My SuperPower

Boombah is nearly 3, and at the end of the day (with no day nap) he's tired and cranky and a little contrary. I gave him a previously-agreed-on toasted cheese sandwich for dinner. As he took the plate, he spied the cupcakes on the bench.

And promptly handed back the sandwich.
"No sandwich - cake" he said

"Sandwich first, then cake" I replied

"No sandwich. Cake!" he demanded and tried to reach for a cupcake.
And so we began the debate over the relative benefits of a cupcake, compared to a nutritional advantage of a toasted sandwich.

Every time he insisted on "No sandwich, cake!" he stretched and reached a little further across the bench. And every time I responded with "Sandwich, then cupcake" he stopped stretching in exasperation and acknowledged me with a withering glance.

Until finally his stretching paid off, and his little fingers laid themselves upon the lone cupcake sitting within reach on the bench. His grasp closed around it and he smirked cheekily at me.
"No sandwich. Cake" he assured me, in that tone only a smug toddler who just "won" can perfect.

He licked the icing, while I started arguing and cajoling with enthusiasm in the background of his chocolate heaven haze.
"Mmmmm Boombah's cake" he muttered and walked off.

"Boombah, if you eat that cake, there's no dessert tonight. Sandwich, then cake."
"Boom's cake"
Another lick.

If you eat the cake Boombah, there's no chocolate milk either". I had pulled out the big guns now. I was getting desperate. I was fast approaching the need to either let him go, or instigate the wrangle-the-toddler-to-the-ground-and-forcibly-remove-the-offending-item maneuvre. And without a strong cuppa tea and a few moments on Facebook I was unable to decide which way to go.

"Boombah's cake".
More licking and pretty much complete oblivion to the outside world now. He had cake. For dinner. The world may have imploded upon itself and he would not know nor care.
Cake. For dinner.

"Boom, do you want gulky tonight?" I asked
And I was rewarded with a brief expression of recognition of the magic word.
"Gulky" is his term for breastmilk.

I repeated the question and he slowed his sugar-inhalation to look at me, I assume to ensure I am seriously placing the weight of this dilemna upon his weak and inexperienced shoulders.

"If you want gulky Boom, you need to have the sandwich. Then the cake. Then gulky.
No sandwich, no gulky."
And for good measure I did my top-lifting, boob-extending, but-totally-appropriate-for-a-toddler jiggly dance in his direction.

Except he was not there. He was already running to the kitchen to place the cupcake on the bench, and take his sandwich to the table for eating.

So how's that?! My breastmilk is better than chocolate, apparently!!

To Time Out or Not to Time Out..... What Was the Question?!

I am finally mastering the intricate art of shaping disciplinary measures to suit my individual children's personalities and responses.

Where once a loud demand of "Time Out!" accompanied by a firmly pointed finger in the direction of some remote and boring location within the house, pretty much covered everyone for any and every misdemeanor, I've finally learnt how ineffective this is. (Completely aside from the fact that, after 6 children, I've got no memory cells left at all and regularly forget I sent someone off for some time of reflection t until the next meal when I hear a meek voice call out for permission to finally leave Time Out!)

Being placed into the cot stops Boombah in his tracks (since, unlike his siblings, he is almost 3 and still hasn't figured out he can climb out if and when he wants to!). Removal of privileges (and by "privileges" I mean time on the computer) works well for Pants (and by "works well" I mean utterly devastates him). Screen bans are generally effective for the Rabbit. And some time to calm down followed by a detailed, clear explanation of the problem and other more appropriate behaviour works for Tubby.

But I cannot figure out the HoneyGirl. If I put her in Time Out, she finds some creative way to turn her punishment into mine - like drawing on the floor with a random pencil she grabbed on the way past; or pulling bits of paint off the wall where she is sitting; or sneaking past Time Out and into my room where she jumps on my bed, runs the tap in my ensuite, tries on all my shoes and then silently returns to Time Out and pretends she has been sitting there all along.

