with me how wonderful he feels.

I think I understand why, yet I don't know what to do about it. You see, my boy goes to school ready to work. He goes to his therapies ready to work. When he comes home he is done. DONE, and he needs a fix. Is the trade-off for a good day at school, or a great therapy session, or an amazing photo shoot always to be unending chaos as he seeks to re-establish his comfort zone? Have we indulged him too much or are we doing the right thing and letting him order his universe again? Is he working on some giant developmental leap in his mind and this is him getting his head around it?

It wouldn't be the first time he prepared for a big progression this way, by going deep into himself and that sensory world. I find myself brought from moments of excitement and pride to long stretches of frustration and exhaustion. I live for those highs, and deep within me there is the hope that this long stretch of sensory madness is the lead up to something hugely significant for my boy. But for today, I am just tired, and I miss my little boy.