My son is constantly touching me. I don't have permission to be 'touched out' because he is autistic and nonverbal.
- My son is autistic and nonverbal, and he communicates with me via touch.
- I don't allow myself to be touched out without feeling like a terrible mom.
"Kiss," my nonverbal autistic son said to me two months ago for the first time. "Kiss! Kiss!"
I was elated. He has about a dozen words he regularly uses to verbally request something; they are almost all foods. Now, here was "kiss" — the greatest blessing. I embraced him and planted a huge smooch on his cheek. "Kiss," he said again. "Kiss," and I gladly obliged."I'll never get tired of hearing that," I told him. "You can have as many kisses as you want whenever you want."Thirty minutes and hundreds of kisses later, I responded to his "Kiss!" with, "Mama needs a break. All done." I redirected him to some markers and a drawing pad and felt like a monster. It wasn't the first time.
I feel ashamed when I tell him to stop
"Get off me! Stop it!" I have said at 1, 2, and 3 o'clock in the morning, desperate for sleep as he claws at my arms and legs, trying to wake me up to play.
"Get off me! Stop it!" I have said at 1, 2, and 3 a.m., desperate for sleep as he clawed at my arms and legs, trying to wake me up to play.
Autistic children are prone to sleep issues, and my son has them in spades. If I can fall back asleep, I wake up with a hangover of shame. I hug and kiss him profusely, desperately trying to make up for my middle-of-the-night rejections and terrified I'll lose this connection with him as punishment for my lack of gratitude that he wants to touch at all.Without the benefit of words, touch is one of my son's main forms of communication. He says, "Come with me," by pulling on my arm and leading me where he wants me to go. He says, "I'm scared and stressed," by grabbing my face and repeatedly smashing it into his cheek. If I regulate myself enough, I can take a deep breath, relax my body, and eventually convince him to do the same. If I am exhausted, which is often, I'll sometimes say, "That hurts. Please don't."I don't allow myself to be 'touched out'
Any rejection of his touch feels like a failure. I think of all the autistic children who recoil from any type of touch and those who are physically aggressive toward others out of their frustration at being unable to communicate. I think of their mothers and how happy they would be to trade places with me. I don't give myself permission to be touched out without beating myself up.
I feel ashamed that there are times when I want my body to myself. I wonder if mothers of neurotypical children ever feel the same.Then I remember being 10 and sitting on my mother's lap in the middle of the kitchen, hugging her tight because I was scared. I remember her breaking away and saying, "OK, that's enough," and getting up. It stands out in my memory because it only happened once — the one time she absolutely had to say she needed her body to herself.I used to think of it as her failing me. Now that I'm a mother, I understand how she felt.My son attends hundreds of speech-therapy appointments a year to help him communicate. He is learning to use an iPad to make requests, but it's a slow process. Even if he is eventually able to master this alternative form of communication, I believe he will continue to use touch to communicate. I hope that he does. The long, full-body hugs are the best and I don't want them to stop.I want to be open to him communicating any way he can, any time he can. I want to have endless patience instead of setting boundaries. I also know that exhaustion gets the best of me more days than it doesn't, and that's not likely to change any time soon. The best I can do is look for ways to forgive myself today and hope to do better tomorrow.