One Spoon Left

Our family therapist recently had us play a game with spoons that was clearly inspired by Christine Miserandino’s Spoon Theory. If you aren’t familiar with it, I recommend checking out her article.^[1] The main idea is that people with disabilities can account for their energy in units of measurement, in this case, spoons. When they have spent all their energy for the day, they are done, regardless of whether there are more things that need doing.

I’ve talked with my son about this theory before, and to my great surprise, he seems to be beginning to understand when he is dangerously low on spoons and needs to go home and relax—or have a meltdown.^[2]

In the game, we all began with ten spoons, and as we talked our way through a typical day, we gave back the spoons it would require to complete the tasks. Waking up cost two of my children one spoon, me two spoons, and my third child three spoons.

We all turned to look at my husband, and he said, “Waking up doesn’t cost me any spoons.”

Then we moved on to showering and getting ready for the day. Again, there was a cost in spoons for everyone but my husband.

The therapist and I exchanged a glance, and I assured him that my husband is neurotypical and wasn’t kidding. We all shared a giggle.

By the time we had gotten through the day and I had served dinner, I was down to one spoon. My therapist asked me, “How are you going to get the kids off screens for dinner and get them to bed with one spoon?”

I gave him a knowing look. “I can’t. That’s his job,” I say, pointing to my husband, who smiled gamely.

Thankfully, my husband still had all his spoons. But the act of coming home, getting our kids off screens, keeping them at the dinner table, and getting them to bed cost him every single spoon.

“This is why I struggle so much with solo parenting,” I said.

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The spoon exercise emphasized something I had never fully articulated: my husband and I weren’t splitting the same workload. We were spending completely different amounts of energy doing the same tasks.

This left us with a conundrum. What do we do about the fact that I don’t have enough spoons to get through a typical day?

Some solutions are obvious. I need more support when my husband travels. I need better systems. I need more recovery time.

But lately I’ve been wondering whether there’s another piece of the puzzle. Not because I think I can magically create more spoons, but because some days seem to drain them faster than others. What if part of the cost comes not from the task itself, but from the way I think about it?

One idea that struck me recently came from @theautismdoctor’s summer series. It is the idea of replacing “I have to” with “I chose to” as a way to rebuild autonomy and thus calm our nervous systems.^[3] At first glance, it sounds like semantics. After all, I still have to make dinner, drive children to appointments, and get my paid work done. The tasks don’t simply disappear because I change the wording.

But perhaps the wording matters because autonomy matters.

This reminds me of the work of Dr. Marshall Rosenberg in Nonviolent Communication, where he encourages people to eliminate words such as should, must, and have to.^[4] I have been sharing Rosenberg’s ideas with my students for years, as motivation for taking responsibility for their own choices and making changes where they can, when they can, to improve their situations. But I’m now seeing how much it applies to my own situation.

His argument is that we always have choices, even when the alternatives are unpleasant. When we frame a task as something we have to do, we often feel resentment. But when we take ownership of why we are choosing an activity, we reclaim our autonomy, which can have a genuine impact on our nervous systems.

All the things still need doing. I need to get my children out of bed, convince them to eat breakfast, drag them along to doctor’s appointments, and spend some time cleaning the house. But “I am choosing to do this because I value the outcome” feels different from, “I have to do this or everything will fall apart.”

Thinking about autonomy and Rosenberg always reminds me of the Serenity Prayer, which hung in my family’s kitchen when I grew up. It reads:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

the courage to change the things I can,

and the wisdom to know the difference.

Even without a religious belief, one can benefit from thinking through what can be changed and what can’t, and this relates to spoon theory. Sometimes spending spoons is unavoidable, but other times we can change our approach to things to reduce the pressure, delegate tasks, or see things differently.

I don’t think I can positive-think my way into having more spoons. Burnout is real. Autism is real. The burden of parenting three neurodivergent children is real. But I suspect I can spend the spoons I have more wisely.

In order to do so, I’m going to have to accept help. I’m going to have to work with my kids’ OTs to create better routines. And I’m going to have to pay closer attention to the stories I tell myself about my obligations.

Despite all this work, I may still have only one spoon left by dinner. But if I can replace a few “I have tos” with “I choose tos,” perhaps I won’t feel quite so frantic.

And on days when I’m solo parenting because my husband is out of town, perhaps that calm will make all the difference.

^[1] https://lymphoma-action.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/documents/2020-05/Spoon%20theory%20by%20Christine%20Miserandino.pdf

^[2] https://erinmcgibbonsmith.substack.com/publish/post/208490553

^[3]

^[4] Rosenberg, M. B. (1999). Nonviolent communication: A language of compassion. Encinitas, CA: PuddleDancer Press.