Image credit: Photo by Thomas Hawk on Flickr Licensed under Creative Commons

I was feeling blah this morning and wondering what to write about when I read on Marla's blog that it's Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD) Awareness Month. If you are like our family, every month is SPD awareness month. In fact, we are actually so aware that we do even better than that: every moment of our day is SPD awareness moment! Of course, some of you are wondering what it is that we're so very aware of.

Most of you will remember learning about the five senses (taste, touch, smell, sight and hearing), but do you know what the most important sense organ in your body is? Your brain. For example, I just took a sip of hot tea from a shiny red mug and each sensory input -- from the soft scent of chamomile to the glint of light off the mug to the way the tea burned my tongue (which is still tingling a little now) to the taste of the tea to the firm sound of ceramic mug being placed on wooden table-- had to be processed by my brain.

So, what happens when there is no physical problem with my tongue or the nerves in it, but my brain misprocesses that burnt tongue as a tickle instead of pain? Or what if my brain cranks up the wattage on the light and makes that glint of light blinding? Or if it keys in on the smell of chamomile so much that it seems overpowering? If I process that input differently, I'll probably respond in ways that seem unusual. And that's what happens with SPD.

My son's brain processes a lot of his world differently, but he is most sensitive to sound. When Austen was a toddler, he was terrible frightened of anything that was made of plastic and looked like it might make sounds. In short, he was terrified of anything that resembled, um, a toy. He would scream in terror and curl in a ball covering his ears until we removed the offensive object from his sight.

He once received a gift from a relative: a book that had buttons to make noises as you read along with the story. As he tore of the wrapping paper, his hand hit one of the buttons and he shrieked. He clearly felt it was the most horrible trick someone could have played. A book? A nice silent book that made noises?! I had to promise him that I had made the book go away to the other side of the Earth. (I didn't want to tell him that I actually donated it to the library, because I knew we'd never be able to go there again. As it is, we may never be able to visit Nepal. My apologies to the Nepalese.) I've managed to avoid further incidents by pre-opening presents and screening for noise makers, although we were both tricked a year ago by a musical greeting card, a find that (unfortunately) delighted his sister.

What SPD means for Austen is that when he hears the tinny sound of electronic music that seems to delight other children, his brain tells him it's nails on a chalkboard broadcast over stadium loudspeakers. Pure aural torture. And he reacts in a way that seems (to the rest of the world) out of proportion to what they hear, but completely appropriate for the way his brain is processing the sounds.

SPD has a strong genetic component, which explains why I don't wear socks but do wear sunglasses inside. My brain is also on a slightly different setting than the rest of the world. But if you've been reading me for any amount of time, you know that already.