autism

Today is World Book Day at school. Imogen is dressing up as a pirate from the Captain Flynn books and Xanthe is dressing up as a character from Ratburger. I don’t know the character’s name – I haven’t read the book. We’ve planned for Parker to go as Robin Hood. He’s recently enjoyed the book, and has been prepared for it for a couple of weeks. He’s seemed almost excited about it at times. Granddad has repaired his bow and made him a couple of (harmless) arrows from bamboo. I bought him some camouflage trousers especially for the costume, and we’ve cobbled together a pretty good outfit from our dressing-up box.

I like non-school uniform days, but I don’t like themed dressing-up days, for a couple of reasons. It’s partly because it either costs us energy or money, neither of which we have in abundance these days, but it’s mostly because we have a son with autism. He’s fine with non-school uniform days, but there’s something about the themed ones that set him off. Sure enough, this morning is no different.

Despite having plenty of advance warning and a pretty good Robin Hood costume, he’s still in his pants at 8.05. He won’t put anything on. What do you want to wear, Parker? “Nothing!” he says. He doesn’t want to wear his costume. He doesn’t want to wear non-school uniform. He doesn’t want to wear school uniform. He’s angry and difficult, throwing aggressive insults at everyone in the house. Normally this would cause a full-on sibling riot, but Xanthe and Imogen (to their eternal credit) have realised that this is Serious Business and are tying to help. Unfortunately, their best efforts sometimes make things worse.

“If you don’t know what you want to wear, I’ll choose something for you,” I say. I pick out some jeans and a shirt. I dress him. He complains, but doesn’t resist. I relax and go and clean-up the kitchen. I tell Imogen it’s time to leave, and put her socks on for her. Xanthe has already left. Then I see a pair of jeans and a crumpled shirt at the top of the stairs. A scrawny figure in underpants runs past. I shouldn’t have been surprised.

I try a different tactic. I take the underwear-clad Parker into the bathroom and we sort out his teeth and hair before going back to the bedroom. I am, unbelievably, still calm. I tell Parker that it’s time to go. This has the desired affect. I have, through bitter experience, worked out that the fear of being late often steamrolls over the top of his other fears. We negotiate an outfit through trial and error (“What about this top?” “NOOO! Anything but that one!” “This one then.”)

Imogen is ready, and behaving like the perfect child. Parker is now dressed, but dawdling on the issue of putting on a coat. We’re finally outside, but we have to pause for a few minutes while Parker tries to break back into the house.

Then we’re on our way. I am already mentally chalking this one up as a victory. Once we’re underway things often calm down, and by the time we arrive at school he’s usually fine. He’s still angry though, and saying all kinds of nonsense to his younger sister. Every now and then she appeals to me, but mostly she ignores him. “Parker’s only saying that because he’s angry. He’ll regret it later,” she says to me, with a wisdom beyond her five years.

We get to school, but Parker hasn’t calmed down.

“I really hate stupid World Book Day,” he says, through tears, as we enter the school grounds.

“So do I, Parker,” I reply.

My plan is to escort Parker to the door, send him in, and then walk Imogen round to her class, taking that opportunity to commend her for her stellar behaviour this morning. But Parker is in no mood to make things easy. We’re at his door but he won’t go in. I take him to one side, and threaten him with the loss of screen time over the weekend, but I regret it as soon as I say it. It makes things worse and he bursts into tears. It was a schoolboy error. When he’s like this, threats don’t work. I take it back and restore his screen privilege as only a parent can do. He calms down almost instantly, but he still won’t go in.

So the three of us walk round to Imogen’s door. “You’ve been a really good girl this morning, Imogen,” I say. “Thank you.” She kisses me and goes into the classroom. I take Parker back round, but he still won’t go in.

“I’ll walk you in,” I say.

This is the Big Play, the Silver Bullet, the Nuclear Option. For Parker, there’s no greater embarrassment than a parent actually being in the school building (which makes it awkward for his mum, who teaches at the school). This always sends him scuttling inside, but not today. It’s the first time it’s failed me. Instead he’s physically trying to restrain me from entering the building.

“Just let me stop crying,” he says. This is a fair request, so we stand to one side and I try to think of ways to cheer him up. I’ve got nothing.

Then Mrs Wheeler, his class’s TA comes out. She’s dressed as a wizard or something.

“What’s wrong, Parker?” she says. Parker says nothing.

“He doesn’t like World Book Day,” I say.

“But you like books normally, don’t you?” she says.

Parker shakes his head. A lie.

“Would you like to come and help me?” she says. “I have a few jobs I need to do before school starts.”

Parker nods. Just like that, she takes him into the building, arm round his shoulders.

She’s dressed as a wizard or something, but at that moment, as far as I’m concerned, she’s an angel.

I know what happens next. Parker will be fine now. When I collect him later he’ll be cheerful and talkative all the way home. I walk back to our house, thinking about how to reward Imogen for her maturity and grace this morning. I got Parker to school, and nothing was broken. Definitely a success, but for a weary and sensitive soul like me, successes often feel like defeats. But that’s just parenting, isn’t it? The rules are always changing, but you do you best, don’t you?

I think I’ll buy Imogen a book.