7 Apr 2013
They have a distinctive cognitive style that affects how they relate to the world, including the way they learn, remember, connect and cope. They are hard wired that way. It’s neither right, nor wrong. It’s just different. I love living with them. It’s fresh and quirky and hilarious. I’ve never laughed as much as I do with my kids.
Despite the fact that they struggle to socialise, they have been invited to two parties this weekend, about which they are very excited.
The first involves organised singing and dancing, the “African Drumming” session a timely reminder that I shouldn’t turn up to these things with a hangover. I watch my boy as the drums are brought out. He loves music. For him it forms patterns that are as easy to learn as an alphabet. Sing him a song twice and he’ll know it by heart. His eyes are bright and huge, his soft lips stretched wide into a grin. He’s dressed in stripes, as always; it’s one of his the rules. He’s so excited that he flaps and flaps his hands, arms bent in the middle, elbows tucked in by his sides. He looks like an overjoyed bee. I see a few children laughing at him, but he doesn’t notice. One day he will, and I will teach him some smart one-liners to throw back at them. I write them now in my head, and save them up for a day that is surely not far away. My girl drums for a while, but there’s too much noise and she is at risk of sensory overload. She’s learnt how to avoid this and finds me, to hide under a pile of our coats until she is calmer. I see people frown when she stops participating, but I offer no explanation. If she needs a break, I give her one. Meantime her brother wows the room with his drumming. The other kids don’t laugh anymore; they are impressed. But he doesn’t notice that either. He’s just happy.
And then food, and now I have to be vigilant. Nothing must get on my boy’s clothes. He will meltdown if anything gets wet or dirty. It’s a challenge, and other parents look at me as I fuss about him, almost spoonfeeding. But they will hate me more if he starts screaming, so I continue. My girl chooses food that is bland. Nothing lumpy, nothing with a strong flavour (“it’s too tongy”). I turn a blind eye. We’ll do healthy eating another day.
It’s time to leave, and they tell me they had fun, and from the smears of chocolate round their big grins, I can see it’s true.
Day Two. We turn up at the hall, where a myriad of sporting activities have been arranged. But overnight the kids have been visited by mischief, and in the language only they understand, a plot is formed. As ever, my girl is smart and fearless, and leads from the front.
Giggling demonically, they remove some of the markers for the relay track, which are conveniently cone shaped and make perfect impromptu hats. This done, they kidnap some key players (“that’s how you make friends mamma!”) and stage a pointy-hatted sit in, right in the middle of the pitch. Irritated sports coaches negotiate and then bark orders, but my girl doesn’t care. She has no fear of authority, and reckons her game is more fun. From the looks on the other kids’ faces, she’s right. They move only when offered sausages and chocolate fingers, which they eat in equal amounts, and at the same time. They declare this The Best Party Ever.
I have long since given up trying to get my kids to conform; and actually I’m not sure why I should. If your sensory systems tell your hands to flap your hands in excitement, where is the harm? If your brain is wired to see a relay marker as a funky hat or a pile of coats as a refuge, then no amount of chiding will change that. And besides, I’m completely in love with the quirky, the subversive, the unique. It’s a fabulous view to have on life. I’m learning a lot.