If I take away screen time or privileges, she waits til one of the boys are enjoying the computer or the Wii and looks suitably uninvolved and innocent until I leave the room, and then manipulates them into "sharing" their turn with her. And then comes running to me to "dob" on her brothers for not sharing or doing it her way!

And so most recently I decided to try the approach that works on Tubby - a nice friendly chat about the matter. A detailed discussion on the reasons why her behaviour was inappropriate. An open forum on why I made the decision I did and why she needs to respect this.
Quite simply - a good old fashioned lecture.

The HoneyGirl likes my reading glasses. She likes to get them out, hold them, sit on them, put her fingerprints all over them, spit on them, wipe them, drop them on the floor, step on them and most of all, wear them. Given she has perfect eyesight, and my glasses aren't designed to cope well with rough treatment, she is not allowed to touch them.
And so of course, she does.
Often.

I put them up high and attempt to hide them from her, but that usually results in her finding them anyway, and/or me completely forgetting where I put them and thus being unable to use them anyway. Until the HoneyGirl finds them to play with again!

The Rooster walked past her at the computer recently and saw that, once again, she had my glasses out. And on. So he reminded her of the rule about Mummy's glasses and told her to put them away.
Upon his return some few minutes later, he noticed she was still wearing them and likely engaging in all manner of optometry assessments as she placed first one grubby finger on a lens and looked through the other side, and the changed lens, and then did a bit of a spit clean before starting her experiments all over again.

Noting that not only was his delightful daughter breaking a well-known house rule, she was also now actively disobeying him, the Rooster did what any responsible and concerned father would do - he told the HoneyGirl he was going to tell Mum.

And so he did.

Once I had fully grasped the whole situation, including the death stare the HoneyGirl had given her father as she'd narrowed her eyes, creased her brows and spat through gritted teeth "Don't. You. Dare", I thought it would be a good opportunity to try the new approach.

I sat down with my daughter and my glasses, got nice and close so we were speaking face to face, and explained all things "optometrical" to her. How eyes work - or in my case, don't work. What reading glasses do. How they help me but might hurt her. How perfect her vision is. How important good vision is. What we use eyesight for. What a true gift eyesight really is. How it might feel to be blind.

Not long after we started this detailed discussion, I noticed the HoneyGirl's expression - it was that of someone who had something pressing to share.
I was encouraged. She was taking this in, wanting to engage and discuss with me. So I continued teaching her and explaining in detail why it was so important she did not touch my glasses or wear them. It was all going so well.

After some minutes of me explaining and describing, and the HoneyGirl patiently awaiting her turn to respond and share some insight on the matter, I paused. And invited her to share her thoughts, since she'd obviously been waiting to express some wisdom since the conversation began. I focussed my attention on her, and waited for her to speak.

The HoneyGirl took a deep breath, looked me square in the eyes and declared
"Mum, when you started talking, you accidently spat on me."

Drivetime Musings

I overheard an interesting discussion in the car on the way home from the supermarket. (where I may or may not have purchased packaged rubbish for dinner tonight!)

It was about fish fingers. And where they came from. Tubby was adamant they came from fish, mushed up and frozen in big blocks and the cut into finger-shaped pieces.

The Rabbit and Pants argued vehemently that they were from fish with fingers, which were removed and crumbed and sold as fish fingers.

(At this point I should explain that perhaps the most responsible and mature thing for a parent to do would be to intervene and guide a discussion on sea creatures, anatomy of a fish and the processing of our food. I find it infinitely more entertaining and amusing to turn the radio off and listen intently - I LOVE where these discussions go!
One time (some years ago) I quietened the music on the way to church, to listen to a game of "Rock, Paper, Scissors" between Tubby and the Rabbit. Tubby was winning continually and I was curious as to how the Rabbit would react to this, and if Tubby would realise he needed to make some allowances for his younger brother.
I need not have worried, as shortly thereafter I overheard the regular "Rock, paper SCISSORS!!" followed immediately by Tubby exclaiming "WHAT is THAT meant to be??!"

