Sensory Processing?

It was 2004, my daughter was 3. Blissfully ignorant, I could not understand why parents found it so hard to parent: all the mother’s meeting in parks or coffee shops discussing everything from ways to get their child to sleep through the night or eat more than just goldfish and string cheese to comparing their development: whose child was sitting, crawling, walking or babbling first. I couldn’t understand what was so complicated about it: that was, however, until my son was born.

I began to think it was just my inability to cope with a second child or that boys are just more difficult than girls. I thought that I did everything so well the first time around I couldn’t figure out why my ‘skills’ weren’t working so effectively this time.

My baby cried – a lot! To be more specific, he cried when he left the house and went outside. He cried until he returned home. In fact, when he was 3 months old I took him on a 12 hour plane journey to show him off to extended family and he did not stop crying until he returned on the 12 hour plane ride 3 weeks later. So much for ‘showing him off’! I still remember frantically pushing him in the stroller around all the parking lots, trying to calm him, while the rest of the family, my oldest child included, visited the zoo, park or restaurant. Back home, I counted endless occasions when we had to leave a full shopping cart in the grocery store unpaid for, when we had to leave another child’s party before the candles were blown out or when he just screamed all the way through the trip to the mall. Each and every time, I said “never again”.

To his credit he was reliable and adventurous with food. He ate 3 meals and 2 snacks a day at precisely the same time every day. He very easily began to love all fruits, vegetables, meats and fish. I was so delighted that he took such an interest in food that I spent every morning in the kitchen cooking and puréeing fresh fruits and vegetables and bagging up small portions to freeze. As he got older I added meats and fish and made casseroles and pies. I’d never spent so many hours in the kitchen in my entire life and he never left a tiny morsel on his plate. It was so satisfying.

He also knew faithfully when he should sleep and nap. He liked to be swaddled tightly as a young baby and then when he was older he graduated to a sleeping bag. His sleep pattern was remarkably regular, going to sleep and waking at precisely the same time every day.

It was only when he was 3 years old that I began to notice other, more disturbing, consistencies in his behavior. He was always turning off lights and one day when he got a new pair of cool shades he wore them all the time, even inside, at first I thought it was just because he liked them. Then he started to become really distressed when he was in an environment with bright lights. I began to wonder why he cried or covered his ears with every loud sound, why he didn’t like me talking to someone even 15 feet away while he was concentrating on another task. Crowded places bothered him so much that it usually led to major meltdowns in public places.

At the age of 4, he didn’t like to be touched. He didn’t seek out hugs or cuddles from his parents. His younger baby sister could simply brush gently past him and he would lie down on the floor crying inconsolably as he tried to rub off his skin where she had touched him. He also took an instant dislike to certain pieces of new clothing claiming them ‘itchy’ or ‘uncomfortable’. The experience of simply ‘trying them on’ would leave him crying hysterically.

At the age of 5, a once keen observer, he became an excessive risk taker: jumping, crashing and climbing, without regard to his or anyone else’s safety. His food choices began to narrow until he would eat just a few things. What were once his favorites now became his most detested. Worst of all for me, and him, was that it began to take hours to settle and calm him enough for sleep. He was pale and eyes dark but he still claimed not to be tired.

It had become almost impossible to understand and to cope with. Was it just a phase? Did he simply need more discipline: was he testing the boundaries? Was it my fault, was I letting him control me? Surely, it couldn’t be so easy to raise one child and so hard to raise another?