Happy

When I was pregnant with The Boy, I was often asked if I knew what I was having.  To start with, I replied that I would be happy either way.  I would then be told that "it wouldn't matter so long as they had ten fingers and ten toes", to which I always replied that that didn't concern me; so long as they were happy, I would be happy. 

The ability to be other people's perception of "normal" was not a wish I had for my baby.  I wanted them to be happy; have a happy childhood, enjoy the things around them, feel safe and loved throughout, as these were not things I felt as a child myself.  I wanted things to be different for my child.  I wanted things to be better.  I felt sure that this was something I could attain.

It didn't start off great.  I already put him in the same fatherless family as I was born into when he was six months old.  Still, it wouldn't be awful.  I reasoned that I could rely on my family, who all duly, er, disappeared.

No matter, things would be well.  I could work around the troublesome sitiuation we were in, and I would suceed, for the sake both of our happiness.

Life continued, difficulties arose, but always and throughout, The Boy was happy.  His smile lit up my heart.  In my blackest hours, of which there were many, the mere fact that he existed made me believe that there was good in an otherwise dark and lonely world. 

He never gave up on me.  He always believed that I could make things better for him, for us.  When my faith in us as a team slipped, his didn't.   It never has and I doubt that it ever will.

There have been inordinate lows; his hospitalisation at 18 months when the little shit tried to die on me and leave me on my own in this shitty world springs to mind; my being told when he was 2 and a half that he would never speak and that I should "consider my options"; and enormous highs; the day that he spoke again after a year of silence; when he castigates me for trying to quit when, as we all know, Wiltshire's don't quit; when he casually tells me he loves me; his obvious joy when he does something brilliant and he sees the pride on my face.

My belief in My Boy has never been shaken. Sometimes I do not believe that the actions he takes are those of my child, are those of My Boy; yet I know that often the action performed is not his choice - it is autism's choice.  It is not his reaction, it is autism's reaction.  The pain that it inflicts on him, the awkwardness that he feels when he knows he mustn't hit others when he is angry but must instead talk about it to find a resolution, his inability to do this despite how hard he tries is utterly heartbreaking. 

I don't resent that he is autistic.  I have said many times and I re-iterate that were it not for him I would have self destructed years ago.  I do resent the effect that the autism itself has on him.  How, as it has become more "noticeable" and obvious that he is different to some of his peers, parents hold back their children, the invitations to parties do not extend to him, he is glared at for behaviour that he cannot help.

I resent and I despise how it makes My Boy sad, how it robs him of his happiness, and how he isolates himself from others because he is now so used to rejection that he figures he may just as well act upon the impulses autism provides.

I resent that I think that he doesn't deserve it, because you know, he doesn't deserve it.

I resent how his mainstream school have dug their heels in over statementing, and yet threatened me repeatedly that they will exclude him from school, enforcing illegal exclusions on him that I facilitated in his Reception year, how they have refused to get involved to help him, how the "blame" for the actions caused by his autism has been placed upon me, and how, when they purport that changes they have railed against have improved his behaviour by 70% last week have meant that his behaviour is increasingly disintegrating this week.

I resent that I didn't over rule him and insist he went to a school that I thought more trustworthy, had a better OFSTED (although admittedly it is in a "worse" area), and was rumoured to have better experience with SEN children.

I hate myself for thinking that his instant happiness was more important that his ongoing happiness; that I didn't sacrifice the continuity of children who could tolerate him when he was less obviously "weird" and different when he entered Recepton at 4 who now find him unbearable at 6.

I wish that I had thought it through more, and decided against the school next to his old nursery, where he still receives some after school care, to give continuity of grown ups the group that has let him down the most.

I wish for him to be happy.  I want for The Boy to be happy.  I need for My Boy to happy. 

It is finding the way and taking the action that is most appropriate, knowing the damage a wrong decision could inflict today, the sadness it may cause, will provide him with a future that is full of the good stuff.  A future where he will attain all that I have ever wanted for him; happiness.