I glanced into the rear view mirror to see the Rabbit grinning proudly, with his pointer fingers formed into a cross kind of shape.
"I win" he declared "This is Jesus. He beats everything!" )


So, back to the in-car discussion regarding the origins of fish fingers.
Which had moved on to other varieties of seafood. Some of which, if you have a speech delay, prove to be difficult to pronounce and comprehend.
Tubby and the Rabbit tried and tried, through their hysterics, to explain to Pants that they were CRAB balls, and were not little balls of poop, rolled up in crumbs. Even if they DID sound like "crap balls" when Pants said it!

And then of course Tubby wondered aloud if fish lost their fingers to make fish fingers, what part of the crab was removed to make crab balls............

And then someone mentioned prawn cocktails, and I turned the music up very VERY loudly!!

More Mother's Day Shenanigans!

Dinner time in our house is never predictable. Some days it is a quiet, solemn affair with everyone tucking into the meal and not even pausing to chat. Other days it's as you'd expect for a family meal - various conversations and verbal games occurring, some giggling and laughter and the regular protests of "But this is yuck!" and "I don't liiiiike it!". And more frequently than I'd like, it is noisy and crazy and the dining room becomes a chaotic jumble of laughter, chatter, shouting, kicking, peas, mash and visits to the Time Out spot!

For Mother's Day we really indulged and had KFC. Pants had seen an ad on television for "Mum's Banquet" and because the TV man said it would be perfect for Mum on Mother's Day, it would, of course, be perfect for Mum on Mother's Day.
And it included chocolate brownies.

So KFC it was. We brought our bucket of chicken home and sat down around our table. (Can I say even the concept of a "bucket of chicken " is wrong. Why would anyone need an entire bucket of chicken? Why not just a slightly larger box? Or tray? Why a bucket?!)

As we enjoyed the Colonel's secret recipe - which appeared to be predominantly a thick orange layer of batter stuck to the skelton of a dead chook - I mentioned that when I was a child, there was a rumour doing the rounds that KFC had used something other than chicken at times. I asked the kids to guess what it might have been, and told them the animal in question started with "R".
They guessed rats, roosters and rhinoceros before giving in and I told them it was rabbit. And likely to be untrue, and that their dinner was safe, and no this wasn't rabbit, and I knew because KFC are not allowed to sell rabbit and call it chicken and yes I was sure and now that they mention it I have no idea WHY I thought it was a good idea to share that little snippet from my childhood!

In a desperate effort to distract them, I suggested a game called "What's the Colonel Deep Frying THIS Time?". We took turns to think of an animal to "kentucky fry", give the starting letter to the others and then wait for someone to guess.

The Honey Girl is in Prep, and is reading beautifully but sometimes forgets or mixes up her letters. Her turns were a little challenging because I had to point out that while I appreciate her efforts to write the letter in the air with her finger - or indeed the entire word - I am not familiar with hieroglyphics and had no freaking idea WHAT she was attempting to write as a starting letter!

Pants was similarly challenging, as he has some speech challenges which sometimes slightly alter what he *thinks* is the starting letter, and what the actual starting letter is! "KFT" was, of course, Kentucky Fried Trocodile! And he was pretty dirty that we didn't get it!

When my turn came around, I thought they'd find Kentucky Fried Tarantula amusing. I'd recently seen a TV program where some children from a jungle village were out hunting for their version of takeaway - giant hairy spiders that were captured, killed and roasted on an open fire. Ever the parent-teacher, I thought my effort might lead to an interesting cultural lesson.

Instead, the game got way out hand. As he waited for his younger siblings to guess what the "T" stood for, Tubby started to giggle to himself. Had I glanced to see his face I'd have known immediately that his pre-teen mind was someplace it should not be and may have had a chance to salvage the game by redirecting his responses to appropriate suggestions that were of the animal kind. Instead, I asked him what was so funny.

