Making Sense of a Few Quirky Behaviors

I sat with two-month-old Catelyn nestled in my arms.  We were waiting for the nurse to return to the examining room to administer her vaccinations.

The door opened, and the nurse appeared with a tray of needles.

“Okay, Mom.  Please have her legs out as the shots will be given in her thighs.”

I got baby Catelyn prepped and ready.  She sat placidly in her onesie while we waited.

“I’m nervous,” I told the nurse, “I am scared at how much she is going to cry.”

“Oh, don’t worry if she cries.  Crying is a good reaction,” the nurse replied, “You should be concerned if she doesn’t cry.”

The nurse swabbed baby Catelyn’s legs to prepare the shot site.  The first shot was administered.  Catelyn didn’t even flinch let alone cry.

The shots continued in each leg.  One by one.  I cheered her on for being so brave, yet waiting for a crumpled lip, sad eyes, a tear – something to note that she just got a lot of shots.

But there was nothing.  Just a still baby getting her shots.

When the nurse finished, I pointed out the obvious in an almost questionable tone, “She didn’t cry?”

“Well,” the nurse surmised, “You must have one tough little cookie there.”

I stuck my jaw out and nodded.  I liked that summary.  I wanted one tough little cookie.  There wasn’t anything to be concerned about.  If she didn’t cry at shots – heck, that’s a good thing.

Every two months she went.  Then every year.  She got her shots.

I started just telling the nurses, “It’s okay, she’s good.  Doesn’t cry at all.”

One of my favorite memories happened when Bobby was four and Catelyn was two.  Both had just gotten another round of shots and it was time to leave the Dr.’s office.  I only had one stroller I had wheeled Catelyn in on.  But since Bobby was so upset with his shots, I let the kids decide who would get to ride out in it.

Without hesitation Bobby plopped in the stroller with his hand on his arm, holding it, crying as if he was just shot with a bullet.  Stoic Catelyn assumed position at the back of the stroller and began to try to push her older brother out.  Again, completely unfazed by any possible pain in her arms.

After I wrote my last post, I started to think about all the things people have said to me about my kids to pass off an odd behavior.

“Tough little cookie” sold me.  I liked it.  It fit.  She was a tough little cookie.  She didn’t really connect with people.  I saw her as her own person.  Bravely independent.

I liked it.

Or if Declan were in the middle of a sensory meltdown, countless checkout clerks would voice “Uh-oh, someone’s tired!”  or “Must be nap time!”

Or gender assigning, “He’s hard to potty train because he’s a boy,” “He doesn’t sit still because he’s a boy,” or “she’s so strong willed because she is a girl.”

Know what?  Before I knew what was happening with my kids, I did it too.

I didn’t know what a sensory meltdown was – so yeah, maybe Declan was tired.

I didn’t know why Catelyn never kept any friends – so yeah, maybe she was just bossy or strong willed.

And it did feel good to have one “tough little cookie.”

With the gift of hindsight, I can look back and see things more clearly now.  Every quirk makes more sense.  The odd behaviors fit into a bigger autism picture.

An autism diagnosis didn’t change that Catelyn is a bravely independent tough little cookie.  It just helped to make sense of a few quirky behaviors.