The author, coming through the hard times with Rainy

The moment I knew for certain that something was wrong with my toddler was on her 3rd birthday, when she hid in our garage from the Disney princess we’d hired to entertain her and her friends.

Rainy loved watching the magicalprincesses on television and had yearned for Sleeping Beauty to visit our home. So we proudly hired a genuine ex-princess from Disneyland, thinking we’d win some kind of parenting trophy.

Instead, as Sleeping Beauty tried to dote on Rainy, she pulled away, uncomfortable with the eye contact and the infringement upon her physical boundaries. It wasn’t until we asked Sleeping Beauty to leave, rushing her out with apologies and a large tip, that Rainy finally calmed down.

That night, my partner Johnny and I understood something we never had before: our daughter wasn’t just shy or quirky. She needed help.

During Rainy’s first 3 years, we had noticed that she avoided other kids, struggling to handle the sounds, excitement and demands of group play. As a baby, Rainy had hated to be held or interacted with by strangers, or anyone who wasn’t us.

There was also this: Rainy was failing tummy time. Tummy time was a big topic in our baby group. Our paediatrician told us that tummy time is “crucial to the development of all babies” and that sensory issues are usually the culprit when a baby can’t perform the appropriate tasks. We were the only couple in our group whose 3-month-old failed to reach for an object while engaging her core.

Time marched forward, and Rainy’s other target milestones were not being met either, not by a long shot. At 18 months, she was still babbling sounds that didn’t form words. In the knowing glances of the other mums, I sensed concern, fear and judgment.

After Rainy’s 3rd birthday, we decided we needed to see a specialist.

While waiting weeks for our appointment, I suddenly remembered the Percocet my doctor had prescribed to me for my postpartum cramping. I took two. A warm haze erased my fear and doubt, replacing them with something very close to confidence, or at least a lighter spirit.

The pills were clean, too. No smell, no taste, no detection. They allowed me to escape the fear that I was simply not cut out to mother my child.

The days were long. I tried desperately to create a schedule that was both healthy and fun, as Rainy seemed to retreat further into her mind and away from us, becoming increasingly imprisoned in her imagination. My mother had been agoraphobic, scared of wide open spaces. Now my daughter, too, was flailing whenever we went outside, bringing back my most difficult childhood memories.

Around this time, I upped my dose to three Percocet a day.

The specialist we saw a few weeks after her birthday party observed Rainy doing extensive testing. We were finally summoned to hear the results, coming in nervous and hopeful. I impatiently listened to a long list of scores and percentages until the doctor used the word “autism”.

While I stared at her blankly, she said, “You’ll have to lower your expectations. Her development will be slow, and she may never be independent.”

As we exited the office, Johnny let go and began to cry. That’s good, I thought, one of us needs to feel something. I believed that I needed to conceal my own emotions. We couldn’t both be devastated at the same time.

Yet, I promised myself I would show up for Rainy.........

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