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Music & Meltdowns

A visit to a local library’s Pre-K music class turns discordant due to sensory issues… Tune in!

In my previous post Calming the Chaos, I touched on raising an OCD/neurodivergent toddler. I recommended calming sensory toys and tools to help navigate some sensory processing issues. But… what happens when you’re inevitably away from your menagerie of regulating toddler toys, in public, and sensory issues strike?

Well, I got to find out.

The fateful day in question fell on October 10th, an unassuming Thursday during a full and busy week. Therapy for Orson and myself, followed by dentist appointments, and Nathan and I leading our first church Impact Group, oh my! With even more busyness slotted for the weekend…

Because I generally attempt to push past my own discomfort and inconvenience for the sake of enriching my toddlers’ lives (cue the applause…), I had us signed up for a Music and Movement class at our local library. Thought it would be a fun treat for my tots. Yay…

…I tried.

Dealing with sensory processing issues is a real shit sandwich. We’ll circle back to that perfect metaphor once I tell you what transpired…

Shakers of Sadness

Nova might have the makings of a hoarder. I suspect this because of her tendency to collect, collect, collect.

Whether it’s every sock she owns to create some sort of footwear nest in her bed, tiny pebbles she’s found on our two-a-day neighborhood walks, or obsessing over her assortment of board game dice, this girl loves curating little bits and bobs. Even better if the items in question can make sound…

Such as, say, perfectly dainty, toddler-sized, egg-shaped, musical shakers.

Nova, to be fair, also tends to be more of a sensory seeker. Not with all sounds, like when Orson starts yell-growling at her (which tends to cause upset); but any music especially changes her entire affect pretty much instantly. Interpretive, theatrical dancing and graceful, dramatic movement. Put a couple maracas in her hand, and she is in. her. element.

She adores the dancing, spinning, twirling, vestibular sensory input as much as the music. Don’t try to stop her!

Sadly, all good things must come to an end. Like when you’re in an infant/toddler musical class and the teacher begins recollecting the little, precious shakers. And all good things came crashing to a full stop. It took her a couple of seconds to process the perceived injustice of having to return her toy before setting loose a cacophonic, ear-splitting shriek of a wail.

Fortunately, to my surprise, she rebounded quickly. By some miracle, I was able to help her regulate with little resistance. But the compounding damage was done for Orson’s auditory sensory issues. And it was only a matter of time before he would hit the wall… Hard.

Splatting Sensory Issues

It was a slow, but progressive, descent into a state of intolerable sensory overwhelm.

Orson started strong. Going in at the start with unmet expectations of what the class would entail (he was expecting similar toys to a previous event held in the same space), he pivoted fairly well. He reluctantly compromised as I explained to him that we’d stay for the class, then play in the children’s section of the library afterward.

As a group, we jovially began with Five Little Pumpkins (to the tune of Old Saint Nick). When we sang about the perfect, little pumpkins, one by one, rolling down the hill to go SPLAT, reserved Orson actually participated! Initially, at least.

With each subsequent song and introduction to different instruments and activities, his patience and tolerance began to wane thin.

So, there’s this fine-line balancing act with sensory issues. On the one hand, I can personally attest to struggling with certain sensitivities like misophonia. Certain sounds can be… a LOT. Couple that with a toddler’s level of patience and ability to self-regulate, along with the previously mentioned disappointment…

Tick-tock, tick-tock…

I can empathize with my son when I glance over and see his glum mug. His sad, morose pout says less bad attitude and more this is all too much. Boy, do I get that. But, as I said, the balancing act comes into full swing here… At this stage, I’m cultivating distress tolerance in my toddler son.

Do I coddle and shield from exposure to a hard thing? Do I ride the wave with him and experience the painful stretch together? How do I equip him with necessary tools to withstand hardship if I never challenge his comfort zone?

I’ve spent the past few months in particular intentionally and mindfully zeroing in on what personal weaknesses I can strengthen and grow past, strenuously expanding myself outside of the bounds in which my anxiety would imprison me. But I’m 32. Orson is coming up on 4.

He’s at a decided disadvantage at handling his own sensory issues

Which inevitably leads to…

Herding SCREAMING Cats

Yes, it may have been a slow burn leading up to this chaotic sequence, but once the fuse was lit, the inexorable explosion was imminent. As it unfolded, I must have, to one degree or another, partially dissociated. It’s a blur looking back.

Who started screaming, sobbing, and sprinting away from my outstretched arms first? I couldn’t say. All I know, is that within moments, I was less patient Mama and more riot police. Calmly and quickly, I scooped one toddler up. Then, the other. One under each arm. (Takes me back…)

Outside we went. I set them down as soon as we exited the library. We stood in the courtyard for not even a minute when, to Orson’s credit, he started taking deep breaths without any prompting from me. And, in spite of sensory issues having reigned supreme mere moments ago, both of my toddlers began begging to go back.

So, now I’m faced with a real shit sandwich of a quandary. I told you we’d circle back, didn’t I? Honestly, I don’t think either choice would’ve been wrong. However, it reminds me of tests I had in nursing school: if all of the answers are right, which is the most right?

