Why I Think We May Be PDA (Pathological Demand Avoidance)

My four year old is hungry. She knows the word for cereal. She stands there in front of the pantry asking for her cereal saying, “it’s brown and shaped like a square.” No amount of prompting for confirmation will get her to agree with my suggestions or say cereal. This happens 90% of the time when she asks for food.

I need to write a post for this page. I have a list of ideas and memes to write about. I enjoy the process of writing. I love the interaction and feedback from my readers. I sit in front of the computer and blank out. I know nothing. I have no thoughts on anything ever. I decide to rearrange my seven year old’s room. I find myself sitting on her bed writing this post.

My four year old is still in diapers. All my kids wore diapers until they were four to five years old. I wore diapers until I was four and a half. She knows when she has to poop or pee. She begins using the potty regularly to pee. I’m thrilled and praise her. She refuses to use it to poop and instead hides under a table to poop every time. I ask her why she won’t poop in the potty. She stops peeing in the potty.

I’m on a special diet to help manage and control my diabetes. It’s an extremely limiting diet. I can’t eat more than 20-30 grams of carbs daily without getting bilateral edema and high blood sugar. I ran out of safe foods other than eggs. I’m tired of eggs. There is food in the fridge but I would need to cook it. I instead quit eating and fast all day. This carries over for two days until my husband decides to cook on the third day.

Our kitchen is a mess. Just washing the dishes would help so much. I want to clean the kitchen so badly. I begin using paper plates. It takes me another two weeks to start to wash the dishes.

I’m at my job. My job is incredibly boring. I am the receptionist at a senior center run by the local community college. I answer one to two phone calls daily. I’m not allowed to surf the internet. Some days we don’t have a single person enter the building. My boss is a dictator. She requires me to jump up from my seat, race around my desk and interact face to face with each person who enters the building. This feels terribly aggressive and intrusive to me. I cannot, will not do it. I get written up and given a bad review in spite of being exemplary in every other way. “Magpie does not take direction well.”

I joke with my friends about how I am a shit housekeeper, but at least I am pretty good about folding and putting away clean clothes. Ever since I said that, I have been unable to fold or put away my clean clothes.

My four year old sings and makes up her own songs. They are often hilarious and highly creative. I tell her how much I love her singing and her songs. She quits singing for months.

I want to start cartooning again. The urge to draw is strong and overwhelming. If only I had a pad and pencils! My husband buys me a pad and pencils. I draw a circle, and then I put it away. I have all the inspiration of a carrot.

My four year old loves her seven year old sister the best out of everyone in the family. Her sister *is* her special interest. All she wants is to play with her all day, every day. But her affection becomes overwhelming. Her hugs begin to squeeze too tight. She begins to pinch and bite her. She needs older sister to stop talking, stop singing, stop, stop, stop! The feelings are too much. She is reduced to mewling like a cat, and biting and scratching everyone until she decompresses and self regulates.

I ask my four year old if she put on a dry pull up before bed. She says, “no, because I need to brush my teeth today.” No amount of negotiation gets her to put on a dry pull up before she brushes her teeth. This is not a battle worth fighting. We brush her teeth, she changes and goes to bed.

These vignettes are snapshots of the struggles and experiences my youngest and I have. I share them in case other autie parents can relate and see reflections of themselves and their kids in our experiences. It was through the shared experiences of others that I began to better understand my own struggles and the struggles of my kids. Update: Since I wrote this a few years ago, both my youngest daughter and I have been diagnosed as having the PDA profile of autism.