The Hulk
The Hulk, Broken Toes, and Too Many Hugs: Parenting a Child with PDA and OCD (Without Losing Your Mind) By Andrea Grant
Ah, children. Tiny tornadoes of joy, anxiety, and (if you’re particularly lucky like me) regular trips to the first aid cabinet. But while many parents are busy convincing their toddlers to eat their veggies or negotiating TV time with pre-teens, some of us are dealing with something a bit more… intense. Like when your kid turns into The Hulk at the mere suggestion of brushing her teeth.
Meet my daughter Olivia, who has Pathological Demand Avoidance (PDA) and Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD). If you’re unfamiliar with PDA, it’s part of the autism spectrum, and at its core, it's a child’s attempt to wrestle control back from a world that makes them feel like they're drowning in demands. Sometimes these demands are monumental, like going to school. Sometimes they’re as simple as, “Honey, can you please take a shower before you start growing mushrooms?”
f PDA were a competitive sport, Olivia would have a gold medal. She was diagnosed at six, but before that, I knew something was different. At first, I figured she was just strong-willed, a spirited child with a wild imagination. Then I realised it wasn’t just that she wouldn’t do certain things. It was that she couldn’t. The demand to do anything she hadn’t initiated on her own was a direct assault on her sense of control. Cue the Hulk. The Green, Angry Giant Within Let’s be clear—Olivia’s Hulk mode isn’t the lovable, misunderstood Bruce Banner you see in the movies. Oh no. This Hulk doesn’t politely smash a few walls and then sulk in a corner. She smashes expectations, social norms, and occasionally, my toes (but more on that later).
When she was younger, it was easier to handle. She'd refuse something as simple as brushing her teeth, and when the situation escalated, I could remove her from the environment, maybe distract her with a toy or a TV show. But now that she's 13 and taller than me, my days of scooping her up and taking her somewhere calm are long gone. These days, I feel like I’m starring in a real-life version of The Hulk Versus Mum: The Sequel (spoiler alert: I never win).
What’s changed in the last few years is Olivia’s understanding of herself. After years of working together, we’ve built a shared vocabulary for her emotions. Now, when the anxiety storm clouds start gathering, she can sometimes tell me. Instead of immediate Hulk-mode, she’ll come to me for what she calls "co-regulation." In layman's terms, that means she needs a hug. And I’m not talking about a brief pat on the back. Olivia’s hugs are of the bear variety—deep pressure that could rival a chiropractor’s best efforts, only without the certificate or insurance. The Hug-O-Meter: When 10 Hugs in 5 Minutes is Totally Normal Here’s where things get interesting.
Olivia’s co-regulation has become my full-time job. Yesterday, for example, I was chopping chicken for dinner when Olivia sidled up beside me, eyes wide and shoulders tight, waiting for a hug. Down went the knife. Hug number one. Three seconds later, another hug. I wasn’t even done seasoning the chicken before she’d demanded ten more. And let me tell you, Olivia’s hugs aren’t delicate. She has dysgraphia and motor delays, which means her spatial awareness is, let’s say, less than precise. It’s a bit like getting tackled by a friendly rhino. I’ve lost count of how many times she’s broken my toes or left me with bruises. It’s like having a very clumsy, very affectionate personal trainer.
Now, don't get me wrong—I love Olivia's hugs. I love that she can come to me when she’s anxious instead of melting down like she used to. But after the 53rd hug in an hour, it starts to feel like I’m running a marathon without ever leaving the kitchen.
The Self-Preservation Debate: Do I Have Boundaries, or Am I Just a Walking Hug Machine? Here’s where the eternal parenting dilemma comes in. My partner recently asked me, “Where are your boundaries? What about your sense of self-preservation?” I’ve never really thought of it that way. Parenting Olivia means understanding that when she asks for a hug, it’s not a simple request—it’s a lifeline. Co-regulation is crucial because the more she practices it, the better she gets at self-regulation. But the truth is, it’s exhausting. I’ve become the human embodiment of a comfort blanket, available 24/7 for emotional support, bruises be damned. I’m torn between wanting to preserve my sanity (and my toes) and knowing that if my daughter needs me to hug her during an anxiety spiral, I’ll drop everything to be there. Is this the right thing to do? I don’t know. Parenting, especially when neurodiversity enters the mix, is a constant game of trial and error, with a few tears, some laughter, and, in my case, regular trips to the ice pack.
Coping with Change: One Hug at a Time At the moment, we’re facing some pretty big personal changes as a family, and Olivia’s masking capabilities are starting to fray at the edges. Masking, for those unfamiliar, is when a child like Olivia holds it together in public, only to release all that pent-up stress once they’re in a “safe” environment. At home, Olivia lets her guard down, and I become the go-to person for every fear, every stress, every unmet expectation. I’m grateful she feels safe with me, but the increasing demands are taking their toll. I’m doing my best to manage it, but I also find myself wondering whether I’m setting the right example for her—if my constant willingness to sacrifice my own comfort is healthy for either of us. Do I have the answers? Not even close. But I know I’m not alone. There are other parents out there in similar situations, and if you’re reading this and nodding along, I see you. It takes a village, they say, and by that, I assume they mean an entire army of parents, teachers, and probably some trained emotional support dogs.
To Hug or Not to Hug? The Final Verdict So, where does this leave me? Do I need better boundaries? Maybe. Is this a vent? Absolutely. But more importantly, I’m just a mum, navigating the world of PDA, OCD, and a daughter who sometimes turns into a loveable but slightly terrifying Hulk. And until someone invents a manual on how to do this perfectly, I’ll keep on hugging, bruised arms and all. If anyone has advice, or just a good pair of steel-toed boots they can lend me, I’m all ears.