My Choices:
  1. Natural consequences: Sensory issues leading to overstimulation and overwhelm (for ALL of us by this point) would have been a perfectly valid reason to just say “we’ll try again another time”.
  2. Against-My-Better-Judgment opportunity to grow: Soldier forth despite discomfort, to encourage my children’s desire to challenge themselves to follow through on something hard.
Ah, fuck it.

I give us all credit for what happened next. I followed in my son’s and daughter’s little footsteps and chose the hard thing. They are kind of my heroes…

I walked us back toward a room with other infants and toddlers and parents who all seemed to be effortlessly enjoying themselves. After my kids had just publicly lost their collective minds. Nova jubilantly ran in, gratefully enjoyed the instruments offered, and danced her heart out, having the time of her life and flashing me the biggest smiles.

“Look, Mama! Mama, look!” Needless to say, she rebounded quickly.

Orson and I, on the other hand, rode the wave of difficulty at a safe distance. Like a prison visitation, we stood on the other side of the glass door and watched. The teacher personally came and graciously offered us some jingle bells to quietly play along. The considerate librarian offered some ear protection for sensory issues, but Orson declined.

He stood, watching, proudly beaming at Nova, while I kneeled at his side. We talked about covering his ears when sounds get to be too much. I expressed pride that he chose to stay. And then gently encouraged him to join the class for the last song: an instrument-free lullaby.

He chose the hard thing! He went in and was so unbelievably proud of himself for doing so.

And I was proud of myself. For growing past the point of actually giving a fuck about what other people think. Yeah, it’s uncomfortable when my toddlers go through it. For everyone. My daughter’s lung capacity and pitch is…. Severe. Out of consideration for others, I remove my kids until they can calm down.

But to feel comfortable to immediately come back speaks volumes about who I am striving to be as a parent.

Parenting Priorities

Signing up for things like Music and Movement classes at the library was never about me or for me. It was for my children. It’s not that it doesn’t occur to me that people might be judging me, though in truth, I seriously doubt any of them actually even were. They were all parents of babies. They have to get it, right?

My son and my daughter both, to one degree or another, have sensory processing issues. Hell, I have sensory processing issues. As a parent, you can choose to shield your children from difficulty and cripple them, OR empathetically guide them through hardship so that they can practice all of the regulatory skills of which you’re hopefully trying to equip them.

Sometimes that means public meltdowns. But couple caveats here, while I know I’m running tangential (I blame my glass of wine). In spite of the inconvenience, when possible, I definitely think it’s best for all parties to remove your child from the scene, at least for the moment.

Give the child space and a moment to decompress and come down if you can. Again, I know, not always possible. Sensory issues are a real shit sandwich.

Second caveat, don’t be your child’s first bully. It doesn’t toughen them up or make them “strong enough to face the world”. The programmed facade of toughness is a fragile mask that’s going to shatter. Eventually.

I’m not condoning coddling or letting sensory issues control your life. I’m simply advocating for a graceful, compassionate approach to challenge, growth, and adaptation. I’ve seen it work for my 2 and 3 year old already. And the more challenge I expose them to, the more confident we all become. Neurons that fire together, wire together.

Happy Frights in Spite

A mere two days after the whole library meltdown mayhem due to sensory issues, Nathan and I took Orson and Nova to Happy Frights at San Antonio Botanical Garden. The kids were so excited for some family-friendly, spooky thrills and some pre-Halloween trick-or-treating.

The event setup was incredibly managed, for better or worse considering the crowds. It felt like a basic, single-file queue with little freedom to roam, bounce around, or backtrack. Following the path, the toddlers picking up some treats along the way, we arrived at the first “exhibit”: an acrobatic performance.

The attendant informed us the next showing was in about 15 minutes, so we found a spot on the grass to wait. The waiting wasn’t so much of a problem as much as the loud, Jumanji-esque rhythmic drumming playing over the sound system. One glance at Orson and I knew… Sensory issues… Shit sandwich.

BUT…

Having given Orson opportunities to grow and challenge himself and supporting him through uncomfortable hardship, positive results were yielded. No meltdowns. Just anxious concern through which we sat with him. While Nova pounded her candy without a care in the world.

Orson covered his ears like I’d taught him and held them covered even after the show started, but was enthralled by the performance. He talked about it multiple times throughout the rest of the night. About how fun it was. About how brave he felt. And how he wanted to go back.

Sensory Issues Present Opportunities

Sure, sensory issues CAN present obstacles, too, but I’ve seen the ways in which they also provide teaching opportunities. The moments during which they strike are really moments that we can show up for our kids in a real, tangible, and safe way. Equipping our children with positive coping skills. Self-regulatory tools. Emotional intelligence. And secure attachment.

Sensory issues present opportunity to cultivate distress tolerance in our children (and ourselves). We all grow in confidence and capacity to do hard things the more that we choose to do hard things. And what a privilege to get to hold your child’s hand through challenges he or she may face.

Whether dealing with Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Woes; Music & Meltdowns; calamitous chaos in public OR at home due to sensory issues, I’m trying to have more perspective, patience, and grace through it all.

When all else fails: lots of prayer and wine to come down from everyone’s sensory issues at the end of the day.

Let me sit in a dark, quiet room and drink to that.

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