The Person
I never wanted to be The Person.
You know, The Person—the one in a marriage who handles all the kid stuff, like changing the diapers and checking the homework folder and buying shoes.
(The Person is also known as the Default Parent, The Micromanager, or the Helicopter Mom.)
I did pretty well for the first year I was a mother. Our oldest son Joey was born and, for the most part, my husband Joe and I handled the responsibility of taking care of a new baby fairly equally.
I didn’t care how he swaddled him, or what he which outfit he chose, or whether he used the blue pacifier with the duck on it or the green one with the frog when he fussed.
Then my second son Jack was born. He was a little, uh, unusual right from the beginning. He never looked at us, he never slept, and he cried all the time. Both Joe and I saw it. We were both worried.
We exchanged uneasy glances on the couch late at night while we took turns rocking and soothing and walking our angry, mysterious baby.
Then he was diagnosed with autism. And things changed.
We didn’t sit together on the couch as much. We didn’t exchange the glances, and we didn’t take turns soothing. I think this was because, overnight, I became The Person.
After the diagnosis, I was the only person who could feed Jack his mashed bananas that he spit right back out or could rock him to sleep so he would wake up twenty minutes later screaming or could get him to look at me if he wanted juice.
I threw myself headfirst into specialists. I read articles. I researched therapy. I was frantic, and yet I thought I was the only one who understood him.
There I sat, on my island of invented expertise, like a carping queen in her ivory castle.
And of course, I took Jack right along with me. We looked around, and we looked at each other. We looked across wide, deep spectrum moat that separated us and we saw all the other people out there, having fun and laughing and sitting in the sun.
This was not good; for me, for Jack, or for my marriage.
See, when you are the only one who can do everything and you do it perfectly and you sneer and roll your eyes when someone else tries to step in and help, then you will wind up doing every single thing yourself. And this will make you mad. A little sad too, but mostly mad.
Because, if you are anything like me, you will blame your husband since clearly, he is very lazy. He is maybe even a little bit stupid because he doesn’t understand that the special diaper cream must go on every time this little hiney gets changed and if the bananas have any lumps then it won’t work. And the green bowl is really best because the bottom is flatter.
So you blame and blame and maybe you feel resentful. Resent is like a tiny seed that plants itself in your heart and your mind. Except instead of blossoming into a beautiful, silky flower, it grows into an ugly weed when all you really need is colorful petals.
This was me.
I bought the special diaper cream because I obviously cared about our son the most.
I mashed the bananas in the green bowl.
I sneered. I rolled my eyes.
And then we almost got divorced.
I am not even kidding about this a little bit.
Back then, I thought it all mattered so much. I thought that if I didn’t do everything exactly right then Jack wouldn’t outgrow his autism and our life would be miserable. That’s what the voices in my head told me, anyway.
Well, we were pretty miserable, but it wasn’t because of his autism. It was because I was trying to control my life’s unfamiliar landscape through ridiculous details like diaper cream and baby food.
It was because Joe’s opinion ceased to matter.
It was because I was alone and angry and sad on my island, and I didn’t even know how I got there.
Jack is thirteen now. I am forty-two. I have been living with his quirks and his anxiety and his autism for nearly a third of my life. I understand the island a little more every day.
People like me, we use smugness and sneering and bananas to protect a small inner light. This light, it flickers like a tiny candle on a windy day.
The wind is trying to control our vulnerability and stamp it out and make it disappear because vulnerability is so scary and it makes us feel weak and cold and alone. It makes us feel defenseless.
So we build a wobbly fortress around our candle out of sticks and stones and green plastic bowls. We have to hide it from the wind, and the world, and maybe even ourselves.
With my marriage crumbling before me, one stick at a time, I dismantled my fortress and I tried to weed out the resentment.
Thirteen years later, here in front of me is this man and next to me is this boy and they love each other a lot and their love is different from mine and I have learned that is very, very okay.
The thing is, Joe is much better at so many things than I am when it comes to this unusual boy of ours.
He always lets him rub his hair between his fingers, which I never do because I hate when people touch my hair.
He always shows him the receipt when they go grocery shopping so Jack can see that apples were on sale but the grapes were more expensive than usual.
And when Jack is tired, or he has a headache, it is his father he seeks. He stretches his long body on top of Joe’s, and closes his eyes.
He is the gain to my loss—the ultimate balance sheet of marriage and parenting.
