Of hives and black holes

I know Jonah’s sick coz he’s got a gland in his leg that’s up and it’s making him hobble. Otherwise it’s hard to tell, since he never goes limp or complains if a sore head. He just yells. I’m glad I’ve worked out how to tell Jonah’s sick by other means, because otherwise, those bad thoughts I had when I was reading Lionel Shriver’s We Need To Talk About Kevin when I was pregnant with Ava, when alarm bell were ringing and art, at least the beginning of the book, felt like it was imitating life, would be recurring.

God forbid the end of the book starts to have some resonance. Sometimes, I just don’t know about Jonah.

I could have brutalised him, you see, with worse parenting than I am able to muster on a good week.

All the anger he carries about himself like a thundercloud, could have turned into the core of a whirlwind, one that gathers pace  like the flap of a butterfly turned hurricane.

It still could. Christ, we’ve got his teens to get through.

I’ve reacted so hard against his babyhood, I’m acting like a giddy teenager, which is not going unnoticed by him, or the rest of the world.

After all those tantrums and sleepless nights of his earlier childhood, a lesser person would have cracked too often or failed to understand it. When his eye short circuited whenever I shouted at him – I’m only human – it was as if the poison of my stress was making his system malfunction – how easy would it be to have caused permanent damage to that fragile cerebellum. I don’t doubt that I have.

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Jonah's school takes special needs as a priority and although it's a bog standard state primary, it has funds and resources, training and helpers to deal with a range of needs, and Jonah is treated with almost overunderstanding. I suspect the school of over-diagnosing for high functional Autism Spectrum on nerdy white boys with computer analysis type parents in a bid to attract more funding, but enough of that; another time… When the special needs coordinator rang me on my mobile to tell me they'd had to restrain Jonah at school because of a blind rage he'd fallen into over a scrap started, by all accounts, by another child that he'd got the blame for, it makes me worry about what happens when he's too strong to hold back. She called to apologise, because, she said, she'd had to hold him so hard he had bruises on his arms. He does too, little flecks of red like lovebites all round his little eight year old guns. If I lived in the USA, I would be careful about calling them that…

She’d never seen him flip out quite so much. His best friend at school, an unassuming black kid who’s been round for tea a coupleatimes, but I only know his mum to wave at, had punched him or something. He doesn’t seem rough to me, but boys will be boys, so I’m not stressed out about that. It’s what happened after. Whatever scuffle ensued, Jonah obviously felt that when they were separated, the teachers had got the wrong end of the stick. Jonah hadn’t started it – he’s not a punchy kid, but he was the one being restrained, or told off or something – I don’t know the details, but in Jonah’s head it’s very black and white: fairness,

 The coordinator described his eyes as going black, and I know exactly what she means. There’s no reaching him. It’s as if he’s not there – that his soul has been replaced by rage.

Now all that’s very poetic and that, but I’m an atheist, so there will be no exorcism of Jonah’s demons, whatever they are, although he would a been a prime candidate in his toddler years, when regular night terrors would turn him in to a horror movie zombie of glassy eyed childmares and nightscreams that turned violent; but whatever combination of hormones and adrenaline replaces Jonah’s sense of proportion when he feels unfairly treated, it can be scary to watch: his stormy eyes replaced by all consuming black holes.

He’s had a tricky weekend, hyper and hideous, but also lonely. He cuts a sad little figure wandering the park alone, refusing to play, despite the million pounds worth of government sop to childhood’s better days. And the weather was glorious, despite my hangover, so perhaps it’s not just Jonah that’s a bit stressed out.

More delays on the new house, a bit of work based back chat, Tom getting stroppy about this and that, me, in doubt about something or other. I’ve come out in hives. I get allergic to myself when I’m stressed. It’s happened before. The drinking does’t help, although I’m way more sensible than the people I spend time with – but most of them are ten years younger…

But then I saw Jonah’s bestie, using the water fountain to look like he was doing a wee, and I saw Jonah’s face light up. He’s the kid we’ve known since babyhood, the mum we drink with, and go on holiday with, the kid friend that we all long to have grown to adulthood with, someone who knows you that well, you can punch each other in the face from time to time, and know it’ll be okay; his mum, my friend since the boys were as bad as each other on the toddler scene. Suddenly Jonah’s rushing to put his trunks on and join him for a splash around, all normal and happy, rather than awkward and alone. His mum, brave women, offered him a sleep over and I gratefully accepted but warned her that Jonah  might be unpredictable because his behaviour just unravels when he’s unwell, so to dose him with Capol if he started to whinge or shout. She shrugged, well used to it, although I know that she’s not great at bedtimes and the boys would be sharing a bed, so I don’t know what sort of horror I will pick up tomorrow, but we’ll see.

As for, me, well, I’m dosed up on kids’ Piriton, the only stuff we’ve got in the house, and it’s early for a Sunday so maybe I can catch a few more winks and try and sleep off a bit more of last night’s wine, and hope my stress rash will have gone down a bit by the time Ava wakes up.