Making Memories (Whether We Like It or Not)
Recently, you may have read that we went on an epic family vacation. It was long for us, and we had a good time. You may also recall that we have a five-year-old autistic daughter. Traveling—and specifically doing anything in a "normal" way—is extremely challenging when you have an autistic child.
I know many parents of profoundly autistic children can commiserate. I also know the parenting experience is wildly different between typical kids and autistic kids. We know this because we have one of each, and we thought we liked variety.
So what? We have a little challenge in parenting; everyone does, right? Yes, but the two are not the same. So, I’m going to give you a unique glimpse into the lived experience of a family navigating the wild with autism. During our vacation, two very distinct events reminded us that we are definitely not having a typical experience.
Our oldest daughter is seven, and our youngest is five. I will refer to my oldest as Turd 1 (T1) and my youngest as Turd 2 (T2)—not to be confused with Terminators, maybe.
My wife is an excellent planner of activities; for real, she's next-level. She refuses to let a single minute of schedule "white space" go unfilled throughout the day, and that often translates to EVERYONE having a filled day when we are together.
The Setup: A "Family-Friendly" Lie
My wife planned what should’ve been a lovely, easy hike that everyone in the whole family could enjoy and, most importantly, complete.
This was a lie.
We made our way over to the "family-friendly" trail after already completing a two-mile hike through a gorge in the rain. No big deal, right? Everyone is a little wet and tired, but spirits are high. Oh, how wrong we were.
We arrived at the trail and began our approach, following the signs for the designated scenic lookout my wife desired to see. The terrain was extremely rocky, wet, and muddy. I led with T1, putting a 10-to-20-foot gap in our column so T2 could follow me. (If we hike too close together, T2 constantly pulls on me asking me to carry her, and as previously noted, she beefy.)
Round 1: The Muddy Retreat
The hike started out slow but okay. I kept checking behind me, and my wife and T2 were making progress. But as we progressed, the terrain became more erratic, rocky, and—in my humble opinion—dangerous for a 45-pound living weeble wobble.
We were continuously passing (and being passed by) other hikers, often waiting precariously on elevated rocks. Then, I saw it: My wife was having to constantly lift and place T2 because our youngest simply couldn't traverse the terrain. Also, the hikers coming back from the lookout looked gassed and warned us that it got a lot worse.
That’s when I called it. No more. Not safe. We're going back.
It should be a no-brainer, right? Apparently, I have no brain, because this unilateral decision instantly launched my wife and me into a heated, albeit abbreviated, row. Tensions flared. I may have been engulfed in flames for just the tiniest of moments, taking daggers from my wife's eyes (not wholly unjustified).
We executed our exodus back to the car, where further "words" were exchanged.
My wife and I are both extremely hard-headed individuals. I will go the extra mile to die on a hill I believe in, and safety is one of those hills. For her, executing the plan is the hill. We were at an impasse. Finally, I offered a compromise: Let's try the trail from the opposite direction (supposedly easier) and I’ll pack T2 if it gets too rough.
Round 2: Death Stranding Dad
So there we were, back in the parking lot. Round 2, FIGHT!
I strapped on the kid-toting backpack and started the advance with T1. The wife and T2 were moving up the trail at a steady pace. Nice. Maybe we can do this.
Then, the smooth, ambling trail became steep steps of natural stone interspersed with flat areas of trodden mud.
Backpack time. I began to load up our tiniest turd to get us all the way through, doing this against the apparent admonition from my wife that I was "going to break something because she’s too heavy." Honestly, it’s a fair concern. T2 is 40-45 pounds (depending on if she’s had a good poop that day), meaning I was pushing 55 pounds of new weight on a body that legitimately has osteoporosis.
But guess what? I'm a man, and I do stupid things! You can't tell me what to do because my Oppositional Defiance Disorder instantly gives me the compulsion to do the opposite. So, I loaded up my tiny package like Norman Reedus in Death Stranding, and we continued our trek.
Wow, we're moving so much faster! I'm only mildly uncomfortable!
The trail continued to be rocky and steep, but doable with deliberate movements. We finally found a nice outcropping to rest and gaze at the remarkable beauty of nature.
And then, the trail started descending.
The Epiphany and the Rear-Nekkid Choke
We came to a 40-degree downward slope of pure rocks. I took a good, long, hard look at it, and logic finally won out. If I try this and it goes south, it's not just me that gets hurt. We don't always like our kids, but we always love them and don't want them injured.
Being the good Soldier/Boy Scout that I am, I pulled out two walkie-talkies. I handed one to my wife, conducted a proper radio check, and turned back. My wife and T1 would finish the trail; T2 and I would take our march of shame back to the car.
Going downhill with a load is infinitely harder than going uphill. About a mile in, my knees and back were aching. I was sweating. It was raining on and off. I most likely looked—and rightfully felt—like a giant, wet sack of shit.
This is where having a non-verbal child is a blessing. I was cursing about this God-forsaken trail the entire way back, talking entirely to myself. Sporadically, I’d turn my head to check on T2. She would just smile and start playing her own version of Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes—a version where she tries to poke me in the eyes, smack the top of my head, and put me in a rear-naked choke.
If anything, she keeps things interesting.
And there I was... wet, tired, overladen, and mumbling to myself when I had an epiphany: Am I enjoying this misery?
Yes. I was. And I think T2 was as well, given the giggles that accompanied her chokeholds.
T2, all tuckered out from choking me out.
The Takeaway
We finally made our way back to the car, radioed our advance party, and waited. They eventually came off the trail, all smiles, and we loaded up for lunch.
"Well, whoopty-doo, Beard Dad! You had a hard hike; why should I care?"
The fact is, you shouldn't. But I hope this simple, drawn-out story makes you think and maybe even appreciate the people and moments we have with one another. Life is really hard for some, but it doesn't invalidate everyone's individual experiences. I was tired, frustrated, and admittedly a little defeated. But my kids ended up having a good time, my wife had a good time, and who would have thought? I experienced a little joy myself.
Living isn't always clean, nice, and happy. We're people. We do people things, like get mad at each other and curse in front of our non-verbal kids from time to time. But it doesn't take away from the fact that at the end of the day, we still love each other.
As my mother-in-law often says when things are going awry, "We're making memories!"
Indeed we are.
Dad out.