It wasn’t just me then…

I’m pretty intuitive. If autism is a spectrum, it suggests that it comes full circle – a colour chart if you will, rather than the arc of a rainbow. If the major indicator of autism is lack of empathy then I am its opposite – blue to its red. I feel too much.

A horror film will send prickles of pain to my extremities; my response to someone hurting themselves is to for the pain to manifest itself in me; I cry at others’ misfortunes and have to block out the news in case I become actively depressed. I am hyper aware of mood, subtext, glance. I have an acute awareness of what people really think. It’s enough to make you paranoid, but I am, more often than not, right.

It’s nice to get confirmation. I often felt the judgement of other parents in the days when I took Jonah kicking and screaming to school. Jonah can be an obdurate force of nature when he doesn’t want to do something, and like many apsie parents, it’s often best/ easier to just go with what they want to do.

I like to test the theory from time to time, because the world doesn’t run on schedule, and I firmly believe that enabling our children too much and giving them too much power sets them up for failure in the real world. Obviously autism spectrum disorders are in a different league, but still, there is mounting evidence that aspie kids learn to compensate for their natural rigidity.

I knew what Jonah’s response would be to an after school trip to the park, so I briefed the childminder well. We are lucky to have two of the loveliest childminders in the world who are willing to put up with my offspring for £8.00/hour. More fool them. Tall, willowy, with long lashed chocolate eyes and Betty Page fringes, they’re gorgeous, and interchangeable, the pair of them, although one is more ‘arty’ and one more ‘academic’. Jonah hasn’t really worked out one for the other, but then, he quite often calls me Tom.

Helorgi, for I call them both their names at once for convenience (and I suspect that’s what my husband thinks about in his sleep) acquiesce to any demand, never complain and are relentlessly cheerful in only the way a yet-to-experience-a-hangover 19 year can be. They even stay over so we can go out till 3.00am. I know. Worth their skinny little weight in gold.

Anyhoo, “take them to the park,” I facebooked Helorgi, “Jonah’s been spending too long on his iPad and I’m worried he’s showing signs of addiction (there was a scaremongering article in the Mirror, of all places yesterday). He won’t want to go, but tell him he can have a Fab lolly when he gets home.” Bribery is sometimes our only option.

I felt bad, but optimistically hoped for the best; 3.40 pm I get a text. “Sorry, I tried but he started screaming and I couldn’t cope with the judgement of the other parents.”

There, in black and white.

I replied, “oh, god, I know what you mean”, relieved finally to be affirmed in what I had wondered was my paranoia. “I’ve had seven years of it! I’ll speak to him.” “Those bastards” came back Helorgi. I felt a little bubble of love in my stomach.

I did speak to him. It’s best if you explain things logically to Jonah, so I told him about the article and the addicted four year old who was having psychological treatment because she became distraught every time the iPad is taken away. Jonah does this: great whooping meltdowns. He listened. He promised to go to the park today after school, if he could have a Fab. It’s a sunny day. Best of luck, Helorgi, is all I can say.  And never, never get a real job.