Hot. Really Hot.

I can’t believe it’s nearly the end of June. Apparently I took a month off blogging without actually deciding to. Maybe I’m subconsciously gearing up for another 50 Days of River over the summer, where I’ll end up writing every day again…

So, what’s been happening?

Well, we’ve all been surviving. I think that’s the right word after a freak heatwave took over our lives last week.

By Tuesday the children’s school had decided to close at lunchtime, which made for some very long afternoons. Every day I’d collect one very hot child and one very cold child (River’s nursery has air conditioning) before attempting the walk home during the hottest part of the day.

I’d never realised quite how little shade there is on that route. Apparently it had never mattered before.

By Wednesday I decided to keep both children home. Summer, who suffers terribly from FOMO, insisted she had to go to school, so Kike took her in while River and I stayed home. Then travel disruptions meant Kike couldn’t get to the gym, so suddenly all three of us were spending the day together.

I had great plans.

The paddling pool.

Frozen toys.

Maybe even some painting.

By 9.30am it was already 30 degrees and we’d all accepted our fate. We sat in front of fans, moving only to refill water bottles and, of course, collect Summer at the hottest part of the day.

River refused to leave the dark living room.

Honestly, I couldn’t blame him.

By 5pm we’d all gone a little stir crazy from sitting in the same room all day, so I made an executive decision to leave the house.

We walked the eight minutes to a new pub and spent a good ten minutes simply standing in the blissful air-conditioned doorway before eventually finding a table near an enormous fan. We ordered dinner for the children and just… sat. Quietly appreciating cold air.

We stayed until what was technically bedtime.

Of course, by then it was still roasting outside.

And recently we’ve been having the same nightly problem.

“River, bedtime.”

He stared at me as though I’d completely lost my mind before running to the window, pointing wildly outside.

“BUT IT’S NOT NIGHTTIME! IT’S NOT!”

We’ve tried explaining seasons but it’s not landed yet.

There wasn’t much point enforcing bedtime when their bedrooms felt like little ovens, so we all ended up back in the garden. At one point I found myself sitting in the paddling pool at 9pm while both children poured water over my head.

It turned out to be one of my better parenting decisions.

River eventually fell asleep on the sofa around 10pm, Summer finally gave in around midnight, and Kike and I spent most of the night awake as River cried on and off.

The following morning we looked at each other and mutually agreed that everybody needed a break.

Off to school and nursery they went.

I explained the previous day and night to nursery and they completely understood. To be honest, nursery was probably the coldest place I’d been all week, so I was half tempted to stay too. Summer was less impressed about going in, but I promised I’d collect her at lunchtime.

Friday was much the same.

Definitely one of the strangest school weeks we’ve had.

The Annual Review

Before all of the heatwave chaos, we had River’s annual EHCP review.

I’ve heard so many stories from parents who have to fight for provision, argue that support isn’t being delivered or worry that schools simply don’t have the resources their children need.

I came away feeling incredibly lucky.

We talked about how pleased everyone was that River repeated nursery and how obvious it is that he’s been so well cared for this year. Hearing members of staff say they’re genuinely going to miss him was incredibly special.

Then we started talking about September.

His new Specialist Resource Provision is really taking shape. They’ve recruited the staff team, we’ve met his new teacher and we’ve even been sent a provisional timetable.

If they manage to deliver it, it looks incredible.

Daily speech and language therapy.

Daily occupational therapy.

Life skills most afternoons.

We’ve been warned that September may well be difficult. It’s a huge transition and expectations will naturally be higher.

But he’ll still walk to the same school every morning. He’ll follow the same familiar route.

And for River, those little things matter. I’m choosing optimism.

Swimming Chaos

River also started his new swimming lessons.

I’d been feeling anxious ever since booking them because I thought I’d signed him up for a one-to-one session before realising it was actually a group of five children with two instructors.

The changing room alone was worth the admission fee.

Five slightly anxious mums trying to persuade five sensory-seeking autistic children into swimming costumes while negotiating hats, goggles and changing cubicles.

Smiling politely at each other.

“Autistic?”

“Yep.”

“Yours?”

“Yep.”

Instant understanding.

The plan was to put all five children into the pool together.

I wasn’t convinced.

Within minutes there was splashing, verbal stimming, floating toys flying across the pool and one child absolutely determined that no flotation device was coming anywhere near them. Another was happily paddling around doing his own thing, while one little girl decided she’d much rather sit on the side with just her toes in the water until her mum eventually joined her.

Meanwhile, River was far more interested in throwing every toy into the pool than actually getting into it himself.

After about ten minutes one of the instructors gently encouraged him in. He screamed…

…and then immediately squealed with delight once he’d been fitted with a flotation device and realised he could chase a little wind-up whale around the pool.

Eventually all five children were in.

I started feeling a little anxious again about the ratios until another instructor appeared and asked if I’d like to get into the pool too.

I love swimming, so I climbed in.

And actually…

It was lovely.

Knowing there were experienced people there made me relax.

Knowing everyone around the pool had probably experienced similar moments to me made me feel safe too.

Yesterday was our second lesson.

One mum asked if I’d already been in the pool because I looked so wet.

Nope.

That’s just how glamorous I look during a heatwave!

The ratios have already been reduced and they’re talking about making the group even smaller.

I genuinely think he’s going to do really well there.

But perhaps the best part wasn’t actually the swimming.

It was meeting another mum.

Her son’s voice caught my attention before I even looked over. The rhythm, the tone and, of course, the American accent all sounded strangely familiar.

Within ten minutes we’d realised we have almost exactly the same child.

The same speech patterns.

The same special interests.

The same sensory differences.

The same little quirks.

I wanted to hug her.

I decided exchanging phone numbers was probably the more socially acceptable option after only ten minutes.

They came over for a playdate yesterday and it went brilliantly.

Did the boys actually play together?

Not really.

But River tolerated having another child in his space, and that’s a pretty big win.

Level 2

Finally…

We received River’s autism assessment report.

The final report.

The one that officially says, yes, River is autistic.

I read through the observations and recommendations without too many surprises until I reached the very end.

Level 2 Autism.

I actually stopped for a second.

Partly because I didn’t realise levels were still being used here in the UK, but mostly because seeing it written down made me pause.

Sometimes I forget.

At home, he’s just River.

The little boy who argues that it can’t possibly be bedtime because the sun is still shining.

The little boy who loves wind-up whales, air-conditioned pubs and has somehow survived a week where the weather became everyone’s personality.

School has adapted around him so beautifully that sometimes I forget just how much support quietly happens every single day to make his world work.

Level 2 simply means he needs substantial support.

And he does.

That’s exactly why he’ll be in a class of eight children with teachers, teaching assistants and therapists all working together.

The level doesn’t define who he is.

It simply helps explain the support he needs right now.

And if that support helps him keep making the progress we’ve seen this year, then I’m incredibly grateful for it.

One Year On

Three weeks until the end of the summer term.

Nearly one whole year since I started writing 50 Days of River.

Looking back, I never imagined where that first blog post would lead. A book, so many lovely messages from people I’ve never met, families telling me they finally felt understood, teachers recommending it to colleagues and parents reaching out to say, “That’s my child too.”

Thank you to everyone who’s read the book, recommended it to someone else or simply taken the time to read these blogs. Every message reminds me why I started writing in the first place.

Now…

With six weeks of summer ahead…

I have a feeling there are going to be a few more stories to tell.

Hopefully involving a little less heat.

Although, knowing us, probably not.