children

James’s Blog: The Love and Pain of Starting a New School.

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James’s Blog: The Love and Pain of Starting a New School.

So this week Parker started secondary school. I’ve been anxious about this moment for a while, not because I’m having trouble adapting to my children getting older but because – as long time readers of this blog will know – Parker is autistic. Covid-19 has thrown the normal school transition process out of the window, and if any of our children needed the chance to get acquainted with a new school, it was Parker. On the plus side, Covid restrictions mean that he’ll probably spend all his time with the same people in the same classroom. That’s a plus.

As it happens, day one went well. That helps a lot, and day two is a lot easier with that success behind us, but there’s still a way to go before both dad and child feel confident and comfortable with this new era.

Obviously, he’s the one facing the big changes and the new situation, but I’m anxious about his anxiety. I’m the the parent in charge of the school run, so the responsibility for managing his meltdowns falls on me. I’m not good at it. Ruth is so much better at this kind of thing. She’s much better at parenting generally – and coping with stress.

Part of the problem is my that own autistic tendencies don’t help. My experiences allow me to empathise with Parker and his struggles, as the things that cause him stress are the same kind of things that cause me stress, but in reality it just means that I can see the trouble coming. It doesn’t mean I can do anything about it, or even help Parker navigate it.

I can look back on my own childhood with the wisdom of age, and I can see how I worried about things needlessly, and how I could have much better managed the things that I did need to worry about. But have you ever tried to use your wisdom to override a child’s experience in the moment? It doesn’t often work, so I mostly just get to experience his stress without having the having the power to influence it. His stress becomes my stress, and then we’re both just stressed.

It’s the universe’s cruelest joke, to make you care for another but unable to live their life for them – to have to suffer vicariously. Love unlocks new ways of pain. It’s one thing to suffer yourself, to suffer as a result of your own choices. It’s another thing to see someone you care about suffer, to share their pain, and to know that they don’t have to suffer. If they were just able to see the world the way you see it for a moment…but instead you’re both left with the suffering.

But that’s how it’s supposed to work, loving your children and carrying their burdens even though it doesn’t really benefit you at all. That’s the example that we’ve been set. It blows my mind that God had a choice, and that this is what He chose for Himself.

James’s Blog: Ugly Truth.

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James’s Blog: Ugly Truth.
I had an idea for a blog post, but just as I was about to start writing I got distracted by browsing through some old stuff that I’d written. I found this thing from 2007 which, while needing a bit of work, is probably better than what I was going to write… Read more

James’s Blog: Fridge.

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James’s Blog: Fridge.

I get frustrated with myself and my inability to ever create things that are as good as I want them to be. It’s embarrassing.

I think about God, the first content provider, and wonder what He must make of it all. Read more

James’s Blog: Feeling Emotional at the Airport.

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James’s Blog: Feeling Emotional at the Airport.

I’m sitting in Gatwick airport in that limbo just before we’re supposed to board our plane – that space when you’re simultaneously on holiday and not on holiday. It’s Schrodinger’s Holiday. As I sit there, I’m reading Jesus’ words in John 12:24-28. Read more

James’s Blog: A Typical Morning.

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James’s Blog: A Typical Morning.

Reid has already left for school with his mum, while Calvin sleeps on in his GCSE-free zone. Xanthe is somewhere in the house, killing time by listening to music at a volume level chosen for the purpose of agitating her younger brother. I ask Parker about his homework. He declares in a loud voice that he needs some alone time and marches out into the garden. Imogen, sitting at the table munching on her cereal, doesn’t even look up from her book. Read more

James’s Blog: A Second Letter from God.

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James’s Blog: A Second Letter from God.

Some of you may remember that about three years ago, Imogen wrote God a letter, the primary outcome of which seemed to be my scarring my daughter for life – or so I had thought.  One day, about a year afterwards, she announced that she wanted to write to God again.  It turned out that actually receiving a reply seemed to be a factor in her wanting to write a second letter.  It ended up similar in content to the first one, primarily concerned with Space Hoppers it seemed.  This caused me a little discouragement – I had hoped for more theological growth over the the prior twelve months (When I was four years old I was already reading Calvin’s Institutes – in the original French) but you can’t have everything.

