We are in the grocery store.
It has been a month since we were last there. I work two jobs so I can stay at home with my son and have an in-home caretaker a few hours a day while my husband works out of the home. Some months, this grocery trip is my only trip out of the house besides the odd run to pick up an order from my seamstress. Since I don't get out of the house much, there is a lot on the list to stock up on. The trout fillets my son, who has sensory issues, devours like most toddlers would devour candy. The ever-important sauces: honey mustard, and ketchup. The one brand of disposable diapers he can handle at night. During the day, he stays comfy in cloth diapers.
Driving into town takes about 20 minutes, and each time, I have a choice. Help my son to stretch, and challenge his patience a little bit by not turning on a show, or leave the tablet (or my cell phone) hidden and hope the drive doesn't turn into a screeching fest. For a neurotypical toddler, this decision might not turn his or her parent into an anxious basket case. But it does, for me, every time. Because if the screeching starts, it likely won't end even by getting out of the car and going into the grocery store.
The first part of the drive went pretty well. We saw a couple of cement mixers headed out of town, the opposite direction on the highway. A dump truck with a dumper trailer. A road roller being pulled by a white work truck. But as we neared town, there weren't as many favorites out the windows. My son starts screeching. Or is it squealing? It's the mad kind, if that's what it is. UhhhhhhAAAAAAH! High-pitched. Whiny. Bratty-sounding. But it's the sound he makes when his brain, which is not a totally neurotypical brain, needs more stimulation, and isn't getting it.
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"Let's go home, mommy!" he demands. Usually very polite, "please" gets forgotten when overstimulation and understimulation cross in certain ways. In the car seat, he's understimulated in movement and play and entertainment. He's overstimulated by the bright lights, fast-moving scenery, and random noises we pass. At home, where we have the most peace, his brain finds stimulation in constant physical motion: moving from room to room, playing with toys, and occasionally turning on the tablet for some educational (and some not-educational) shows on YouTube. Brain Candy TV is a favorite, but so is the screen recording of someone playing a Spider-Man and Lightning McQueen video game. Our house is quiet and the light levels consistent. "Mommy. Let's. Go. HOME!"
"We haven't gotten to the grocery store yet," I explain in my saccharine, breathy, anxiety-is-mounting voice. "We can't go home yet until we buy our groceries. Then we can go home."
The screech again. UhhhhhhAAAAAAAAAH! It reminds me a bit of the hoot of the peacocks at the zoos near us, only that it's repeated decibels louder, and higher in pitch. And anger.
It's going to be one of those grocery runs. The bottom of my face, where my jaw hinges into my skull, is already hot and humid as I get out of the car to unbuckle my son. He faces the back of the car in his seat to protect his still-ossifying spine from any potential impact. Like all other kids, he should stay there until he is four. Facing him forward is so tempting given his aversion to car rides, but I've weighed it: occasional sensory car meltdowns, or almost certain devastating injuries in the event of a car accident? Today is one of the "occasional" struggles.
He screeches as the bright sunlight hits his face from the open door.
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"Don't be mad, please, sweetheart," I plead. "Let's go see the tractor sign in the produce section!" He is pacified, for a moment, long enough for me to unbuckle him, take him inside, and get him in a cart without more screeching.
"I want a car cart!" he demands, and I can see that his eyes are wide and unblinking already. Overstimulated before we even begin. A man in a white t-shirt and black basketball shorts looks sidelong at his female companion. Bratty kid, that look says. I offer a thin-lipped smile. A genuine one, but an apologetic one. A stressed one, too.
"It's better if we leave the car carts for families with two kids," I explain. "It's just you and me, and we don't need the two seats. Let's go find you some trouty." My redirect holds his attention long enough for the man and his companion to pass by without further perceived brattiness.
We have a blast picking out apples together ("This kind?" I joke. "No!" laughs my son. "This kind!" I offer. "Noooo!" he laughs.) A broad-built old woman smiles at my son. I feel better for a moment. But as we go down the aisle in the natural section for cereal, my son throws his head back and yells, "LET'S GO HOME!" We are less than a quarter way through our shopping, and the man with the shorts and his girlfriend are passing by again. She tucks the corner of her mouth in disapprovingly just as they disappear past the end-cap of the aisle.
He is screeching as we proceed through the meat department.
He is repeating "No, no, no, no! I don't want to go shopping anymore!" as we pluck ingredients from the regional foods aisle.
He is straining against his waist buckle as we attempt to check out. He is flushed, sweaty, and has the look of a panicked, caged animal. The bright fluorescent lights are even giving me a headache.
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The checker is looking pityingly but somewhat understandingly at us.
"He has sensory issues," I hurriedly rattle. "We're having a bit of a rough day."
She nods, but I can tell she doesn't really understand. I wouldn't have, either, before my son was born. I don't blame her, but I wish I could tell her. I wish she could understand. I wish the couple craning over to see us from the other aisle could understand. I wish everybody could understand.
Everything his eyes see, peripherally or directly, he perceives and is overwhelmed by. He watches things that are happening, and he is not even looking at them. They are happening in his peripheral vision, and he has to process them just the same as what he's looking at straight-on. His brain doesn't filter his vision like a neurotypical brain does. He comments in detail on things that he watches through his peripheral vision simultaneously as his direct line of sight. Hearing him talk about it is like hearing a panoramic video speak.
Every smell, he smells. Walking past the deli or through the produce section is like an inundation of perception.
Every sound, he hears. And his hearing is keen and wide-reaching.
The rattle of the shopping cart, and the brush of his shorts against his legs, and the rub of his shirt against his back against the back rest on the card, and the coldness of the cart handle under his hands, he feels them all and can't tune any of them out, at least not yet.
Most "sensory kids" improve as they get older. He already has from his wide-eyed panicked screaming his whole first year. They simultaneously become numb to the inundation of sensory input and learn to cope with it. Somewhere in the middle, more typical function starts to emerge. For some kids, that isn't the case, though. Our future still stretches out in front of us like an enormous, long grocery aisle. My son, my husband, and I will travel this long aisle for many, many more years, picking and choosing the best things for our family from the shelves, moving in and out of meltdowns and laughter and quiet looking-around.
My son's arms are raised in the air and he is screaming as I swipe my credit card and push the cart out of the checkstand. A lot of eyes are on us.
I wish I could tell them why this looks like bad behavior, but it isn't. In case anyone is watching, in case any of them have kids or will have kids or have grandkids who might struggle like this, I step to the side of the cart and press my son's hot, sweaty head against my chest and stroke his hair.
"It's okay, sweet boy," I say softly. "You have been doing your best all morning. Thank you for trying. Let's go home now."
"Okay," he replies haltingly. He ducks in the bright midday sunlight, but my posture softens at last when I see his small body relax in the dim of the inside of our car.
"Can I watch a show on your phone, mommy?"
"Sure can, dude," I reply. "Sure can."
