The day before we go back

It’s the day before we go back.
Back to routine. Back to work, school, nursery.
Back to after-school clubs, figuring out dinner, birthday parties at the weekend.
Back to reality.

It’s been a good Christmas because we didn’t do it.

The second part of the week has been more challenging. River being out of routine is a bit like he’s been set on shop-demonstration mode. He’s running through all his sayings, randomly screaming, then repeating, “I want to go home.”

I guess the holiday and everything that came with it pushed him out of his comfort zone and now he just wants to be in his pyjamas watching TV. So that’s exactly what we’ve done today.

At points we’ve all been on separate screens. Sometimes together. No one getting dressed. And that’s just fine.

The Bubble Man

Yesterday was harder.

I’d booked a show at the theatre: The Amazing Bubble Man. Kike took River last year and said he loved it, so I booked it for all four of us. A little treat to end the holidays. I mean, who doesn’t like bubbles?

We arrived in good spirits after lunch with a friend who’s been away for a few months. River still refuses to wear anything that resembles a coat, so he was bundled in his pushchair with his Halloween blanket. He skipped into the theatre asking, “Where’s the bubble man?”

We were early, so we had to choose: front or back. It’s a small space, only three rows. Kike and I chose the back (much to Summer’s disappointment). We knew River would want to pop everything.

The good times lasted about five minutes.

Summer was up, trying to grab bubbles. River was on me, hitting my face, ramming his head into my chest.
“The exit. The exit.”

“River likes the bubbles.”
“NO BUBBLES.”

He wouldn’t even turn around to watch. Every now and then a bubble would drift past and he’d jump up, fine for a moment then straight back to demanding the exit.

Kike took him out. Summer and I watched another ten minutes. When they came back, River was calmer, toilet break, snacks. He sat on my lap eating crisps and managed another ten minutes.

Summer was getting frustrated she hadn’t been picked to participate. I was overheating. Kike had already seen the show and wasn’t invested. The end was coming, the square balloon.

Impressive. But not for River.

“No square. Pyramid. Rectangle. Triangle.”

The show ended. River was first at the exit, happy to be back in his pushchair. The cold air hit my face and cooled me down. Summer said quietly, “It was a bit long, wasn’t it?”

And I snapped.

“Really? That’s it? Not ‘thank you for taking me’, not ‘I liked the bit where…’ just complaints.”

She whispered sorry. I immediately felt awful.

Why do I bother?
Why do I keep trying to get us out of the house?

Wanting normal

We stopped for a drink on the way home. IPADs out. Fake leads plugged in. Kike asked if I was okay.

I wasn’t.

Tears came instantly. He held my hand.

“I know I shouldn’t say it,” I told him. “I know I shouldn’t even think it. But I just wanted us to be like everyone else, just for an hour.”

“I know,” he said.

I watched the other families. One from River’s old nursery sat centre-middle. Their daughter, River’s age, was chosen to participate, played her part beautifully, returned to her seat. Her younger brother sat through the whole thing laughing, popping bubbles.

I felt jealous.

Kike asked: “What did I think was going to happen?”
“You said he enjoyed it last time.”
“He did, but I had to restrain him the whole time and we had to leave.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“I assumed you knew. It’s River.”

I had a five-minute pity party, battling my own conscience. I write about acceptance, advocacy, understanding and here I was crying because my neurodivergent children couldn’t sit through a one-hour bubble show.

Kike kissed me and reminded me that I’m loved. That even if they don’t show it in the way I expect, they do enjoy the things I plan. We finished our drinks and went home excited for The Traitors to be back.

The truth underneath

Today I’ve been thinking about the holiday.

I wrote about how we didn’t do Christmas and how we had a lovely time, which we did. I try very hard to think positively, to reframe narratives. It’s an important skill.

But the truth is, we didn’t do Christmas because we can’t do Christmas. Not in the way we used to.

We can’t do presents: River doesn’t like wrapping paper.
We can’t visit people: too many new faces, too much leaving the house.
We can’t all sit down for Christmas lunch: wrong plate, wrong food.
We can’t play games or watch a film, unless it’s SpongeBob.

And I think I need to let myself feel a bit sad about that sometimes.
To feel jealous.
To want something I can’t have.

Because the tiredness of remembering everything: IPADs (with fake leads), mini squash, bottles, Halloween blanket, spare clothes, safe snacks, ear defenders, fidget toys, gummies, just to go for a drink… it catches up with me.

Holding both things

Will I keep taking River out? Yes.
He’s got swimming lessons starting next week — joy.

Will he thank me for it? No.

But I have to trust my gut. To know that little by little I’m stretching him, showing him the world, helping him and also knowing when we all need a pyjama day.

Both things can be true.

It’s not perfect. It’s not easy. But they’re mine.