“So?”, I said. “He’s four”, I said. “He’s one of the youngest in his year!”, I said. The school told us that they were going to have James use a special cushion in class that might help him with his sitting and they would pop him onto the special needs register, so he would get some early interventions. “Fine!” I said, with my arms folded across my chest. “Do whatever you feel you need to do,” I muttered. We left the meeting furious that anyone could think that James was anything other than a lovely bundle of fun. I was incandescent with rage. “How dare they?” I probably said. But then I was getting called in almost every day at pick up time. The teacher, Miss Brown, would stand in the doorway and scan the throng of parents before dismissing each child. Normal practice was to make eye contact with each carer before releasing their dishevelled kid. I would stand there, tense, thinking, “PLEASE BE NO INCIDENT PLEASE BE NO INCIDENT”, but she would clock me and mouth, “Can I see you for a moment?”. My heart would sink. My cheeks would go crimson and I would shuffle to the door while the other parents tried to look uninterested as they basked in the relief that it wasn’t their child in trouble again.
How would James “misbehave”? Let me count the ways...
Destroying other children’s drawings, refusing to do his own work, laying down (that cushion wasn’t working) leaving taps running, pinching, punching, almost peeing in the middle of the playground. Eating clay. Everyday seemed to bring something new.
Then one afternoon right at the beginning of the summer term Miss Brown was describing another incident. This one must have been exceptional as I was actually inside the classroom and all the other kids and parents had gone home. George and James were playing in the book corner as I listened to her recount the days escapades. “Let it not involve another child” I would think to myself, weary of the prospect of having to apologise to another parent for James’ behaviour if he had hurt/upset a classmate. “…And when I was talking to him” Miss Brown explained, “he wasn’t making eye contact." WHAT? Eye contact? This struck a chord with him. It seemed important. And without thinking or ever even having it cross my mind I blurted out to her “do you think he might have Aspergers, or something?”
I swear on my dog, I have no recollection of ever thinking that before. It seemed to come from nowhere. Miss Brown was floored and said, “Ummm, well, maybe I mean, I am not sure, you should probably see a specialist and talk to them”.
I couldn’t get us out of the classroom fast enough. We got home, I made a few calls to family and everyone said “What?! James? Autistic? Don’t be daft, he is just eccentric” but I think on some level I already knew. Instead of going through the NHS, and potentially waiting for 2 years for a diagnosis we were lucky enough that we were able to take a quicker route. Using my husband’s private medical cover he had with his job we arranged to see a child psychiatrist who specialised in autism. The doctor said he would need three sessions with James and us before he could make a diagnosis. The doc, who I didn’t really “gel” with clearly made his decision about James in that first session, though he held out to the last one before telling us. Yes, James was definitely on the autistic spectrum. Both my husband and I felt a sense of relief when it was official. Things clicked into place, it all made sense, and now we could help James. His teachers, friends and our family would be able to understand him better and make allowances for him.
