August 5, 2025

Suddenly, I’m faced with a harsh version of reality I thought I’d never face: my husband might be right.

Ok, let’s not get TOO far ahead of ourselves. He had a good idea. Not just a decent idea–a workable idea. A common-sense solution to a problem that we’ve been battling for years to exhaustion. And it worked…not once, not twice, but 4 times.

We dropped my PDA kiddo off at camp four times without a battle by following my husband’s instinct. The first thing to understand about parenting a PDAer is that this solution may have worked four times, but that in no way means it will work forever…or tomorrow. My future-focused, problem-solving self has met its match in my child in that neither of these skills are useful to me as a PDA parent.

I can’t be future-focused. If I think about his future, I will embark on a spiral of worrying that will do nothing but age me even more quickly. If I get too “problem-solvey,” my child’s body will sense it and commit to derailing any fantastic solution I have. I must be focused on the present, and not appear too eager. While my inner voice screams, “You HAVE to go to camp…I have meetings…I need quiet…I’m worried I’ll get fired…I NEEEEDDD 6 hours away from you,” my outer exterior must convey, “Camp? Whatevs. Go if you want…I don’t care.” You probably don’t have to know me well to imagine that is quite the contradictory state of being.

We wake up, with our spicy nugget in between us in bed. Not unusual at all these days. Sleep cycles are disrupted in many neurodiverse individuals, and he frequently wakes and joins us in bed with his blankie. Overall, it is not a problem because he immediately goes back to sleep. It’s mostly disruptive to me because he must be physically pressed against my body to sleep, and I’m the type of person that continuously scoots away from my husband in bed while I sleep. I’m 41. I get hot and wake up in sweats often. I don’t need an 80 lb weighted blanket attached to me.

Ok, back to awakening. I start to say the usual, “Miles, let’s get ready for c—-,” when my husband lets out a loud “SHHHH” to cut me off. I take his cue. We aren’t talking about camp or getting ready for camp. Ok, we’re going to do this thing without talking about doing the thing.

We silently turn on Spicy Nugz’s tv show and a bowl of Captain Crunch magically appears in front of him. While he watches and eats, we slip on one sock at a time. Then a shirt. When the cereal is gone, we slide on the undies and shorts. Miles goes through the motions, cooperating in dressing without asking questions. We put shoes on. My husband holds his hand out. Miles takes it. Somehow we are walking down the stairs. There’s a little hesitation at the front door…you can SEE Miles’s thoughts circling. My husband gives him a gentle nudge and out the door they go.

We’re in the car. I’ve given Miles my cell phone to mess with while we drive. Everyone is quiet. There’s an occasional joke, we all laugh or pretend Miles really pulled one over on us. We arrive at camp, open Miles’s car door, and he gets out. He slowly makes his way up the 1,000 steps (ok not that many, but really…WHY so many steps?) and goes in. He joins the other kids for morning snack, I give a kiss on top of the head and we leave.

I look at my husband in the car. “So that’s what you did yesterday too?” I ask. “Yes, and two days last week,” he says. “But how, why?” I ask, rhetorically, knowing there is no how or why.

He responds with, “We don’t talk about fight club.”