"Kentucky Fried Todgers" he burst out with, and the table dissolved into giggles.
On his next turn, he almost turned purple in an attempt to control his laughter until he had blurted out "Kentucky Fried Turds" ... and the table dissolved into raucous laughter.

It took some serious threats, and some plate-clearing, dishwasher-stacking and teeth-brushing activities to regain control and make a final attempt to continue the game until everyone had had a turn.

In the interests of ensuring everyone feels content and involved, we occasionally stack the odds a little in such games. Especially towards the younger two players, who battle speech and literacy issues to participate and require a little extra assistance to respond correctly.

On one particular round everyone knew what the answer was, but it was Pant's turn to guess.
"It starts with G" Tubby reminded him
"It lives in Africa" the Rabbit offered
"It's got a loooong neck" the Honey Girl added, and we all stretched our necks up for Pants to see

He still looked puzzled, so we started to dance around the kitchen in a conga-line, singing "Melman Melman Melman!" (from the movie "Madagscar", in case you're wondering how often my family spontaneously conga-line around the kitchen for no real reason!)

Suddenly Pants' face lit up, his eyes showed clear recognition and he started jumping up and down in his seat in excitement.
"I know! I know!" he shouted "It's gorilla!!!"

*sigh*

When we'd finally got the boy to utter the magic words "giraffe", we congratulated him on his efforts and moved on.
It was the Rabbit's turn next, and he had run out of superhero animals (we'd done kentucky fried bat, kentucky fried spider etc etc) He'd decided on shark this time, and while we all knew what the answer was, it was the Honey Girl's turn to guess.

Being the caring and kind big brother that he is, the Rabbit tried hard to give his little sister a good chance. He started to "swim" around the kitchen, with his teeth bared and snapping and his arms above his head forming a very obvious dorsal fin.
His sister still looked a little unsure so he began to hum the Jaws theme (I have NO idea how he knows the Jaws theme, I might add!) He got louder and louder and more and more shark-like and fierce, until he "swam" up and stopped, with a snap of his teeth, in front of her.

The Honey Girl eyed him closely, raise one eyebrow and asked "Snail?"

At about this point it came to my attention that the Boombah was no longer participating in the game, and was suddenly nappy-free and coming from the direction of my bedroom.
I scrambled up from the table and ran towards my room demanding the toddler tell me if he "wa-hooed in Mummy's room? We don't wa-hoo on Mummy's bed, ok? You can wa-hoo in the toilet, but no wa-hooing in Mummy's bed!"

Again, my children dissolved into fits of giggles and I found myself wondering what on earth these small people have DONE to me, that I'd have not only spent my evening in such a way but that I had enjoyed it as much as they had.

And where on earth the word "wa-hoo" had come from, and why my children thought it related to bodily functions??!



B is for "Blessed".
Or Bampire Bat, apparently.

Or boobie, but we're not allowed to go there!

Why My Kids Rock!

A few years ago, the Rooster suggested that he might like to try a fly in/fly out job in, say Africa, where he was at work for 6 - 8 weeks and then home for about 4.

Ever the supportive and optimistic wife, I promptly suggested back that if he ever did such a thing, he could save his employers the cost of the "fly out" part, because I'd change the locks while he was away and there'd be no need to "come home" at all.


Fast forward a few years and here it is, Mother's Day 2011.And the Rooster is at work. In Africa. Where he has been for the last 4 months.

He's a smart man. He knew all along that if he left me at home alone with 6 children, I'd be so busy changing nappies, car seat arrangements and various appointments, I'd never get around to the locks! Instead, we count the sleeps til he is home and make arrangements to meet his flight when it arrives, at 6am, on the other side of the city.
I DID say I was supportive and optimistic!

