Bad Parenting as Great Progress

Overall things over here at Autism's Edges have been going awfully well lately. So well that we are slipping. We've been letting our autism parenting slip . . .

So last night when I was stricken with a stunning migraine, I reverted to a parody of American parenting.

Sweet M and Fathersvox were quarreling about her bath time. I was curled up in a fetal position on the bed, hoping that the migraine dry heaves would not resume and praying that someone would just come in and shoot me in the head with a 44 caliber pistol to put me out of my misery.

It was time for her bath, but he'd insisted that she go to her bath in the middle of a TV program she was watching, rather than waiting for the end of it and then sending her off to the tub.

So she came in whining to me. M_____, M______, F______ turned off my show. Help me. It's not fair.

Grunt from me.

M_____, M_____, come on and talk to him, you have to talk to him.

I'm sick, you guys figure it out.

But— but —but —it's my show . . . louder and more excruciating.

I marshaled my last ounce of coherence and energy, lugged myself into the living room, restored her show, and said in my most deranged parent voice:

"There. Your show is on. Watch it. When it's over take your bath. And I don't want to hear another word from you, young lady."

She nodded solemnly and said, "O-key-doe-key."

And then I realized what I'd said. Something I've never said in all the time I've been parenting her. I told her to stop talking. And I can. Because she talks now.

Hallelujah — I can be just as bad a parent as the next parent and she'll survive.

I never thought I'd be proud of my worst moment.

Therein lies the secret power of autism — what's good is bad, what's bad is bad, and now, farther into the journey, even what's bad can be good.