I don’t think we’ll ever stop learning about our wonderfully different H – here I share our journey from ‘naughty boy’ to neurodiversity as we navigate life with a ‘different’ teen.
120 school hours, 68 work hours, 6 football training sessions, 3 football matches and a swimming lesson – a week – I’m not sure we all really knew each other anymore. They talk about ‘passing ships in the night’ but we’d become more like satellites zooming light years apart in space. So, on 23rd March 2020, when Boris told us all to spend the foreseeable with each other, a collision of satellites was only a matter of time.
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I took a holiday this weekend; it wasn’t planned, I didn’t discuss it with anyone and it was much needed. I took a holiday from confrontation – I allowed Hugo to do what he liked, when he liked and with whom he liked (he was safe as his judgement is pretty sound – I haven’t lost my mind!) to avoid backlash, arguments and me feeling like the bad guy.
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One of the themes that’s continued to arise over the last 8-10 years, both in my head and within my online community, is a diagnosis for all that Hugo is and does. I consider seeking a diagnosis when things are bad – when Hugo’s thrown the shit at the parental fan and I feel like I’m drowning in failure, it’s my flare for help. Then things settle down for a bit, a teacher/GP or CAHMS give you a look/letter of “I’m sure he’ll grow out of it”, so I lose my gusto and don’t want to rock the behavioural boat – until the next time!
But you know what they say, doing the same thing again and again expecting a different outcome is madness. So, for anyone with a spirited firecracker, who’s tick is ticking to a different tock, here’s where we’re at with a diagnosis, or – as I’ve come to prefer it – ‘description’. After all, a diagnosis tends to imply something’s wrong and it’s not that there’s something ‘wrong’ with Hugo, it’s just that he’s different to the ‘norm’.
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Yesterday I cried. I cried on my own, into a pillow; I cried into my mum’s arms; I sobbed into Mr OG’s chest and I wept in the headmaster’s office. I wasn’t crying as England crashed out of the world cup. I wasn’t breaking down ‘cos Cas had pissed all over my side of the bed during his nap and I wasn’t overcome with emotion finding out one of the kid’s passports had expired when they need it to visit their State-side gran in 2 weeks. I was crying, hurting and lost – after 482 days/68 weeks/15 months and 25 days it felt like we were back at square one with Hugo – a two day school suspension.
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Motherhood is a lonely gig. Day after day, dropping off, picking up, feeding, making chitter-chatter with the smallest of people, there’s no beating around the parental bush, it’s isolating. Mind you, my loathing of church hall baby groups, coffee shop meet ups and general “not great with real people” attitude (one might go as far to say anti-social, but that might sound like I’m on the brink of an ASBO – which I’m NOT!!), were nothing in the social spectrum of isolation I’ve experienced since being the mum of a “naughty boy”.
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