And so for these last few years I've been teaching and training my children in the ways of spoiling and treating Mum. I figure even if it doesn't kick in for a few more years, I'll end up with a pile of gifts and 6 different breakfasts in bed before I am 50!

Preparation for Mother's Day without Dad here to guide and direct them involves planning and military precision. First we visit a department store. Sometimes I think I should call the chosen shop in advance, to warn them of the impending onslaught.
Have you ever taken 6 excited children to Kmart and let them loose to select a gift for Mum?
Well let me tell you : they scatter. Quickly. One to the women's clothing, another to the electrical, another to the DVDs and games, someone else to tip out half the bottles of perfumes and yet another in search of the fluffiest, pinkest and biggest slippers available.

It may sound a little carefree; perhaps even a little dangerous, to let my children roam free in a large department store but let me assure you, it is perfectly safe. Because of that planning and military precision I mentioned earlier.
Once they have scattered to their various locations, I peruse the books, thoughtfully placed right by the front door. I scan titles, grab something I'd like to read and keep an eye on the door for any escapees who suddenly decide Kmart is too down-market for their tastes and want to try their pocket money power at the nearby jewellers!

When I'm sure there are no returns, I head for the predetermined (unknown to the children but this is how it works) meeting point. My children all have a radar when it comes to department stores - for the toy section! There's a strong, undeniable pull for each of them. Wherever they start, whatever route they take, the destination is ALWAYS the toy section! Perhaps it is some kind of side effect from our constant immersion in Star Wars - some version of "the Force"!

And usually by the time I arrive there, so have they. Once they see me, there's a scuttle to hide various boxes and fabrics and packages behind their backs. Have you ever seen a 2 year old try to hide a giant box of chocolates behind his bag whilst simultaneously trying to open the packet and consume them!
And so we head to the checkout, and the sales assistant smiles while the children watch with wide eyes of excitement as their chosen items are scanned. And then I watch with wide eyes of dismay as the final total is charged to my credit card.

Well, the Rooster's credit card. But he's in Africa, remember?!!

Gifts are wrapped and hidden, and there are usually there are activities at school to prepare extra treats for Mum. This year the Honey Girl's class gave their Mums a foot spa and pedicure. Imagine - a class of excited 5 year olds, enthusiastically massaging their mother's feet with foot scrub. And then drying them, and applying "bum".
That's right - "bum". The Honey Girl excitedly announced she was using "bum" for my feet about 6 times, at the top of her voice, before I realised she meant BALM. I suspect she knew it was balm all along, but could not resist the urge to shout "BUM!" repeatedly in her classroom and not be reprimanded for it!
And then the teacher, bless her, had arranged for the children to paint their mother's toenails. Who needs exams and assessments to determine each child's level of hand-eye coordination and fine motor control, when you have assorted bottles of nail polish and obligated mothers with tolerant smiles plastered on their faces!

Fortunately for me, the Honey Girl has a well developed set of skills and her painting was restricted, mostly, to my toenails. Our choices in colour may differ a little but I can certainly say I left that afternoon feeling blessed, adored, special and .... bright!

Which brings us to today. And why my kids rock.
This morning before 6am, my perfect sleeper Gavin tarnished his sleep record and was wide awake. But the Honey Girl came in to check the time and noticed him, and so she lay with him and cuddled him to keep him quiet. When he began to stir and squeak, Tubby padded in quietly and stole him away so I could snooze a little. He returned the littlest one later, nappy and clothes changed, smiling and happy and ready for a feed.
And then I was bombarded with bags of gifts and homemade goodies and loads of cuddles, giggles and attention.

And the best bit? Last night I left this on the kitchen bench, in preparation for a yummy breakfast together.

And sometime this morning, while I slept, it magically transformed into this :





THAT is why my kids rocks!!

And so to each and every Mum today, I hope and pray you feel as blessed, as treasured and as special as I do - not because you have lots of nice stuff, but because you are surrounded by a family that truly does love you. Happy Mother's Day!


