This was going to be a different blog. I had half written it, and then I left to collect The Boy from school. Then once again events kind of took over...
It's fair to say The Boy is struggling with school again at the moment. They're dealing with it brilliantly, but he's struggling. It's as if he can't cope with not being in control or in charge of a situation. And any demand placed upon him causes his whole world to crumble around him in an inexplicable rage.
It's very difficult when you see people you admire and like being treated and spoken to that way by your eleven year old son. And do you know what, it's just embarrassing too. I like to pride myself on being fairly common, but even I learnt new phrases this afternoon. As I arrived The Boy was in the ball pool. I was greeted with a "f*** off, d***head!" and then a load of other expletives. As was Mr Teacher. Then the hitting started. Followed by the throwing of shoes. Oh, and we'll try to have a bite too, and throw in the odd kick to the shin for good measure.
And I KNOW I'm going over old ground here, and I KNOW they've seen it all before, and I KNOW it can't be helped, but this is MY son, who I brought up, and I can't help but somehow feel responsible for this. That it's something I've done. And if I'm honest I wanted the ground to swallow me up out of embarrassment. How can someone who can't express their feelings most of the time be so eloquent when it comes to their anger and rage? Is this autism? Where's the hand flapping, walking on tip-toes and the Thomas the Tank Engine obsession? And then I have to constantly remind myself that the very fact he can speak is a blessing. There are so many children with autism who are non-verbal, whose lives and those around them are infinitely more difficult and complex because of that. His speech has to be a blessing.
It took thirty five minutes for us to get him into the car. The Deputy Head came to help with the escort - my foot is still a 'little delicate' from the sponsored walk. ("I hope your foot never, ever gets better and it f***ing drops off and you die..."). The swearing continued all the way. The car got a kick too, for good measure. Then once we're in, the two teachers held the door closed while I drove off, knowing that his fear of driving without his seatbelt on would save us from any further altercations.
He said nothing all the way home. Exhausted. Forty five minutes of silence. Then as we pulled up outside the flat he started crying uncontrollably. "I love you like a father", he said.
His speech will always, always be a blessing.
This blog is about bringing up The Boy. He's 12 years old and autistic. It's written by The Dad. It's my words, my view. Other people will think differently and have different opinions. Good.