Sunday Morning

Another week comes to an end and I was trying to think about what to write about. A story came onto my feed but I didn’t want to start with that so I thought I’d do a typical Sunday in our household.

I wake up at 6.45am to the blissful tones of “MUMMY! I WANT TO GET UP.” I look to my right, Kike is fast asleep. I think I should make him go, as I’ve done all the morning shifts this week but I decide I’m feeling nice and drag myself up. The morning scripts are about to begin.

I enter River’s room. His red sensory lights are dancing round.
“Mummy?” every morning as if it’s some kind of surprise that his five minutes of shouting my name actually worked.

“I want to get up.”
“I know, River, time to get up.”

He climbs out of bed and walks to the toilet. “I need potty.” I undress him and put him on. He still has his bedtime nappy but we do the routine anyway and sometimes he’s dry.

We go to the kitchen. “I want breakfast.” I pour his cereal and juice. He takes it and walks to the lounge. “It’s very dark! Get the flashlight.” I turn on the lights and open the curtains.

“Halloween TV! The plug.”

He’s referring to his iPad and currently he won’t use it unless it’s plugged in. We’ve worked out it doesn’t have to be plugged into the socket, just into the iPad which is very helpful.
I make sure he has everything he needs and go back to bed to scroll.

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Mid-Morning Chaos

8am: time to get up again. It’s second breakfast (fruit) and time to wake Summer for her swimming lesson. Croissants go in the oven. Kike’s in the shower, the wash for the day is on.
I make omelettes, put away yesterday’s laundry and send the two of them off to the pool.

Then it’s time to get River ready. We’re trying to get him more involved with dressing, so I offer him choices of clothes, though honestly, right now, he doesn’t care.

We’re using the backwards dressing technique. It involves breaking everything into small steps so he can finish the last one and feel that sense of accomplishment. We’ve moved from him pulling his T-shirt down, to him pushing his arms through. Small but it’s progress.

I manage a quick shower (door open of course, he’s learnt to open the front door and we haven’t solved that one yet) and then we get ready to go out.

“We’re going to the park.”
“NO PARK!!”

I wait. “We’re going to the park to play and then to the pub for yummy food.”
Thirty seconds.
“The park! YES!”

I pack the snack bag, two iPads, chargers and everything else we might need for lunch. Socks and shoes on, clean(ish) clothes on me and both sets of teeth brushed. Winning.

Ready to leave.

10.30am. One problem: it’s raining.
River doesn’t like to be wet unless it’s on his terms. Thankfully, the pushchair saves us. By the time we get to the top of the road, the rain has stopped and he’s skipping to the park, Trick or Treat bag in hand.

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The Park

He’s learning to hold my hand at the road, again not perfect but progress.

We reach the park. “No park.” I had a feeling this would happen. We head towards a bench.

A loud voice from a tree shouts, “RIVER!” A small boy climbs down and waves. River pauses, then keeps skipping.

“River, say hi friend.”
“HI FRIEND.”

The boy chats, explaining that he has to leave now as he has his bike and it’s going to start raining again so he has to go home. His dad was nearby so I politely smile and make a comment about the change of season but River has moved on.
“Say bye friend.”
“BYE FRIEND.”

The boy smiles, “Bye River,” and cycles away.

I sit quietly. “Who’s that, River?” Silence. “What’s his name?” Silence.

Snack time. Quavers poured into his Trick or Treat bag.
A quiet almost inaudible: “Nursery.”
“He’s from nursery?” I ask, hopeful.
Silence again. Just the sound of crisp crunches.

A few minutes later, the swimming crew join us and I take the chance to do a few solidarity laps of the park. My mileage has been slow and it’s nice to have 45 minutes alone.

But then, as always, the thoughts creep in.
I think about the boy: Maybe River could have been on a bike ride with him, we could have him over on a playdate and more wondering what River would be like if things were different. Then I shake it off, unhelpful as ever.

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Lunch

Back at the park, we tackle the obstacle course. He’s getting good at it. Then it’s time to go.

