The Smiles

We have returned to Wiltshire Towers post our almost week of holidaying in Norfolk.

Neither Midget particularly enjoyed the experience; there were too many instances of sensory overload; too many things that were a bit too different; and despite best efforts to prepare them (including my sitting up and making a booklet about the chalet and surrounding areas with pictures, maps etc in it a week before the trip), a relaxing experience it did not make.

Lid found the sand desperately uncomfortable if she spent more than 20 minutes playing in it, which made the trips to the beach that Nanna insisted upon slightly troublesome, especially as she wanted to stay there for as long as her parking ticket was paid up until, and would then snipe should we leave earlier than she wanted to.

The sheer mechanics of organising any trip to the beach were also chaotic, as was trying to track where the children were once there.  Nanna viewed this very much as her holiday, and as such ducked out of child supervision.  Cue Mummy running frantically from one end of the beach to another trying to keep them in the same general area.

The Boy suffered horribly whilst there.  He experienced verbal loops that were driving him to distraction.  He tried to stop and then became frustrated at his inability to do so. His violent behaviour increased with his levels of upset and the sheer challenge of the environment he was in. He flapped and circled.  He hit and spat.

Lid cried and tantrumed, unable to sleep, tormented by the strangeness of it all.

I was confronted by "well meaning" citizens regarding their behaviour, and challenged as to why I could not control them.  My parenting was questioned, and I ended up snapping at one such idiot in the toilets after she barked at my son "be quiet, you".

Attempts to organise trips out were thwarted by the children being unable to "handle" them.  A trip to the Sealife Centre, a personal favourite of mine, saw the fastest turnaround that the cashier on the till had ever seen at Great Yarmouth.  We walked in, Lid started to scream and cry, and refused to move.  Attempts to pacify her, talk her through, offers of torches failed. We left.  Very quickly.

One of the hardest things to accept as the parent of an autistic child is that your attempts to show them the more enjoyable experiences of the world that you had as a child simply do not work for them.  You can of course try and you will, desperately so, but what worked for you may not work for them.

It is, truly, soul destroying, but it teaches you.  It teaches you that, for your child, pleasures will be different and quite often simpler.  The offer of small piece of blu tac to fiddle with can make your 4 year old giggle in delight, and entertain her almost solidly for hours as she puts it in and then takes it out of a glasses case.  The production of a toy car will give your 6 year old son something that he can play with, twirling the wheels, playing at Top Gear, criticising the inaccurancy of the scale to which it has been made.

It teaches you that the best weapon at your disposal is imagination; that there is a need to think outside the neurotypical box that you are stuck within.  It teaches you that, sometimes, what you are going to do is to sit and watch "Toy Story 2" for what feels like the 7,000th time and that any attempt to turn it off, even when they are not in the room, will produce a barrage of protests that they were "watching that."

It teaches you to never give up.


It teaches you to concentrate on the triumphs.  It teaches you to concentrate on the smiles.  It teaches you that, for every fuck up you make, you've resolved at least three things, that every picture tells a different story to what you felt was going on and that, in the end, all that leaves is the smiles.