Calibrating
I feel the heat rising from the pounding in my chest. It spreads through my veins. I remain frozen, unable to move. The putrid odor of day-old coffee grounds mixed with banana peels brings to my attention that the compost bin lid has been left open all day. A fruit fly comes into focus. The television is on volume 10, one keystroke higher than the approved level 9. Sounds of airstrikes from the war and bullets flying grab my attention. “Let’s fast forward to the next story,” I tell my husband, rushing over to grab the remote. My toddler doesn’t need to see those images. Skipping this and moving to the next story is a great privilege of streaming the news on YouTube. A far cry from my own young self seeing those same images on NBC. The faint smell of char reaches me as I’m across the room and my eye darts to the stove. Sizzling teriyaki sauce boils over the pot and burns onto the cast iron burner cap, the flame dancing in the sugar. I rush back to turn the gas off. Thump. Thump. My heart is still racing. I still need to get the tofu in the oven before the broccoli overcooks. A non-Newtonian fluid cakes my fingertips. The cornstarch texture is one I avoided for years, but now I need to cook dinner. Now I need to handle the sensory overwhelm. Just handle it. They’re roughhousing in the living room. The cackling laughter of a child who isn’t a baby anymore, but still doesn’t have much language fills my ears. His dad is taunting and teasing. I hated being tickled as a kid. That was back when consent was only something you signed in a hospital. It didn’t really matter if a kid wanted to be tickled or not. My son keeps going back for more. I know they’re just playing. I know not every trigger is cue for my anxiety to step in. I know I’m overstimulated. Of course I’m overstimulated.
Deep breath. Reach for the electrolyte water. Like I always do when I realize at this time of day I haven’t had a sip of water since lunch. Going, going, going.
Seven p.m. Toddler’s in bed. I throw the day’s laundry in the wash. Pre-soak, double rinse. Tide Pod, Clorox 2, Borax if there’s pee involved. Move the dry laundry to a basket, that’s a task for tomorrow.
A quiet peace of faint ocean waves from the Hatch and the washing machine’s sensor phase. Two waterfalls flood the soundscape of the upstairs hallway. The Samsung is taking its time figuring out the dynamics of the load. How heavy the fabrics are. How much water to use. Which soap trays are filled. Calibrating.
I’m still calibrating. Matrescence takes three years. That’s what the lady on Instagram said. Why do I routinely tap that pink-purple-yellow icon out of boredom, seeking connection and understanding, when all I get is a smooth brain time-suck balanced with nuggets that change my perspective. If she’s right, I’m getting there, but I’m not there yet. It’s odd because I remember the day he was born as if it was three months ago. But here we are contemplating if we’re having a second birthday party. I think of this in selfish terms. Why haven’t I grown more in 21 months? Why am I not more used to this? Why am I still getting overstimulated when there are two sounds going on at the same time?
Balancing grace for myself with this reckoning of disappointment is as hard to swallow as the magnesium glycinate I take to sleep. If I tip my head back the large pill sinks down and is easier to take. If only it took a tip of the head to handle overstimulation. I know I need to allow myself to grow into this new phase of life. The guilt of wanting motherhood so desperately balanced with the reality of living it and struggling at times feels like a betrayal of my TTC self. I know it’s not true. I know that you can want something and still find it hard when you’re in it.
This is the part where I solve the problem. This is the part of the essay where I reflect on my situation, name it, work through it, and offer advice. Maybe the situation is that I’m bound to get overstimulated as a mom, neurodivergence aside. I’ve yet to meet anyone whose nervous system is completely regulated when there are competing priorities during a heavy sensory moment. I’ll name it: the acceptance of who I am. Is there anything to work through? The rotating door of therapy bills claims there is. My dysregulated nervous system claims there is. Staying calm and regulated in a moment of overstimulation feels like a far-off dream. However I need to acknowledge I am improving. There are moments where I can name my overwhelm and make a quick action plan with the highest priorities. When I can turn off the TV, do the cornstarch quickly, and set a timer so the broccoli doesn’t overcook.
I’m the mother I am today because of the experiences I’ve already had, not the mother I’ll be with years’ more wisdom. I’m still calibrating. That’s not a sensor flaw, that’s the process.
Hi, I’m Catherine. Nobody tells you that life getting more stable can feel more disorienting. I write about happiness, motherhood, and neurodivergence — for women who thrived in survival mode and then lost their map when things finally calmed down.
You can connect with me on Instagram @CatherineEmeraldQuill