Then it was my turn to freak out a little.  What had I started?  Now I would have to write a reply, like last time.  I wasn’t sure where to go with it.  Imogen is our fifth child, and pretty much the only one I think I haven’t managed to break so far, but if I went around pretending to be God all the time then her odds weren’t great.  In the end I sat down and thought, “What do I think God would want to say to Imogen at this moment?” and it all came quite easily after that.

It doesn’t matter how clever we are, or aren’t.  How eloquent and well-read.  How persuasive.  None of that matters, not really.  We will never be more influential or powerful in our words than when we are doing nothing more than giving a voice to what the Holy Spirit is already whispering to somebody’s heart.

“What should I say?” is a decent question.

“What do I think God would want to say to this person at this moment?” is a better one.

James’s Blog: World Book Day.

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James’s Blog: World Book Day.

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.

James’s Blog: Love is Not Fair.

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James’s Blog: Love is Not Fair.

Soon I’m going to have to book a family trip to the dentist. Last time Parker refused to have his teeth checked. We’d let him know about the visit well in advance, and he seemed fine on the day itself, so we were caught off-guard by his spirited rejection of the dentist  – the irony being that he is probably the child who needs a dental check-up the most. To the dentist’s credit, he was reluctant to push the issue lest Parker end up traumatised. As for me, well, I was ready to kneel on his chest and prise his mouth open with my bare hands by the end of the visit. Don’t worry – I didn’t get that far.

It didn’t end there. After we left the dentist Parker had another full-blown tantrum, this time accusing Ruth and I of not letting him go to the dentist, and blaming us for the fact that all his teeth were going to rot and fall out. You’ve got to laugh, haven’t you. Haven’t you? HAVEN’T YOU???!!!

This time I’ve offered him Lego if he has his teeth checked, and that might do the trick. To his brothers and sisters it looks like he’s being rewarded for performing simple tasks, but there you go. I’m sure that they know that life is not fair. I’ve been very careful to make that clear to them on several occasions.

It is hard for them. I do wonder if, through their eyes, autism looks like fun. You get praised for run-of-the-mill behaviour, and don’t get punished nearly as much as it seems you should. But if they understood autism they wouldn’t wish to be in Parker’s shoes. Free Lego doesn’t seem like much of a trade-off when you think about all the extra complications he’s going to have to negotiate in order to form meaningful adult relationships or perform to the best of his ability in everyday situations.

I hope that my children realise something important – that loving everybody the same means loving everybody differently.

Love, by its nature (and I’m talking about proper, getting-your-hands-dirty, self-denying love here) means doing what is right for each individual according to his or her needs, strengths and weaknesses. Love is personalised. Life isn’t the only thing that’s not fair, because if love was fair it wouldn’t be love. One size most definitely does not fit all.

Some people, by the time that they get to my age, have been beaten around the head by life so badly that it’s left some pretty deep scars. I know that what God expects of them is different to what He expects of me. I know that sometimes He’s a bit harder on me than He would be on others, but equally I know that there are things He lets me get away with. However, I wouldn’t for one second suggest anything other than that God loves us all with the same burning, self-sacrificial, personalised passion.

Fairness is all right for robots and pets, but children deserve something better.

James’s Blog: Outsmarted.

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James’s Blog: Outsmarted.

“Dad, I’ve just realised something,” said Imogen.

She’d been thinking, you see.  It was her mother that put her up to it.  Imogen had informed me that Ruth had told her that I wasn’t very good at making beds.  It’s a fair cop, guv.  But that earth-shattering revelation had caught her imagination.

“What have you realised?” I asked, as though I was interested.

“Mum’s good at the stuff that you’re bad at, and you’re good at the stuff she’s bad at.”

