The Boy's command of the more salubrious words of the English Language is fairly well known. It's not something I'm particularly proud of, but it is something I've come to terms with. And then this week, I read a post by a friend on Facebook. And I realised the really offensive f-word in so many homes of children with special needs isn't what people might think it is. The dirtiest f-word of them all, the one that can never be said, is 'Future'.
The future is a frightening place in so many ways. Every parent bears the responsibility of their children for the rest of their lives. But this week it occurred to me, The Boy isn't just my responsibility for the duration of MY lifetime. He's my responsibility for the duration of HIS lifetime.
Don't get me wrong, this isn't a moan - in so many ways I'm blessed. In brighter moments I imagine The Boy will be able to live an independent life in the future, albeit with some support. I don't know how his mobility will affect him, only time will tell, but he'll get by. It's picturing him in this world without me, or even his mum around, that scares the shit out of me. And maybe I do him a disservice in all this, and he'll get along just fine, I don't know. But do any of us?
I've written this post six times so far this week and then deleted it. It's not quite in keeping with the tone of the rest of the blog. But whenever I sit down to write this is all that is filling my head. So, that's it. I've put it out there, and now we can move on.
Oh, The Boy got four certificates on Friday. I've had to upgrade the display from the fridge door to the larger exhibition space of the kitchen door. One of them was for building a snowman and another was for 'an amazing bit of skill in the ball pool'.
He's going to be just fine...
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.