Bathtime

The Lid has just had a bath. Nothing so unusual in that. Apart from this one she managed to have without screaming, at such high velocity she caused my ears to bleed, throughout. In actual fact, she did not scream once. Not when she got in the water, not when she had her hair washed, not whilst I washed her tummy (these three being her most effective triggers), not whilst she had her face washed. She merely sang happily and quietly throughout, gave herself a bubble beard (hurrah!) and generally splashed happily.


This is the first time that she has ever done this. Have a bath without screaming I mean, rather than have a bath full stop. The first time in three and a half years. Can you imagine what that is like, for both of us, every time we do this? It is so bad, so distressing, that the temptation is to not to it at all (which is the way Himself plays it when it is his turn). Lid being Lid means that this is not an option – for all her recent ferocious devotion to the colour pink and all its evil companions Barbie, jewellery and dresses, she is still very much her mother’s daughter. This means that she will usually be found goading boys into doing things, including competitive tree climbing, who can get dig the biggest hole, who can skid furthest on their knees, who can smear jam over their face the fastest.

That’s 1,272 times that I have wanted to cry, scream, throttle her for not just bloody enjoying her bath like a “normal” child. That’s over two weeks of our lives that have been spent with me near emotional collapse every single evening or morning, just to get playdough, snot and other detritus out of her hair and from under her fingernails.

So to you, it seems as if it is nothing, a non achievement. To me, it is the hopeful beginning of a new world almost one where, if not every night, then some nights I could give Lid a bath and not feel like I need a cigarette at the end of it and indeed during it.

I know, of course I know and so do you, that the next bath she has will see her screaming as if she is being murdered. I know that the sensitivity to it is one of the hidden autism spectrum sensitivities, even though I am constantly being told by her school that she isn’t on the spectrum and that she shows no signs there. I know that. You know that.

In a life where there are few victories, in a life where it sometimes feels that you are constantly banging your head against the wall, where you feel that regardless of how loudly you scream, how much you put in there is never a result, how much you ask for help no one hears or responds.

In a life like that, in my life, any victory that can make me smile and think that actually yes, everything I’m doing is making a difference - it is bigger than the highest accolade that can be received.