My son is growing up. He has begun to chastise me for treating him “like a toddler or a five year old”. He tuts with impatience and at the weekend he yelled “Are you ready, Mum? We’ve got to GO!” just like a husband chivvying up his wife. Welcome to the woman’s lie of “I’ll be ready in five minutes”, son.
The other day he recoiled in horror when I unthinkingly popped his finger in my mouth to suck it better after I thought he’d pinched it. “Ugh, Mum that’s gross. I can suck my own finger!” he cried, appalled and disgusted.
Yes you can, love. You’re not a small boy any more. You may talk to my hand as the character SockMonster, watching Thomas the Tank Engine from a bed full of soft toys, but you are also only two years away from becoming a teenager. Despite your immaturity and naïveté caused by autism, you are still becoming a young man and I need to remember to treat you like one.
It’s hard to adjust from protection and tuition mode to a role of guidance and respect but that’s where we are headed. Carry on, son. Lead the way and I’ll pack the sandwiches. It’s going to be an adventure.