Carried by Cariad

Source: https://museum.wales/articles/1181/Welsh-National-Dress-FAQ/

Carried by Cariad: Autistic Parenting Through Breastfeeding, Weaning and Wearing. 

“Flapping like a sparrow in a sandbath” has long been my go-to for describing how happy I was to see the second line on a pregnancy test. The caution that wedged itself into my heart after our miscarriage previously had gone from a gnaw to a nibble. My autistic joy was now ‘joy for two’ and will forever be that way. Knowing that this newest person would be brought into an entirely autistic family pack gave me a sense of peace that has been turned into strength by years of weathering and rejecting neurotypical expectations. 

‘Cariad’, in Welsh, means love- both the concept and embodiment. You can have ‘cariad’ for someone and call someone ‘cariad’, which in English could be replaced by ‘sweetheart’ or ‘darling’. Most people in Wales know this, but being the linguist that I am, with a love of word origins, I learned that the word comes from the Latin for charity, ‘caridas’.  

A type of love and giving that is done without expecting anything in return. That’s parenting summed up, to me. 

Reflecting on how my neurotype, culture and other quirks made me the parent I am is more than navel-gazing- not only because I have a strong aversion to even the word ‘bellybutton’. These parenting practices, supported by my sensory, emotional and relational needs as an autistic person are parts of the same puzzle. Us auties love puzzles, apparently... 

Breastfeeding 

Leaking colostrum at around 22 weeks pregnant with my first baby was the most romantic thing I’ve ever done (and it was free!). My husband had one of his regular migraines turn a bit extra spicy and my body reacted in sympathy. Turns out he needed a dark room and ibuprofen over colostrum, but the thought was there. 

When I reported this to my consultant at the hospital, the newbie registrar went rushing off to check it ‘was OK’. I’m glad she was reassured by her senior colleague, as I don’t know how I would’ve got words to my mammaries- certainly not in public, anyway... 

I was told with a stern clinical instruction to collect this ‘liquid gold’ into containers and freeze them- gestational diabetes meant doctors were treating me like a human hazard perception test rather than a mother-to-be. I barely collected enough colostrum to wet the back of a stamp (you are WELCOME for that mental image), but I was still low-key proud of my clever, incredible body making useful things, for once. 

Once the baby had arrived and I’d told them my plan to exclusively breastfeed (EBF), I was assigned an abrasive lactation advisor who whipped one out faster than I could give consent and squeezed me like a prized heifer at the Royal Welsh. The baby must’ve picked up on my stress and we struggled to establish breastfeeding. After coming home from the hospital, I told the midwife the next day that I had had difficulties. She told me, “It’s cruel now, to give him breast after he had formula and bottles in the hospital”. I was assured that the formula was only necessary for newborn bloods, to check that gestational diabetes hadn’t affected the baby. 

I was distraught. I had dreamt of EBF since before pregnancy, and now I was told I was “cruel” for getting the baby to latch. I sobbed in grief of a type of motherhood that was now just a dream. 

Or so I thought. 

My angel of a Health Visitor came the next day and comforted me, while going in my hallway to make an angry complaint over her phone about the way I was treated. That was followed by a visit from my autistic sister-in-law, who was training to be a midwife at the time. She helped me establish breastfeeding at 6 weeks. 

The immediate let-down reflex wasn’t a sensory surprise or overwhelm but something I’d been actively working towards for weeks. The rhythm of the baby’s suckling, the relief in their breathing when latched on, and feeding remain one of the most beautiful experiences of my life. The warmth of their skin and the soft baby hairs in my cupped hand bring me joy even in retrospect. 

Breastfeeding, we all know, is helpful for regulation. But I argue that in my autistic experience, it was co-regulation. My milk nourished my baby, the scent of me meaning he’s safe. But the oxytocin and cocoon of wrapping us together against the world meant that even the sensory hell of shopping centres felt irrelevant to our ‘breastfeeding bubble’. 

In terms of executive functioning, it freed up so much brain space. I didn’t need to sterilise bottles or think about formula- I was a portable one-woman feeding machine. I didn’t need to lose myself to hyperfocus on when the baby ate, how much and so on. Exclusively breastfeeding on demand meant we could do things our way, whenever we wanted or needed. 

Baby-Led Weaning 

BLW, months after our successful journey to Boobin’ Legends, meant I could respect the autonomy of my little one's burgeoning preferences for solid food. Sensory exploration of food textures was a joy to witness and a journey that helped cement our parenting values around food and independence in our children. 

We avoided power struggles or rigid feeding schedules by exploring food together. Doing this meant that I got over some of my own food aversions- eggs, salmon and custard were now permanently back on my rotation as I had learned to allow myself to appreciate single ingredients and to eat until I felt satiated- not until I had ‘finished my plate’. We also learned to have epic comebacks for white, westernised ideals of what children should eat, including ignorance trotted out when people saw my children eating their father’s Indian food. For future reference, folks: yes, it’s good for them. No, it’s not that spicy. No, it doesn’t give them bad stomachs because they were practically weaned on dhal. 

Watching my baby explore food reminded me of how I learn best- through curiosity, not control. BLW felt like a natural extension of my values around consent and sensory autonomy. Those are the big wins, as are the fact that my children eat an incredible range of foods, textures and cuisines with equal value.  sarcasm klaxon Although I may be regretting my choices now the youngest is old enough to rinse me for sushi money... 

Carrying (Baby-Wearing, Welsh Fashion) 

I’ve always felt a deep connection to the practice of carrying my baby in what’s locally known as Welsh fashion. It’s more than just babywearing- t’s a tradition rooted in generations of Welsh parents (yes, Dads did/do it too) who used large woollen shawls to hold their babies close while going about daily life. The shawl was then often a simple square of cloth, wrapped and tucked to secure the baby against the body, offering warmth, comfort and freedom of movement. For me, this method wasn’t just practical- it was sensory regulation in motion. The weight of my baby against me, the texture of the fabric and the rhythmic sway as I walked around the house barefoot created a grounding experience that soothed both of us. As an autistic parent, this closeness helped me stay regulated and connected and it felt like a quiet act of cultural pride- carrying my child in the same way my ancestors might have, held by cariad and tradition. 

Carrying the baby and having them ‘on me at all times’ supported my executive functioning, improved my mental health with lots of hormones flourishing and reduced overwhelm. To the people who think it ‘spoils’ a baby to do this- you are intensely incorrect.  I have two very independent children who sway from wanting to “go back in the pocket” of being wrapped around me, to being utterly nonchalant of my existence. Healthy balance, if you ask me! 

Neuro-Affirming Reflections 

Overall, these practices aligned perfectly with my autistic values and being: focusing on autonomy, sensory regulation, deep connection and intuitive parenting. I wish professionals would know that there is more than one way to produce healthy, autonomous beings- and one of those ways is autistically. 

These practices weren’t just survival strategies- they were acts of resistance and love when I was finding out who I was as a mother, an autistic person and woman. It may be boring to you but for me, back then, reading this would’ve given me acknowledgement of my neurotype in a way I didn’t know was possible. So this is for Past Hayley for Future Others: lean into your neuro-wiring and fight the narrow-minded mainstream with your own kind of flourishing.