Giving New Meaning to Parenting

The variety of ‘parenting styles’ available is vast. Some parents move with the times and embrace new theories and practices. Other parents remain fossilized in the mid-18th Century, the era where children were ‘seen and not heard.’ Many parents glide into new circumstances and continents with ease. Others put up borders against continental drift. Much as it pains me to admit it, I would fall into the latter categories. British born and bred, I would happily have continued my cloistered existence but for the current generation of children that I am supposedly responsible for.

Ideally, I should have given birth to Little Lord Fontleroys; children with perfect manners, diction, and an unnatural interest in etiquette. The Laws of Natural Selection have determined that this should not be so. The gene pool around this neck of the woods has served up four children for our delectation; two girls, two boys, two pairs of brown eyes and two pairs of blues eyes. Two are autistic, and two are not. [translation = typically developing] No prizes for guessing that it is the boys who are autistic.

So, ‘What style of parenting is best suited to an autistic child?’ I hear you ask. Well, amongst other things, whatever style you commit to, you will also need a healthy dollop of patience. That, in and of itself, would be fine, but unfortunately, I was last in the queue when they were doling out that particular human virtue. The few withered scraps of patience I once had were all used up in my early twenties. Now that I’m pushing 50, years not pounds, I’m afraid that I am sadly lacking in that department.

So I’ll give you a little test so you can try it out for yourself, a mere snippet. Not exactly a thesis, and certainly not applicable to many autistic children. Indeed this is but one incident, for one of the two boys. Since the boys’ ‘symptoms’ are polar, this is not a ‘one size fits all’ option.

It is 4:10 am and a six year-old is sitting on your chest, as many autistic children have challenges with sleep:

“What it is?” says the voice in the darkness with a speech delay. I switch on the light, low.

“I don’t know, what is it dear?” Take every opportunity to repeat back the correct grammatical phraseology. Be grateful that he is no longer silent and willing to use his words. I have a distinct memory of pleading to the great powers in the sky, swearing that if I ever heard a complete sentence from either of them, I would eat my hat. For now I make do with nibbling a finger nail.

“Dis! Dis! Dis!” he explains banging your chest with something. You reach for the bifocals for assistance.

“Oh, it seems to be a tin of oats dear !”

“NO” he shouts. You appear to have made an inadvertent error. Time to wake up and pay attention, your urgent assistance is required.

“O.k. I give up, what is it?”

“It is dah ‘tin,’ in dah English, but it is dah ‘can’ in dah American!” Oh silly me, how lucky I am to have a bilingual child.

“You’re absolutely right, sorry about that.”

“NO! dah words! What they are meaning?” There is often a huge discrepancy between what they understand [translation= information going in, receptive language] and what they’re capable of saying. [translation = expressive language] This is turn, can cause massive amounts of frustration and meltdowns.

I peer. I focus. I read aloud; “’Irish Oatmeal; certificate of Award, Uniformity of Granulation.’” Many autistic children are very literal and need precise definitions. This means that a parent needs to be an accurate walking dictionary.

“Good! What is dah ‘granulation’?”

“Oh gosh, I haven’t got the foggiest!” Careful – remember they can be literal, wake up!

“No, you are being dah stoopid one! Dere is no fog here, it is dah nighttime. It is dark. No fog on dah outside. No fog in dah house. No fog in dah room.” I stand corrected as usual, or rather, I am horizontal, being corrected as usual. Why has the weather decided to be clement?

“Umm, er, well, it’s sort of ground up to be the same, so no big bits, no small bits, all the bits are the same size.”

“Hmm,” he rolls back his weight, rearranging my rib cage, turning the tin on edge to get a better view. “Dat is good. I am liking dat one. I am wanting everyfink to be dah uniformity of granulation.” Thank goodness for a speech delay or I’d be even more out of my depth, positively drowning. Speech delay, sounds so easy but it is so complex. He departs satisfied, with the tin. Peace reigns for another hour and 45 minutes until wake up time at 6.



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At six, he skitters downstairs, clutching the tin to his breast. It will be his talisman for the day, or longer, the embodiment of his current state of comfort. I am unlikely to be able to separate him from his ‘tin’ in the near future. The ‘can’ will be a feature of our family life during the forthcoming weeks, to be dropped like a chastised lover, when the next talisman reveals itself.

I know, it was far from my best performance, but I’m not very good at thinking on my feet. [translation = back, at short notice, without prior preparation]

So that’s a little bit of what it’s like. If I’d known in advance, I’d have joined the Boy Scouts at an earlier age, but you don’t, do you.

So how did you do? What would you do differently? Give me some hints and tips, I need all the help I can get, short of a complete personality over-haul. Come on, you’re American! You’re good at sharing, that’s what you’ve best at!

So if you meet us in the supermarket, or the restaurant, or the park, and one of my sons is attached to a tin of oatmeal, a piggy bank, or a toilet plunger, try not to baulk. Some people call it ‘neurodiversity,’ and I don’t think that’s a ‘dirty’ word. Autism is also a ‘spectrum disorder,’ which to you and me, means that it runs the gamut; a little bit of this and absolutely none of that. With two boys on the spectrum, my experience is wider than some, but I suspect that it is narrower than others.

We are all given what we so justly deserve. [And I wouldn’t have it otherwise]