A little background

"Stop that or I'm taking you to the doctor!"

My mother meant no harm. She was worried. Her otherwise brilliant child had a habit of rubbing his hands together on the playground and crossing his eyes. I would go into little trance like states and in my excitement, making little squeaking sounds. I shook my hands at my sides and paced erratically. People were beginning to notice.

If I had been born and raised in today's hyper-vigilant culture, I probably would have been whisked off to an autism specialist immediately, as my mother connected with and debated with other parents on blogs about how to handle my stimming.

Instead, my mother worried, and I was, above all else, concerned about being a good kid. I learned that day that my "behaviors" were one of those things relegated to private space, like nose picking. Of course, it was impossible to control the stimming entirely, but I could always retreat to my room, which I was always happy to do. I had no siblings to share that space with or draw me out of my solitude. When I was in the main rooms of the house, I waited until backs were turned, or I was hyperactive. I paced back and forth while "thinking." I climbed up on the edge of the couch and somersaulted onto the cushions over and over again. My mom learned to adjust to my ways, and we figured out that if she allowed me to pace and tumble while she read my workbooks to me and omitted words, that I could fill in those words as I ran around almost breathlessly. I have memories of filling in gaps of Patrick Henry's "Liberty or Death" speech while bouncing upside down on my couch.

Of course, it was still noticed. But since I was the smartest kid in my class and well behaved to boot (I was fidgety in my seat, but I never tried to bounce up or run around or call out), my eccentricities were forgiven. I got the name "McFidget," hence the name of this blog.