J refers to himself as "Danger Boy". He likes saying this - thinks it's a big joke. Normally he shouts this with great glee from the top of the (wrong side) of the bannisters, often while wearing nothing but one tatty glove - a perfect superhero! Thing is that J's autism means that he doesn't have the imagination to visualise what could happen if he slipped and fell, that is, even though it might have actually happened several times before. Danger Boy has not a clue about danger but can spell it no problem and write it perfectly in Times New Roman font! Oh, and did I mention that Danger Boy is more than a tad accident prone too.....
I, on the other hand, am Neurotic Woman to his Danger Boy! I see the world like a 1970's safety poster: sharp corners, head-height counters, inclines, wires to be tripped over, pound coins to swallow (yep - that one never did reappear..), bodies of water to fall into or at best slightly splash one's clothing, causing a whole outfit change in J. I'm not naturally like this - I can live by the seat of my pants with the best of them - Hell! I have Viking blood in my veins. Personally I like a bit of adrenaline but, where J is concerned, we've had way too much history for me to be lackadaisical where safety issues are concerned. I'm never far from J when he's in the house but you can guarantee that the second I go and spend some time chatting to G on the trampoline, J will catapault himself from the top of the telly to the marble fireplace, head first.
The simplest trip out can be fraught with danger. Being a superhero, Danger Boy is not a keen hand holder and has a slippery superpower of being able to almost dislocate his shoulders/wrists in a bid to escape, if grabbed. He doesn't like to walk at the same pace as the rest of us and normally trails about 20 yards behind, favouring the outer-most kerb stones to hop along. Danger Boy has been known to skip, without warning into oncoming traffic and likes to balance on brick walls and bollards. Add to that, the rare superpower of becoming invisible in shops.....
Reins! Did somebody say Reins? Dammit - would never have thought of that if several tutting passers-by hadn't proffered this marvellous idea in a "your child is a total danger to himself and society - rein him up, lady" kind of way. Well, hello, do you not think I have a cupboardful of the bastard things - little backpack ones, wrist ones, ones with letters of the alphabet on........ Have you ever seen a kitten wearing a collar for the first time? Well - Danger Boy doesn't do reins. We've tried. Say no more.
Add to this cocktail of potential disasters the fact that J - although he rarely stops moving and has the energy levels of an Ever Ready Bunny - easily becomes overloaded in the sensory department so, at the midway point of a trip to the shops, can suddenly stop sharp, pupils dilated and be almost incapable of walking another step. Up till recently I would carry him home, but at 22kilos my back has called time on this habit.
So we have danger. We have sensory overload. And we have G. G, our ever-sensitive 8 year old has certainly inherited J's share of imagination. He sees danger in gambolling lambs and frequently asks things like "when is the world going to end". He's struggling with his brother's autism and, although he can be sweeter than any child should ever have to be to their sibling, his default setting on the matter is currently one of fury. He gets so upset about J's Danger Boy antics that he often refuses to come out with us. So the end result of one of our trips out is G, jangling with nerves, frustration and fury; J clinging to me like a limpet and me limping like a sciatic nonagenarian. There's many a time that we've crawled over our doorstep and collapsed in a sobbing heap on the kitchen floor.
Straws. Camel's Backs. Something had to give. A few sneaky peaks at the internet revealed a whole world of Special Needs Pushchairs - huge chariots of freedom - with huge price tags to match. So I applied for a grant from a local charity, explaining our predicament. Et voila! One giant sized Maclaren Major Elite with giant sized, special needs-resistant accessories for the beleaguered looking family on the kitchen floor.
Now, this is no stream-lined Smugaboo. No, this is a beast of a thing and might as well have flashing lights and bells, highlighting the fact that it's occupant was in some way different to his peers. But is that any bad thing? J doesn't care - to him it's a rolling sanctuary from the world which he finds so challenging. G is happy a) because "it makes a great telly chair" and b) because he doesn't need to fret about his brother any more. And me? Well, I really didn't know how I'd feel but firstly I want J to be safe, secondly I want G to be less stressed and thirdly, have had enough hard stares, tuts and even some "that child needs a good smacking" comments in the past to think "Sod it, let's give it a go".
We set sail on our maiden voyage for a trip into Kingston. J instantly took to his "Medium Boy Pushchair". G trotted alongside, chatting happily. Nobody tried to run into the road. None of the normal hesitation, deviation or repetition was exhibited. Nobody tried to squeeze through the railings on Kingston Bridge. I managed to buy the 2 things I'd set out to buy. Nobody got lost in the shop. A shop assistant fell over herself to come and hold the doors open. People smiled at us. Cars stopped to let us cross. We even managed an unscheduled trip to the playground on the way home.
And Danger Boy? He wasn't over hyped, he was smiling and repeating to himself "J is safe. It is safe in my medium boy pushchair".
Afterwards my friend, who has a fairly recent spinal injury and is a wheelchair user, asked how I felt, pushing J.
1) I felt vastly relieved that trips out can be straight forward
2) I felt delighted that J's autism doesn't have to impact on G every time we leave the house
3) I felt a bit envious of families who don't have to even think about this type of thing
4) I felt guilty for even thinking number 3
5) I felt surprised by the complete U-turn in strangers' reactions to us when they could see that J had some type of "special need"
6) I felt worried that I had Munchausens by Proxy for being pleased that strangers were smiling at us!
7) I felt sad that J had always felt so unsafe on previous trips
8) I felt really really really proud of my little superhero.