We bump into some of Kike’s jiujitsu friends. It’s 12.15pm, they’re out for a stroll after brunch. Apparently it was a late night.
Different worlds.

River starts shouting “PUB,” he’s hungry and tired.

We try a new place, advertised as family-friendly with a supervised craft table. Summer’s delighted. River, not so much. They don’t have rice or pizza. The pasta is hot.

Twenty minutes of screaming later, I’m rapidly cooling the pasta on a new plate and spooning it into him until calm returns. Once a few mouthfuls go down, peace is restored.

Kike and I talk about his worries; work, the future. It’s not the conversation break I was looking for but he doesn’t have many people to talk to.
And if it’s not me, then who?

Then our waitress appeared, yes, “waitress”, which always sounds strange in an English pub but they were doing table service. She came over and asked if we’d ever heard of Ms Rachel. Had we heard of Ms Rachel?! Our fifth family member! We all laughed and said yes. She told us that Ms Rachel had really helped her little brother, who’s autistic, to start talking.

We introduced River and she looked stunned, her brother’s name was River too. Then Summer wandered over from the craft table, curious about the fuss and the waitress grinned. Her name? Summer. In fact, Summer Marie. Our Summer’s middle name is Summer Maria. The coincidence made us all laugh, the kind of small, funny connection that brightens a long day which I’m sure I’ll tell over and over.

Ice cream follows, it’s a new favourite until his first brain freeze. That might be ice cream off the menu again.

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Afternoon Drifts

After lunch, we stop by the charity shop. Summer buys a doll (I love that she still plays) and we find some games and puzzles that match River’s EHCP targets.

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Evening Routine

5pm: Easy dinners. Croissants, olives, cucumber, cheese, fruit.
Sunday = hair wash day (the weekly battle every parent understands).

Baths, homework, dimmed lights, Halloween CBeebies, bedtime stories.
“There was a young Zombie…” echoes through the house.

Summer negotiates her way to 20 minutes of IPAD after times tables.
River drifts between sleep and restlessness, lately he’s been waking at 10 or 11pm crying and we still don’t know why.

Kike and I collapse on the sofa. He scrolls jiujitsu videos. I usually scroll TikTok or write, like tonight.
We’ll end the night with something mindless and comforting, hopefully watching strangers get married.

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Finding Happy in the Chaos

And that’s our Sunday. I never feel entirely rested but I’ve learned to find happy moments in the chaos.

A little while ago, River wouldn’t have held my hand and walked, or said hi to someone, or done a puzzle. These are the small victories that carry us.

I love the snippets of conversation I get with Summer and Kike, even when they’re tough. They remind me we’re still moving forward.

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When the Support Isn’t There

Which brings me back to the story that’s been everywhere this week, it’s about the mum who killed her five-year-old autistic son and attempted suicide because she wrote, “He didn’t fit into this world.”

She survived and was prosecuted. The debates have followed, about how mental health services failed her, why wasn’t she supported etc

She called for an ambulance that day but there was a ten-hour wait. How did it get to that point?

The comments are predictable: “I have a demanding child but I could never hurt them.”
But she wasn’t a monster. By all accounts, she was loving and nurturing, she was pushed to the edge.

This isn’t the first story like this. I remember another mother during lockdown, same desperate end.

Lockdown broke people in ways we are still unpicking. The lack of support, the isolation, the removal of routine it was catastrophic for families.

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What Happens Next

Stories like this scare me because they remind me how fragile things can be.

Being a parent is hard. Being a parent of a child with different needs is harder. The extra planning, the constant awareness, the relentless “little things” they add up.

If you don’t have a support system, you will break.

People like to blame the government, the NHS, the councils and yes, those systems fail often but we also need to look closer.

Who do you call when you’re at your limit?
Who checks in?

You don’t need many people but you need a solid few.

If you don’t have them, life must feel impossibly hard.

I hope one day I can work somewhere that supports those parents; to listen, to help, to make sure they don’t lose hope.

Because life will always have highs and lows but however low it gets, there has to be a way back up.