Astronaughty

We are traipsing around the Science Museum, attempting to see the exhibitions.  The Boy and I have spoken of this trip for some time; we are both excited.  We have invited along the ostracised grandparents who made us homeless some years back.  He is concerned by their presence, but accepts that it means that he will have my attention as they will fuss over his sister.

We meet and proceed to the museum.  The Boy is polite but quiet; he is incapable of hatred for he is too kind and placid a soul, but you can feel his distrust of them as he clings tightly to my side, even reaching for the odd hug of reassurance and receiving a kiss on the forehead without wiping it off in disgust.

We walk into the museum, and already The Boy is entranced. He is careful to look around, and wants to plan a route.  We see, on the lower floor, the start of an exhibition on movement.  Lid demands we go to the Psychoanalysis exhibition, as there are stairs and she wants to climb them.  The Boy, resignedly, agrees.

Lid becomes obsessed with the many flights of stairs, and is determined to use them, though only to walk upwards.  Any attempt to halt her upwards motion is met with those meltdowns familiar to those with autistic children.  She has been disturbed in her endeavour, and seemingly must continue to climb the stairs for fear of some unknown and unrevealed consequence.

The Boy is being endearingly patient of his younger sibling.  He reminds her, gently, that there are things to see.  He guides her, kindly, to things he thinks she will enjoy.  He anticipates her meltdowns; senses what may set her off in the way that I do for them both.  He takes turns and helps her.  He sacrifices what he wants to see to keep her happy.  He holds her hand, carries the pink cat she has been presented with by the grandparent interlopers; he makes it talk to her to persuade her to move from the walkways that she inevitably decides to lie down and scream in.  He guides her up the stairs, offers to carry the impossibly heavy rucksack containing the kit needed to transport them around almost seamlessly; the ear protectors, the magazines, the favourite toys, the stim facilitators, the favourite snacks so that I can carry his sister to make her journey easier.

Eventually, we arrive at the lower floors.  We start by going through the "Who Am I?" exhibition.  They marvel at the sights, and The Boy asks why there isn't anything there about children like him and his sister?  He looks at the "Am I Normal" signs and chuckles; "I don't want to be like everyone else Mummy, so if that's normal (indicating an NT child who is kicking his mother) I'm pleased I'm autistic."

We move onwards, and marvel at the trains and automobiles.  The Boy is full of open mouthed wonder; he reads the notes provided, fills in where the information is lacking.  We wander through, towards the highly anticipated space area.

We glide on, using the items on display, marveling at the rockets.  We come to an exhibition demonstrating an astronaut, and what vehicles and tools are used when on the moon.

"Would you like be an astronaut?" I ask him, knowing that, really, even if he wanted to, he possibly won't be one.

He looks at me with his big blues, and flashes me his giant beaming smile.  "I already am, Mummy."

He's right, of course, the clever swine.  The whole idiocy that we neurotypicals allow ourselves to operate within; that the musuem itself deigns that it is able to comment on what is and isn't "normal" about a human being; he is, in essence, a kind alien within a hostile environment, exploring a world that doesn't make sense.  I think of how far he has come, and at this point Lid begins what feels like her 700th meltdown of the day.  The despair I used to feel at them is gone; I remember when The Boy was like that.  He has made me feel anything is possible.

"What about Lid? Will she be an astronaut?" I ask him.  He looks shocked. "Oh no, Mummy, but Lid will always be astronaughty!"

He ruffles her hair, grabs her hand, and we head off back into unexplored territory.