I can’t lie. Every now and again the old voice in my head starts to whisper, and I fight the urge to become The Person again. I read the latest research on autism and begin to panic, or I worry Joe won’t remember to give Jack his medicine when I’m out with my book club and maybe I should write down a little reminder,
He always remembers.
Do me a favor. Take a moment today, and look in the mirror. Look yourself right in right in the eye. Are you The Person? Are you standing in the way of a loving, messy, unpredictable relationship because you have marooned yourself on an ivory island?
Don’t stand in the way, that’s what I want to tell you. Don’t block the light from him, or her, or the world. Come out from beneath your pile of sticks, and take a deep breath.
The wind will stop blowing, I promise. You will stand straight and tall and honest in the still, tranquil air and nothing bad will happen to any of you. It is in the quiet space of light where life is lived best.
And remember, it’s never about the bananas.
I’m really scared about what’s going to happen to him.
I know. Me too.
Me too.
May 29, 2017 @ 6:53 am
Wow, Carrie. This sure is universal. Beautifully conveyed.
May 29, 2017 @ 8:45 am
Yes, the marriage suffers when autism comes into the ffamily. We almost lost ours and I am so grateful that my husband loved me enough to let me be the jerk on the island. It took us hours of therapy, reading many books and finally…….having me let go. I went to work and Hubby came home. Hubby did Special Olympics so that our son could do sports without the heckals from the parents & grandparents when he tried regular sports.
I am now the stay at home parent and Hubby is back to work. I am doing my best to not even look at the island. 🙂
May 29, 2017 @ 9:12 am
My husband was the person who was the routine director of our household. He set the bedtime routines and the get up routines. He also taught them about friendly teasing. And humor. Silly humor. About storytelling. I was the person who dealt with the school system, the church, the therapy. We’ve done it together. Now, even though the kids are in their late 20s and early 30s, there are still things to teach.
May 29, 2017 @ 10:00 am
Thank you again, Carrie.
To all your blog followers:
If you are the one on the island, work very hard to keep the other parent at least interested. Carrie found out that there were other things being done that she didn’t notice at first, but were important, too. After 5 years, my wife gave up and was happy to watch others do her jobs, and confined herself to bed. She happily just picked up and left two years later. With help from my parents until they both passed away, I’ve been doing it all, alone, for 25 years.
Most of the time it’s ok, and my girl is extremely happy and healthy, but during medical emergencies, or when major life decisions must be made, it would sure be nice to have the mother’s hand pushing me from the back with a little support.
Don’t drive your spouse away.
May 29, 2017 @ 10:29 am
This was one of the hardest articles I have ever read of yours. I love your stories. My son is high functioning so my challenges are not quite as challenging but the are their own challenge. You pin pointed my personality to the core. My ex-husband never had a prayer. My son is 29. I share now. I try to share even more because now I know my son needs him. I wish I hadn’t been “That person”. Whew. Thanks soooooo much for your share. It truly brought tears. xox
May 29, 2017 @ 6:44 pm
I love this . Your writing is my favorite! We had similar… first baby …. then with our second, it was better, and he’s autistic! Autism actually took some of the m-in-law pressure off…lord that mother in law and ex love of money destroyed my marriage. But, my autistic son kept me seeing the happiest part in life. He always tells me to “smile”!
May 30, 2017 @ 11:07 am
I read your blog every week…you speak for all of us…I am the grandmotherof an 8 year old autistic child who is on the autism spectrum…thank you from the bottom of my heart…!!
June 1, 2017 @ 12:27 pm
My marriage dissolved ten years ago. In small part because of undiagnosed autism, in part because of me being The Person, and many other unrelated parts too. I spent years working on not being The Person. I was finally getting better at it and then my exhusband died unexpectedly with no warning in January. And now I have to be The Person and it’s incredibly difficult.
I hope others can learn from your experiences and maybe mine too.
June 5, 2017 @ 8:45 am
Wow. This made me cry. I am The Person because there is no one else who can be. Your words, as always, describe us so well. Thank you.
June 6, 2017 @ 2:20 pm
You always touch my heart with your writing. My grandson will graduate from High School in two weeks. He also is on the spectrum and his mother (My Daughter) has been alone ever since he was nine. It has not been easy and will continue to be a challenge as he starts a new life change. I so admire her as I do you for the love, compassion, and patience she has shown. Your words always give me comfort.Thank you from the bottom of my Heart.