You may see a naughty boy. I see a hero battling his demons: dealing with Christmas on the autism spectrum.

Christmas is a particularly challenging time for those of us on the Autistic spectrum. We want to have fun, but it can be hard dealing with the seasonal hypocrisy, bright lights and wrapping when you have an excess of logic, bi-lateral coordination difficulties and sensory issues.

My dear old Ma was a trooper in helping me with the latter; I began to sweat and swear after just one parcel: curling ribbons defeat me, and my handwriting is appalling. She played Santa, writing anonomised tags for the children and set up a system of neat pieces of Sellotape and ready cut paper that made the whole experience go with rather more of a swing than it would had I been doing it on my own.

For my son Jonah, however, it can be even trickier to have the right tools in place for him to manage his condition at this most “wonderful” time of the year. For him, it is a sensory overload of perfumed relatives all trying to hug him, gifts he’s not sure what to do with, clothes he’s not bothered about wearing, lights that sparkle too brightly and sugary food that makes him act as though he is drunker than the grownups, and thus gets he gets into trouble.

Add to that late nights, fudged routines and mum and dad just wanting to sit and watch some crap on telly, and it’s easy to see why sometimes, we just want to call the whole thing off.

Yesterday’s attempt to make Christmas come early was a way to break up the festivities, to make them all a bit more enjoyable for everyone – Nana Helen and Nana Sue came over for Christmas lunch cooked by Tom: minus the present unwrapping (they sensibly got a cheque each for their bank account) it meant Tom wasn’t quite so pressed with his turkey timings and we were able to enjoy a leisurely stroll to pick up some cranberry sauce and let the kids have a runaround in the park after everyone had driven up from the Home Counties.

But here, in the muddy Rec behind my house, it all fell apart. Jonah, who’d been on best behaviour all morning (an hour between 8.30 and 9.30 Facetiming best buddy Fred so they could code Minecraft was the deal we struck) suddenly unleashed on his sister – who was admittedly poking him – on the big swing. I returned from the local shop to find Nana Sue negotiating a meltdown, and when I stepped in, there was coat throwing, handbag swinging and stalking off. I played it cool, but inside I was seething.

It was my own fault. I’d let the kids hand round biscuits before our walk, and there were a couple left over so the kids had extra. Sugar and Jonah do not mix well, but hey, it’s Christmas and sometimes things just have to slide. But after that, everything else descended fairly rapidly too.

I talked him down, and made Ava apologise, but the scene he had created (perhaps because he had an audience of rarely visiting relatives) had wound him up. Once more on the swing, Ava pushed him a little bit, and tensions resurfaced. He scooted off home without a backwards glance and I was left alone with butter-wouldn’t-melt Ava, as well as tutting and commiserating grandfolk asking me how I coped. Well, all too often, was my silent repost,without much help.

Back home, Jonah was face deep in the iPad. I asked him nicely to get off it, but that elicited a abrupt response. I sighed and gave him ten extra minutes to calm down, to looks of disapproval all round, but a successful game of Cluedo later and dinner was on the table. I insisted both kids ate one Brussel before they were allowed to get down. They grumbled but complied. A minor victory, but Jonah was back on Minecraft before I had time to clear up. (In hindsight, I didn’t. Tom did everything, with me heaving my bulk to the sofa and unpopping a discreet button, wishing I could be alone with my digestive juices)

Coffee and Christmas pudding provided a welcome distraction, but by 3.00pm I was properly exhausted and, in the absence of the annual Royal Propaganda, I was much in need of the wholesome rectitude of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, which Jonah has actually read, along with the other Narnia Chronicles, so I figured he could cope with a couple of hours sitting still. But no. Another meltdown ensured, this time over being cajoled to log off Minecraft and settle on the sofa for some Brassica-infused TV.

Luckily for me, the rellys were both adverse to driving in the dark, so they beat a hasty retreat just as I was nodding off absorbing Tom’s strictly FODMAPS roast – necessary after my recent diagnosis of IBD. When I finally opened a bleary eye, Jonah was glued, and when the film finished, he said he’d enjoyed it. So why make such a fuss about trying it in the first place then? I asked. He shrugged, but I already knew the answer. He’s Asperger’s. New things and sitting still are harder for him than for other people.

Later, Freddy and Reprobate Lyn popped in for a glass after Christmas shopping at Westfield (something, as a family we’d find excrutiating at the best of times) which meant more Minecraft keeping them all quiet for the rest of the day, and I even felt rested enough to initiate a half-arsed game of Mousetrap (we built the darn thing before we started) with all three kids with more enthusiasm than I’ve been albe to garner for years

But bedtime proved tricky. No one wanted to read, as usual, but Jonah and Ava said they had a new game they wanted to play, which they went upstairs to the playroom because it involved jumping, and because we’ve compromised on living space to get an extra bedroom, which means turning sugar circles downstairs is pretty much a no-no. The game turned out to be leapfrog, which we discovered after squeals bought us dashing upstairs to find Ava was lying prostate on the floor, bleeding, because Jonah had landed  heavily on her foot.

So much for wearing her pretty shoes for tonight’s performance of Cats; and how the hell was I supposed to take this dueling pair of nightmares to take-your-kids-to-work-day tomorrow morning? I gave them both what for: explaining Christmas doesn’t happen by magic, that Tom and I have spent money and time doing nice things for them, and if they wanted to spoil it, they really could but they were not to expect anyone making as much effort ever again.

In retrospect, cutting Christmas down to the bare bones would probably do them more good than harm in the long run, but as it stands, both of them have been office angels this morning building computer games at my desk on the CBBC website, so they might actually deserve this afternoon’s browsing trip to Hamley’s to kill time before meeting Tom for an early evening supper in Kingly Court, Carnaby Street, followed by Cats, a treat revisted from my own childhood when Grandma Kat took me in the 80s.

I know some people may think that I shouldn’t subject a child on the autistic spectrum to long periods forcibly sitting down on tiny flip top seats in public, particularly to listen to the tunes of Andrew Lloyd Webber, or The Nutcracker, or whatever theatrical spectacular I’ve decided I want to go at Christmas. But it’s also my belief that the more I encourage him to do normal things that ordinary families enjoy, however hard it may be, the more he will learn to cope with them. My adage is simply, keep calm at Christmas and carry on and it’ll all turn out fine in the end, whether Jonah’s appears to be on the naughty list or not. Santa knows, a lot of the time, he’s trying really hard not to be.