We ate dinner in the dark

 

This is why my blog posts are a month apart. I start typing and the heathens annihilate a cake.

Living with Waylon lately, well it's kind of been like living with a nuclear bomb.

I haven't figured out if it's the change of weather, getting back into routine after Christmas break, or if he's just trying to send us to the nut house, but it's getting old.

His sensory system has been just totally off kilter lately. You know, we all have sensory issues here or there, like I click pens incessantly. I bet you have a favorite kind of socks, and maybe you hate the noise of fingernails on a chalkboard, or the texture of marshmallows (that one's for you, Jennifer).
But Waylon's sensory system, well it's just all jacked up.

Someone told me once that everyone has a magical red solo cup that is filled to the brim with our sensory system. When we take in a new sight, smell, sound, taste, or touch, it drops into our cup, maintaining a perfect balance at the rim, and we continue on in an ignorant sensory bliss.

My Autistic Kid Will Lick Your
Honor Student. It's true.

But for Waylon, somedays his cup is only half full, and he spends his day searching for anything that will give him sensory input... Hitting (touch), licking (taste), screaming (sound), he's trying to fill up his cup.



Other days, his cup is overflowing, and he can't get rid of the overload of senses coming in. So he spends his day with his ears plugged and eyes closed, usually in our laundry room, changing clothes repeatedly, looking for the shirt that feels just right.


The mall is sensory overload at it's finest, and of course the day we celebrated Waylon's birthday he was in sensory overload to the hilt. I used to be the nervous nilly, germophobic new mom. Now, if Waylon is happy plugging his ears on the floor at the mall, so am I.

Other times, his sensory processing difficulties are really scary. He didn't notice when he touched a scalding hot fish fryer a couple summers ago (hence the scar on his right arm) and his tooth abscessed before we realized he had a cavity last fall. Coupled with the fact that he can't talk, I'm always paranoid that the kid is really hurt and just doesn't know it, or doesn't know how to tell us.

So if living with Waylon is like living with a nuclear bomb, dinner time is usually comparable to Hiroshima. Shrill screams, chairs flying through the air, children running for their lives (okay maybe I'm being dramatic).
Waylon's teacher told us that his behavior has improved since they changed the lighting in the classroom. So last night we ate dinner in the dark. It didn't really work. It was like Hiroshima at night time.
But it was about as romantic as it gets around here. I guess I'll take it.

Oh wait, I take that back. Speaking of romantic, Travis and I spent date night this month (our 7th wedding anniversary) at a couple wineries, a bed and breakfast, and we stumbled (quite literally) into an awesome underground bar. Take that, silly studies.
I just love that guy.