Morning. I’d say “good” but that would be a lie.
M is in school, and she was, or at least she seemed fine when I left her in the care of her temporary TA at 9 o’clock. Whether the day goes well or not is too early to say.
We knew last week that the estimable Mrs T would not be in today, and plans were made to ensure M had a 1 to 1 that would be there for her today. She really can’t manage the school day without some emotional support; so the school arranged an unknown person to come, as all regular temp staff were unavailable. This appears to have been the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.
The weekend started with howling and crying on Friday evening as she discovered her timetable for Monday in her school bag, along with Tuesday’s one (Mrs T is super-organised). And then the entire weekend has been punctuated with sobbing fits, crying, wandering about attached to various comforters like her fleece blanket and her favourite pink cat, or alternatively screaming at her brother, or me, or her dad, in an attempt to control something in her confusing life, be it her toast or the socks she was wearing.
I can’t bear her behaviour when she’s like this, it’s desperately wearing on all of us, but my heart breaks for her – being so anxious about something that in all likelihood will be fine must be exhausting and frightening for her. It’s times like this that if anyone were brave enough to tell me that “autism is a gift not a curse” I might truly be tempted to punch them. Try telling my eight year old her autism is a gift! She was up more in the night than she was asleep, roaming the house with a belly ache and unable to settle, or even to process what was wrong. I knew, and yet I could offer nothing but reassurance in the form of cuddles and encouragement to curl up in the blankets and try to rest.
I know there are times when her breathtaking memory for details or her total recall over song lyrics is wonderful, but for now, today, autism can do one.