“Well,” I said, “that’s how marriage is supposed to work.”

I sensed an opportunity to turn the tables on my wife.

“Out of interest,” I went on, “what is it that mum’s bad at that I’m good at?”

Imogen thought for a second, but only for a second.

“Being the best dad in the world,” she said.

Smooth.  She managed to palm me off while protecting Ruth’s infallibility.  Not bad for a five-year old.  I felt quite proud of her, outsmarting her old man.

It makes me think of Abraham and Moses, the flawed saints, taking God to task for His behaviour.  The passages where they argue with God would be controversial and tricky enough if it weren’t for the fact that they also appear to win.  We can get ourselves into all sorts of theological tangles over those passages, at least until we realise that He – being God and all – doesn’t need to justify Himself to us, and we should just let Him get on with being God.  He’s good at it.

The point is, I believe that He must have felt a sense of fatherly pride as his children went toe-to-toe with Him because they believed in people.

Over the years it’s been normal for my three boys to team up to try and take me down, but I’ve always been stronger and more cunning.  However, as I watch them fill out and creep up, I know my days are numbered.  Indeed, I suspect that when I’m in my dotage, I’m going to spend a lot of time being tipped out of my wheelchair.

I also think of Jacob, wrestling God to a standstill and extracting a blessing for his troubles.  As Jacob limped away from the scene of the battle I like to think of God in heaven, nudging the angels.

“Did you see my boy go?  Did you see him?  What a fighter!”

Sometimes God tests us purely to give us a chance to make Him proud.  I think that’s a healthy way to view things – those test are not occasions to let God down, but rather occasions to bring a smile to His face.

James’s Blog: Based on a True Story.

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James’s Blog: Based on a True Story.

“Good morning sports fans, I’m Rex Steele…”

“…and I’m Chuck Chuckerson!”

“…and welcome to today’s event in the Parent Olympics! Who’s competing today, Chuck?”

“Well, Rex, today we have James from Canterbury! He’s a writer and stay-at-home dad with five children, though he’s only got a couple of years experience in today’s event. Remind the viewers at home what today’s event is, Rex!”

“Today’s event is the Post-School-Run Restoration, Chuck! The event begins when the parent returns from dropping his children off at school, and tidies up all the mess that has been made in the previous hour!”

“Sounds exciting, Rex! Now, am I right in thinking that James has already got the post-breakfast kitchen under control, so he’s going to concentrate on the upstairs?”

“That’s correct, Chuck! James has only been doing this event for the past couple of years, so he’s still something of a rookie, but I was talking to him yesterday and reminded him that he has potentially another thirteen years of this event ahead of him, and that he should be an expert by the end of his career!”

“I expect he found that encouraging, Rex!”

“He sure did, Chuck! You can see that the bruising around my eye looks a lot better today!”

“Ha ha! Good times! WHOA, I’m going to cut you off there, Rex! James has just arrived home from the school run, and we’re off!”

“He’s straight upstairs, and it looks like he’s heading for the bathroom! A good place to start, Chuck?”

“Good enough, Rex…And he’s stepped on a soaking wet flannel that’s been left in the middle of the floor! AMAZING! Can we get a slow mo replay, on that Rex?”

“No we can’t, Chuck! And WHAT A PRO! He’s picked up the flannel and placed it by the sink! Now, what is that in the sink, Chuck? Some kind of exploded insect?”

“No, Rex, that’s TOOTHPASTE!”

“And on the mirror and walls?”

“That’s toothpaste too!”

“WOW! Those children sure cover all their bases! And what’s James doing now, Chuck? Talk us through it!”

“Well, Rex, it looks like he’s using the children’s flannel to WIPE UP the toothpaste!”

“The flannel he just found on the floor? The one that they use to wipe their FACES?”

“That’s right, Rex!”

“Ha ha, FANTASTIC, Chuck! He’s really using his initiative there!”

“Now he’s on to the bedrooms…wait, hang on. He’s just noticed something, Rex!”

