The Sarcasm Decoder ring I never got - by Andrea Grant
Parenting, PDA, and the Perils of Tone By A Mother Still Figuring It Out If parenting came with a manual, Chapter Seven would be titled “How to Decipher What Your Child Actually Means Versus What It Sounds Like They’re Saying.” For most, it’s a tricky chapter. In my house, it’s written in a complex cipher, requires a special decoder ring that was never manufactured, and occasionally seems to have been drafted by a mischievous monster with a keen sense of irony.
I write often about my autistic daughter, Olivia. She’s witty, creative, and sees the world in a structure all her own. The real kicker? The communication barrier this creates. So much of our daily dialogue is not in the words themselves, but in the music around them: the tone, the delivery, the raised eyebrow, the subtle sigh.
Olivia’s neurology means her tone often doesn’t match the intended message. What sounds like a challenge is often a question. What sounds like sarcasm is often a genuine, logical inquiry. My neurology, a tired and wired model prone to assuming traditional social cues, frequently gets it wrong. Take yesterday. The soundtrack of the day had been a symphony of sibling squabbles, negotiated treaties over the TV and wifi, and the relentless hum of a one parent household running on low energy and lower patience. Plus, I had been promising my youngest daughter, Georgia (7) that she could teach me how to play Chess. I hate Chess. But she really wanted me to play with her. Unfortunately, Sunday was D-Day and thus, the perfect storm was created. I was exhausted. Still am if I'm honest.
Anyway, I digress: Olivia and her brother were deep in an online game. The volume was escalating from cheerful co-op to gladiatorial arena. I took a breath. “Okay, you two. After this round, it’s time to shut it down for the day.” Olivia’s head snapped up. Her voice was flat, sharp, and carried the unmistakable edge of a courtroom lawyer confronting a hostile witness. “Why?” That one word. It landed not as a question, but as a gauntlet thrown down. It hit my eardrum and traveled directly to my last nerve, which had already put in for overtime. My defenses, pre-built from a weekend of peace arbitration, slammed into place. “Why?” I retorted, my own tone now dripping with the sarcasm I’d projected onto her. “Because it’s my house. Because I’m the Mom. Because I have had enough noise for one day!” The room went silent. Her brother (the peacekeeper) slowly slid down in his chair, attempting to achieve invisibility. Olivia just looked at me, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. She wasn’t defiant; she was bewildered. “I just wondered why we had to stop then,” she said, her voice now upset and confused. “You didn’t need to get so angry with me.” And there it was. The great divide. I heard a challenge. She was asking for data. In her mind, the logic was crystal clear: We often play for two hours.
We’ve only played for one. The stopping point seems arbitrary. I require more information to understand this new rule. Her brain, working at a million miles an hour to process the unexpected demand (stopping the game), delivered the query “Why?” in a tone that reflected her internal panic, not impertinence. I, the neurotypical parent, filtered that stressed tone through my own exhaustion and heard a kid backtalking. We were having two completely different conversations at the same time.
After fourteen years, you’d think I’d be an expert. Sometimes I am. And other times, we’re two ships passing in the night, foghorns blaring, misinterpreting every signal. The single most important strategy I’ve learned—the one that acts as our universal translator—is also the simplest and the hardest: Stay calm and ask, “What do you mean?” It sounds too basic to work, but for neurodiverse kids, especially those with PDA, it’s a game-changer. It de-escalates instantly. It replaces assumption with curiosity. It tells them, “I want to understand your intent, not just react to your delivery.”
Beyond the Tone Trap: Strategies for Clearer Communication For parents in the same boat, navigating these waters without a reliable compass for tone, here are a few proven strategies that work in our home - when I remember to utilise them:
1. Assume Positive Intent. This is the golden rule. Start from the belief that your child is not trying to be difficult. They are likely struggling, anxious, or seeking clarity. This mental shift alone changes your entire response.
2. Offer Choices, Not Demands. PDA brains reject demands but can engage with choices. Instead of “Time to turn off the game,” try, “Would you like to turn the game off now or after this next objective?” It provides a sense of agency and control, which reduces the panic.
3. Use Indirect Language. Soften the demand. “I wonder how we can get this done?” or “The game will need to be off in about ten minutes,” gives time to process the transition without the immediate pressure of a direct command.
4. Focus on the Logic. Olivia’s brain respects logic, not authority. “We need to stop because the noise level is getting high and I can see you’re both getting frustrated, which usually leads to an argument,” is a much more acceptable reason than “Because I said so.” It provides the data she craves.
5. Don’t Take the Bait (Because It’s Not Always Bait). When a comment sounds sarcastic or provocative, pause. Breathe. Respond to the literal words, not the tone. “That sounded sarcastic. Did you mean it that way, or were you asking a question?” This opens a door instead of slamming one shut.
I have to remember that I am not perfect. There is one of me and three of them, each with their own unique operating manual. I won’t always get it right. But by learning to listen past the tone and seek the meaning, we’re building a better bridge across our neurological divide. And we’re learning that sometimes, the most important words aren’t the ones said with the right inflection, but the ones that come after: “What do you mean?”