Now please excuse me while I engage in a wrestling match in order to secure at least one of my own chocolates before they are all devoured .......


A is for awesome! My child-minding, coffee-making Tubby; my pancake making, craft extraordinaire Rabbit; my chore-doing, super-cuddly Pants; my smiley, bright and texta-happy Honey Girl; my well-mannered, chocolate loving Boombah and my sound-sleeping, gummy-grinning Gavin. Blessed am I!

Career Aspirations

Pants has spent considerable brain power planning his future career. He has long been torn between being a soccer player and being a chef.

The soccer player plan is very appealing on many levels, but has one major point of concern : every time he plays soccer at school he ends up in sick bay! Someone once told him that in soccer the ball had to hit your feet. So, being very literal, Pants thinks that a connection with the ball on any other body part is incorrect, painful and involves an injury.
And so, as you'd expect in soccer games amongst 6 year olds where kicking the ball is the main objective and aiming the kick is not so important ..... as I said, soccer games at school result in a lot of sick bay visits.

Being a chef is also a good option. Except for a long time Pants only ate food that came in multiples of....yellow! And right now, he really only eats toast, yoghurt, fruit and spaghetti bolognaise. And Cocoa Pops.
Not exactly a wide variety of ingredients for the next Master Chef to work with.


But there's been a new development today, and Pants has found a career option that apparently over-rides all previous considerations. He was fascinated at the happenings at the airport today and spent a lot of time with his face glued to the window. (Literally - he ate a lollipop and then pressed his face against the window to view the aeroplanes!)

And so the perfect career has been found for Pants, my quirky, particular middle son.

Air Traffic Controller.

He gets to wear ear muffs all the time.
And direct huge planes by remote control.
And operate odd-looking vehicles of assorted shapes and sizes.
And not have to deal with people, only planes and machines.


And best of all, arm waving and flapping is a job requirement!!

A Serious Moment!

Today was Dress Differently for Autism Day. People with autism think and see the world differently - not wrongly, just differently. And so today, I was out about looking like this -

Lots of lovely people stopped to ask me if I was 'SuperMum'.
Mostly I grinned cheesily and said no, the S stands for "super tired", "stressed" or just plain "stupid"!

But I did spend the entire day dressed "differently". And my children - and most of their school mates - did so too.
At 8am this morning, Super-Stupid-Stressed-Woman climbed into her trusty People Mover and transported one Michael Jackson, one Spidergirl, a Two Face, a baby in roller skates, a boy with his clothes inside out and a toddler who actually had shoes on, to school! That's SIX kids, ALL wearing something "different". And believe me, in a house where it's considered entertainment to wear your jocks on your head, normal to go grocery shopping with 5 Spidermen and a Clone Trooper, and totally mundane to try a new crazy hairstyle - getting all seven of us dressed "differently" was an achievement!

My delightful children were rather hoping their mother would attend assembly as She-Ra, a costume I recently wore to an 80s party. However, said costumes consists of little more than a micro mini dress, gold sequined belt and knee high go-go boots - not especially appropriate attire for a small private Christian school's assembly! Last time I attempted She-Ra's look, I discovered two things - female superheros always have capes because they make it possible to bend over in those teeny tiny dresses and still maintain a little modesty; and since her hey-day in the 80s, I suspect She Ra has been visiting McDonalds and Donut King a little too frequently. Pants and the Honey Girl told everyone I was "Sheila" and I don't think they were far wrong!!


But back to Dress Differently Day. And me being out, in public, all day, in a superhero costume. Can I tell you that it's not the best choice of outfit when attending a new Bible Study group for the first time? Several times I was asked if I was the babysitter, employed by the group to entertain the children while their mothers engage in fellowship and serious study. Perhaps next week they'll expect me to come as a clown?!
I'm not entirely sure what impression I made - it's probably a little hard to take the opinions and views of the crazy woman dressed as Superwoman in the corner, on the matter of spiritual warfare!

