The Trap of Expectations

Even before I began to practice Buddhism, I always considered myself to be someone who was immune to being held hostage by unrealistic expectations. It was a trap I often saw family members and friends fall into. I saw them hurt repeatedly by other people not living up to what they imagined they should be. Without a Buddhist’s knowledge of the suffering caused by clinging to beliefs about the way things should be I just instinctively avoided this behavior.

So, while I don’t think there is a person alive that could rightfully claim to be adequately prepared to raise a child on the Autism spectrum, I did at least have this one trait going for me. I didn’t spend much time mourning a life I had imagined. Dreams of the life you imagine and autism are not a good mix. Many people, however, seemed to be willing to do this for me. As a child I had been a good baseball player and loved the game more than anything. What I lacked in size and strength I made up for, partially, with determination and smarts about the game. Everyone agreed these qualities would make me a great coach of youth sports one day. The thought of twin boys dominating a youth baseball league under my coaching was an easy thing to imagine. But autism changed that. Life spent at the ballpark just isn’t in the cards anymore. And while my parents, sister and others that knew me when I was younger suspect that this fact must constitute a great personal tragedy for me, it does not. It truly doesn’t bother me. I’ve moved on. I have other things to do and other places to find joy.

Frankly, I am sometimes even a little smug about it. “Poor, So-and-So, when will she learn not to set herself up for disappointment by expecting too much, trying too hard to create the fantasy world she imagines,” I’d think to myself with a knowing shake of the head. But then today I saw that even I, even the relatively new Buddhist version of me, wasn’t immune to the trap of expectations.

A few weeks ago I had taken the boys, one at a time, to an outdoor ice skating rink. It was something I had always wanted to do and had only dreamed of as a boy growing up in the south, but with northern-born parents who told fantastic tales of pick-up hockey games and nightly figure skating on nearby ponds. I was smart enough to know the trap I was setting for myself and so I was careful not to have any foolish hopes about a dream afternoon. I knew the boys might not even allow me to lace their skates. I knew they might quit after two seconds on the ice. I knew they might have any number of unpredictable meltdowns that would cause me to have to physically carry them off the ice. I knew there was a good chance I’d end up getting kicked in the ribs by an ice skate. I’m no fool. I’m not new to autism anymore. But I was okay with all that and thought I’d give it a go. You can’t hide forever.

With Kenny, who I took first, it was, to be honest, a bit of a hard time. Anxiety-filled, stressful and physically trying, but in the end it was a success. He had skated and was proud. And I was proud. I had given him an experience. With Danny, on the other hand, it was an entirely different experience. It was a joy from start to finish. He had a blast, and actually got pretty decent at it. It was just fun.

So, a few weeks later I aimed to duplicate it. My wife took Kenny to a movie. A couple of anxieties combine to make the movie theater a place Danny simply will not set foot in. So, I thought I’d take the opportunity to take Danny ice skating again. To be honest, it is tougher to connect to Danny and he generally demands less attention than Kenny so I sometimes feel bad about not engaging him as much. I was looking forward to the time alone with him. Only, he didn’t want to go. He was worried about slipping. He was worried that they played live music, a particular phobia of his, over the stereo at the rink. He would rather read about old Muppets episodes on Muppet Wiki, he said.

I was surprised. I was bummed. I was bored. And so I got angry with him. I wouldn’t let him just stay home and play video games. It was our special time, damnit. So, no computer, no TV, no apps and no video games. And when he got mad about that he had to go to his room. I was mean and spiteful to him. I’m not proud of it and it isn’t the way I’d normally behave (at least I hope not).

Why? Expectations. My normal vigilance against the trap of clinging to a dream day had weakened and the result was misery all the way around. The second noble truth played out clear as day right before my angry and sad eyes.