Meg Samson
Wednesday, January 15, 2025
I’ve been in a rotten mood since the zoo. I was frustrated when I went back to work on Monday; now, I’m angry and depressed. I’m pushing myself too hard. I’m doing all this by myself, trying to be Supermum to two kids, while working on the school holidays and – perhaps selfishly – denying myself sleep just so I can get up early and write. Is it self-destructive or plain self-centred? I don’t know, but here I am again.
The zoo took it out of me; I came back energised but was depleted the next day. Exhausted as I was, I still had these negative thoughts busily circling around in my head. I thought it was because of all this writing I’m doing about Richie, revisiting the worst time of my life. Maybe I was retraumatising myself. But then I remembered the trigger for my sunken mood: people’s comments and reactions to Charlie at the zoo.
Yes, he was being challenging – running away, pushing through crowds of people, refusing to stay in line. That’s what Charlie does, and I try to manage it as best I can. It’s stressful, but I can deal with it. I have to. I’m a person who likes order. I’m a teacher, so of course, I want everyone standing in line and complete fairness with turn-taking. But it’s not the lack of order that’s stressful – it’s other people’s reactions to Charlie.
People stare, giving me dirty looks when Charlie refuses to wait his turn or move on when he’s had his go. The disdain on people’s faces amplifies when he melts down. Their expressions tell me that he’s a spoilt child and I’m a terrible mother. Some people feel they have the right to provide running commentary as well. Here’s a collection of what I’ve heard from complete strangers, at the zoo and elsewhere.
“You just need to discipline him.”
Yeah, that’s all I need to do. Why haven’t I ever thought of that?
“He needs to learn to line up.”
Well, that would be nice, wouldn’t it? That would make you feel so much better, at least.
“He must be hungry. Have you fed him?”
I’ve spent all morning trying. Would you like to have a go?
“He’s just doing it for attention.”
Trust me, he’d prefer to be away from everyone, including you. He doesn’t want attention.
I don’t say any of those things. I usually just reply with something like, “Look, he has a disability.” I don’t even bother saying neurodivergence or autism – that baffles these judgmental fools – but disability is a word they often do respond to.
“Oh, I’m sorry, love. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Yes, shut your mouth and leave us alone.
Again, that’s something I never say. One day I should.
Even people with better intentions don’t realise how their words affect me. Friends and colleagues trying to offer support often end up saying quite hurtful things.
“He seems really smart – it doesn’t seem that bad.”
None of it is “bad” – it’s just hard, whether he’s smart or not.
“He seems really happy – it doesn’t seem that bad.”
See above.
“I wonder sometimes whether my kids might be on the spectrum, too.”
For me, there was never any wondering. There was no uncertainty. It was so obvious – from the time he was two.
“Maybe he’ll get better when he gets older.”
What does “better” mean in this context? Better, as in “cured” of, or “recovered” from, something? Better as in more able to act like us? Or at least more able to mask his true self? I don’t get it.
“Get him to school – he’ll be fine with a bit of routine.”
Oh, you don’t understand the extent to which routine already defines him. His own routine. It’s far beyond any understanding of routine that you have, my friend.
“All kids are different. We should celebrate that.”
Yes, that’s right. Shame on me for not celebrating all things, all the time. Maybe one day I’ll jump for joy over absolutely everything, just like you.
“I saw an autistic kid playing basketball. He was having the time of his life. So, it just goes to show …”
Goes to show what exactly? I still don’t know what “lesson” this was meant to teach me.
“Parenting is hard for everyone.”
That’s right. Everyone lives and everyone dies. There’s always someone worse off than you. How dare I complain so much. I should just shut up and get on with it.
Here’s the thing: most of the time I do just shut up and get on with it. I don’t like to complain. I don’t want sympathy or pity or tears. I just want to get on with my life without people giving me their useless armchair opinions. They don’t have to help. No one has to help.
But if they want to help, I’ll tell them this: Start by letting this kid, who is clearly presenting differently, get closer to the tiger enclosure, even if it’s not his turn yet. Pick up the glasses he’s yanked off my face and thrown across the shopping centre and hand them back to me when the moment’s right – it’s rude to stare, even if I can’t see you. Move your conversation out of the doorway as I’m trying to carry him through it, kicking and screaming. You can compare notes on last night’s reality TV show off to the side.
Just be more flexible and don’t expect everyone to conform to life as you enjoy it. Meet them halfway. Or at least some of the way.
That’s all I want them to know.
This is an excerpt from Catapults and Other Escapes.