It's also probably not the best choice for wandering through the shopping centre.
And it's definitely not the best choice to be wearing should your toddler decide to throw a mega-tantrum in the middle of the food court while you're breastfeeding the baby. People REALLY want to stare at you then!

But you know what? It really opened my eyes and gave me a small taste of what my boys with Autistic Spectrum Disorder experience each and every day of their lives. For a few hours I was constantly aware of people looking at me, wondering about me, judging my behaviour based on their expectations of my appearance (because, you know, if someone has the gall to waltz through the mall dressed as Supermum, she had certainly better BEHAVE like Supermum. And offering your 2 year old donuts and chocolate if he stops screaming is NOT a good demonstration of super-parenting!)
I gave up noticing "looks" long ago. Sometime after having Baby #4, I stopped looking at passerbys and focussed my attention on my children - which, given they usually split into 4 or 5 different directions the minute we enter a shop, is quite a feat!
But Tubby and Pants frequently tell me, when we are out, that people are *looking* at us. Staring at them. Watching them, especially when they are at the height of an anxiety attack or a major meltdown or seeking stimulation or reassurance or reacting without thinking first. Monitoring their behaviour, because they appear "normal", and so they should behave "normally". Making judgements and drawing conclusions based solely on their appearance.

And today, I think I experienced a bit of that. Everywhere I went, people looked. And then kept looking. And stared. And followed me with their eyes, to see what I was doing. And if I was doing it how they expected me to be doing it.
People commented - some muttering quietly, and others loudly enough to make an announcement of my presence to anyone who hadn't already noticed! (Cheers to the Mum who threatened to her small child that Supergirl would "get him" if he didn't hurry up. Which part of me pushing a double pram, overflowing with nappy bags, shopping bags, odd grocery items, spare shoes, hats, drinks and keys - oh and children, there were two children in there - gave you the impression I was capable of doing anything other than prevent the disaster that is my pram, from toppling over?!!)

When Boombah started to scream - and proceeded to scream (because, I should mention, his awful, terrible, dreadful mother took a bite of his sandwich! His SANDWICH! She picked it up, after he had carefully placed it on the table, and BIT the corner off it. He knew she did it, because when he started to gently protest he saw her attempt to swallow the offending sandwich crust whole so she could open her mouth wide and "prove" there was nothing in there, thus pretending she did not just steal a vital component of his lunch! And so he began to scream. Loudly. And had to throw the remaining sandwich onto the floor and declare it "YUCK NOW!" because it was contaminated) - the attention was really drawn my way.

I could feel people's eyes on me. Hear their words about me. Sense their judgement of me. And see their reactions to me.
And I seriously contemplated removing the cape so I could fit in again, so I could become just another shopper, out with her kids, and blend back into the crowd.

Except I realised - my boys can never "remove" their autism. They cannot take off or change or hide the elements that not only make them unique individuals, but that also provide them with a diagnosis of autism. It is part of who they are, what they do and where they will journey in life. It's woven into them and to remove it would be to remove a part of them.

And so the costume remained. Except with the realisation that at the end of the day, I could take it off and go back to being myself and fitting in - a choice my sons do not get. They either be themselves OR they fit in - but in many situations they cannot do both.

The costume remained, with the knowledge that the people who stare and wonder and comment and judge today will not do so tomorrow. But for my sons, the looking and commenting and judging will continue for the rest of their lives.

The costume remained, because I knew if it ever got too much for me, I could take it off in a moment and resume my activities from within my comfort zone. And yet my sons cannot - social interaction and being amongst people is well out of their comfort zone.


So today, I want to thank Tubby and Pants - for letting me share a small part of their world. For their courage to continue to face these challenges every single day. For doing that (mostly!) with enthusiasm, positivity and style! And for being who they are, and growing into wonderful young men embracing their differences and sharing their quirks with the world.
You already had my love, my care and my commitment - but today boys, you also earned my admiration.