“Look at that, Chuck! The toilet roll holder is empty, I repeat, the toilet roll holder is EMPTY! Man down! MAN DOWN!”

“Thankfully, there’s a fresh roll right there on top of the toilet. It won’t take James long to change it, but one wonders why the child who used the last of the roll didn’t change it afterwards!”

“Not really, Chuck. It’s a well known fact that children believe that changing the toilet roll causes their eyeballs to EXPLODE!”

“Job done, Rex, and James is on to the bedrooms…WHOA! Did you see that! He just ignored the bedroom belong to the teenage boys and moved straight to the bedroom of the younger kids!”

“That’s right, Chuck. That’s his experience kicking in – he knows that there are some battles not worth fighting.”

“And he’s in the bedroom now and…LOOK AT THAT! What is all that stuff? I see Lego, Playmobil and Thomas the Tank Engine toys everywhere, Rex! EVERYWHERE!”

“That’s right – and don’t forget the Shopkins and Barbies, Chuck!”

“Wasn’t this room completely tidy when they went to bed the night before? Those are some seriously dedicated children, to have managed to get out so many toys in such a short space of time!”

“And he’s moving toys round, he’s tidying up, he’s…he’s dancing around the room? What’s he doing, Chuck? He’s got no time for this!”

“He just stood on some Lego, Rex!”

“Ah, OUCH…and now he’s on to the beds. Is that…yes…I can see that one of the beds has not been made! One of the beds has NOT BEEN MADE!”

“And that’s despite the child involved being told a MILLION times to make his bed, right, Rex?”

“That’s right, Chuck, but science has proved that the louder and more often you tell a child something, the less they hear!”

“How does that work, Rex?”

“I don’t know, Chuck, but it does! It’s science!”

“Now James is moving away from the beds…he’s not made the bed, Rex, he’s NOT made the bed!”

“Uhhh, no, I think you’ll find that he has, Chuck!”

“Ah. Bed making is clearly not his strong suit, then!”

“It looks like it, Chuck! Now he’s almost home free but…what’s that! My WORD! Have you ever seen anything like that, Chuck?”

“James has seen it, Rex, he’s seen it! It’s some pyjama bottoms HANGING from a bookcase! Look at his face, Rex! Look at it!”

“Ah, yes, it’s his signature expression, the ‘What the Dickens…?’!”

“He’s wasting time, Rex! He’s got to keep moving!”

“Yes, he’s got the pyjamas, Chuck, and what’s that? They’re COVERED in food from LAST NIGHT’S MEAL!”

“Straight to the washing basket with them, Rex! This is the last stretch! James is almost in the clear!”

“This is a good run, Chuck! He’s not had to deal with some of the more time-consuming challenges like Furniture That Has Been Mysteriously Moved!”

“Or Who’s Been Fiddling With The Thermostat, Rex!”

“Yes, he’s at the washing basket, and he’s putting the pyjamas in! This is going to be a good time…BUT WAIT! What’s that? Why’s he hesitating, Chuck?”

“Has he? Yes, he has! He’s seen some WHITE washing in the DARK washing basket! What a nail biting finish!”

“Yes, he’s pulling out the offending item, Chuck! And I can confirm that it’s some dirty underwear! I repeat, there is DIRTY WHITE UNDERWEAR in the dark washing! MY GOODNESS, Chuck! What a last minute twist!”

“And…he’s put the dirty underwear in the right basket, Rex! STOP THE CLOCK!”

“And that’s it! James has finished! What’s the time, Chuck?”

“Oh, it’s good, but it’s not his best, Rex! And look, you can see the disappointment on his face! It might have been a different story without the errant pyjamas and the careless underpants!”

“Never mind, Chuck, he’ll have another chance tomorrow, when he has to do it all over again!”

“That’s right, Rex! And don’t forget to tune in later for more exciting events from the Parent Olympics!”

“This is Rex Steele, signing off!”

“And this is Chuck Chuckerson, saying, have a fine day, sports fans!”

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