Our Autism “Normal”: Humming Fridges, Extra iPads, and Duck Duck Goose

In other people’s houses, the fridge opens and closes, lights get flipped on and off, kids say “no” and actually move on. In our house, “normal” looks a little different. We’ve got a kid who hums at silent refrigerators, runs a strict 50 percent battery policy on iPads, and will draft you into a surprise game of Duck Duck Goose while you’re just trying to drink your coffee. None of it would make sense to a stranger—but for us, these bizarre little habits are the rhythm of our day.

In the autism world, people talk about “special interests” and preferred behaviors. I used to hear that and think it meant hobbies. Around here, it looks more like rituals, rules, and tiny routines that seem random from the outside but are actually how our kid feels safe, calm, and happy. What looks bizarre to other people has quietly become the backbone of our day.

The humming refrigerator

In our house, opening the refrigerator is a full‑body experience, and not for the reasons you’d think. The second that door swings open, he covers his ears and starts humming, even though there’s no extra noise. No beeps, no alarms—just cold air and a kid bracing for something only he seems to feel.

At first, it worried me. Was he hearing something I wasn’t? Was the motor too loud? Now, it’s just part of the routine: hand on the handle, door open, tiny human in the corner humming like he’s buffering. It’s his way of managing whatever his brain expects to happen in that moment, and my job is just to get the milk and shut the door before the humming turns into a full protest.

The “No… no NO NO NO” rule

Most kids say no. Our kid says no like it’s his job and there’s a performance review coming. He can’t just say “no” one time; it’s always “No… no NO NO NO,” like a staircase of refusal he has to walk all the way down before he can even think about what you asked.

You tell him it’s time for shoes: “No… no NO NO NO.”
You ask if he wants the blue cup: “No… no NO NO NO.”

Half the time, once he’s finished the whole chorus of no’s, he actually does the thing anyway. The answer isn’t really about the question—it’s about needing a little space between what you said and what he’s about to do. It used to drive me up the wall. Now, I just wait for the last “NO” to land and see what happens next.

The light switch parade

If you move from one room to another in our house, you’re not just walking—you’re on a mission to turn on every light along the way. He cannot pass a switch without flipping it. Kitchen to hallway? Click. Hallway to bedroom? Click. Bathroom just because it’s there? Click. By the time he’s made it from the couch to his room, the house looks like we’re trying to signal passing airplanes.

I used to chase behind him turning everything back off, grumbling about the electric bill. Now I pick my battles. For him, the lights are like checkpoints in a video game: “I was here, I’m safe, I can move on.” For me, it’s a reminder that what feels like “too much” sometimes is actually his brain trying to map out a world that feels manageable.

Duck Duck Goose, surprise edition

There is no safe time in our house to space out. At any random moment, you can be quietly minding your business—on your phone, drinking coffee, checking an email—and suddenly you’re in a full game of Duck Duck Goose. There are no sign‑ups, no warm‑ups, just a small hand tapping heads: “duck, duck, duck… GOOSE!” And you’re it, whether you like it or not.

It’s chaotic and badly timed and, honestly, sometimes hilarious. I’ve done more laps around our living room in work clothes than I care to admit. But these little ambush games are also how he pulls us into his world: his way of saying, “I want you with me, right now, on my terms.”

The 50 percent iPad battery crisis

Battery life is serious business around here. We live under what I call the 50 percent rule: once his iPad dips below 50 percent, it’s crisis mode. Not “hey, plug this in when you get a chance”—full‑body distress. The solution? We own two iPads so we can keep one fully charged at all times.

Is that excessive? Maybe. Does it save us from a category‑five meltdown when the little battery icon turns yellow? Absolutely. To someone else, this probably looks like spoiling. But for him, that battery bar isn’t just a number; it’s a measure of safety. Below 50 feels like standing on a cliff edge. Above 50 is solid ground. And if we can give him solid ground with one extra charger and some planning, I’ll take that trade.

Dogs’ best friend

Then there’s his relationship with the dogs. He loves them so much that he has quietly become their greatest ally in the kitchen. Snacks and meals migrate to the very edge of the counter, always just close enough for a curious nose and a lucky tongue.

You’ll walk in and see a plate of food hovering halfway off the edge like it’s trying to escape. Did he “forget” to push it back, or is he running a covert snack program for his furry best friends? Hard to say. But the dogs definitely know who their guy is. It used to frustrate me—another mess, another dinner gone. Now, it’s hard not to smile at the little conspiracies between a kid who doesn’t always have the words and a couple of dogs who will happily translate “I love you” into crumbs.

The streaking phase we grew out of

And then there are the habits that, thank God, we’ve grown out of. There was a phase where his preferred activity was stripping and running away—like a tiny, naked escape artist. Turn your back for two seconds and he’d be halfway down the hall, clothes abandoned like a crime scene.

At the time, it was exhausting and, depending on the timing, a little terrifying. Now we can laugh about it. It’s one of those chapters we’re grateful is behind us, but also one of the clearest reminders of how far he’s come. The kid who used to sprint away without a stitch on now hums at the refrigerator and runs Duck Duck Goose tournaments in the living room. Progress looks different for every family. That’s what it looks like for us.

Our version of normal

I used to see these habits as problems to fix—evidence that we were somehow failing at “normal.” Now I see them as a map of what his brain needs to feel okay in a world that often doesn’t make sense. They’re bizarre, yes. They’re sometimes exhausting. But they’re also funny, strangely beautiful, and uniquely ours.

If your house has its own list of weird little rituals, you’re not alone. Your “bizarre” might just be the version of normal your kid needs.