My middle child,
Sam (ADHD and autism) summed it up best when he disparagingly described a
holiday as, ‘…still being with your
family, but without any of your stuff’!
The plus side of the
long school holidays, when you have neurodivergent (or any) kids, is not having
to navigate drop-offs and pick-ups, checking and rechecking school bags,
battling over homework or facing the daily crushing comparison (I know I
shouldn’t) with all the other happy, well-adjusted, confident, sociable little
darlings in the school playground.
The pay-off for all
of that, is endless empty days that need to be filled with enforced fun.
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| Image AI generated |
Picture
the scene…
We’re away for a
few days in Llandudno and enthusiasm is waning.
I suggest a game of
Kubb on the promenade. Just getting them to agree is quite the undertaking
(Sam: ‘people will look at us’, Oliver: ‘effort’) but, ignoring their protests,
I set up and the game gets underway.
I’d read and
inwardly digested the rules ahead of time – knowing the impossible amounts of
patience and processing it would require for us to decipher the rules together.
So I begin by explaining that Sam and Oliver start with all six batons.
Ethan (autism and
ADHD) picks up three of the batons and walks over to his side of the game.
I take the batons off
Ethan and repeat that the boys start with all six batons.
Sam and Oliver take
their turn. Oliver throws his baton with (way too much) gusto. It flies down
the promenade. Ethan shouts.
To give Sam his due
for his reason for not wanting to play the game, he’s right – people are
looking at us.
On Sam and Oliver’s
next turn, to soften the blow for Ethan, I pick up the batons as Oliver throws
– knowing Oliver won’t be able to help hurling them (he has no fine motor
skills), and Ethan won’t be able to help overreacting (he has no fine tolerance
skills).
A few yards away, a
woman has begun to film our happy family game on her phone.
Knock
yourself out
Just as I bend down
to pick up the most recent baton Oliver has lobbed, he throws another. It
whacks me, full force, straight in the jaw.
Ethan shouts (louder
this time). People have moved beyond ‘looking’ to staring. The woman stops
filming.
Oliver repeats and
repeats and repeats and repeats his thought process as to why he chucked the
baton even though he knew my head was there. If any of us try to interject or
even move during any of these four retellings, he has to start again, from the
beginning. I don’t know whether the need to repeatedly repeat, with no
interruptions and all of our undivided attention, is part of Oliver’s OCD,
autism, ADHD or all three but, part way through the third retelling as my jaw
throbs, my patience snaps.
“For god’s sake
Oliver, shut up and just say sorry,” I yell. “From now on you’re taking a
bloody ADHD tablet every day and I don’t care about the side effects.” I instantly feel evil.
More stares. Some
smirks.
We play on. We’re
on ‘holiday’. The boys have been forcibly removed from their screens and I’m
determined we will make memories (and, to be fair, we did).
The boys are winning.
Ethan is getting irritated. Not being able to cope with losing is a trait often
linked with autism and, just because you’re 52 doesn’t mean you grow out of it.
Whose
rule is it anyway?
He starts arguing
with me about the rules: stating it’s impossible for us to win (it isn’t). I
try to calmly explain why it isn’t impossible. Ethan isn’t hearing what I’m saying
because he has his own thought process which cannot flex to what I am saying. I
know this. But I’m human: I’ve read the rules, he hasn’t and, while he’s
arguing and stating, as fact, observations that are incorrect, the boys are
fast losing interest and the dog (who has been tied to a bench a couple of
metres away) is starting to howl – so I’m frustrated. I shout (I’m now shouting
almost as much as Ethan). And use the F word.
At which point, Sam
(bless him) with all the patience and wisdom of a world-weary 15 year old (and
also possibly because people are staring again), steps in and calmly explains
to Ethan how he and I could still, theoretically, knock all our blocks down and
win (which we all know isn’t going to happen).
But Ethan’s mind set
will not shift (or, at least, he won’t admit to being wrong, which is quite
another thing). I tell him to move on and stop spoiling it for everyone (who am
I kidding – this game is spoilt beyond redemption). The dog continues with his
incessant howling and we all play on. We are now all playing Kubb with a huge
‘Kubb on’ (sorry) and collectively just want the ordeal to end.
Thankfully, a
couple more rounds and the boys have won.
The stress of the
game has almost been worth it for the relief of it being over. Until Sam
discovers that he’s lost his ear pods somewhere along the promenade, and the
next drama begins…
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