Well, we moved house. It happened, finally, after about sixteen months. Like everything in our neurodivergent family, it’s been a bit like driving a formula one car, without any training, on unfamiliar roads. And you keep running out of petrol. And the steering wheel doesn’t work…
JJ coped really well in the run-up to the move. He seemed to love the novelty of moving house, and the promise of new and undiscovered experiences. It’s at times like this when his ‘non-typical’ presentation of autism is really obvious. He had very little questions about the actual move itself, and during the packing seemed content to carry on regardless, as the contents of our house were packed, recycled or given away. As long as he had his PC, his bed (our bed), his favourite cuddly toys and devices, he was able to cope really well with the chaos I was creating around him. I know him well enough to genuinely say he *was* coping well, as JJ is pretty much fully unmasked in the family home.
Moving day came around, and I realised that I should have talked the day through with him, step-by-step. I realised too late. I’d planned to take Peanut to her kind, holistic, spiritual dog-sitter (Peanut has very high-needs when it comes to breaking routine, bless her) and then return for JJ and take him out ‘somewhere fun’ whilst Sal, JJ’s uncle and his godfather packed up the Luton tail-life van.
Unfortunately our wonderful spiritual holistic dogwalker wasn’t ready for Nutty when I was hoping she would be, and so I was gone a long time. When I returned JJ was having the *time of his life* with ‘The Men’, as he referred to them. He had been helping to pack the van (very carefully, and genuinely very helpfully I was told) and also enjoying the novelty of riding on the tail-lift. He’d worked for about two hours and missed lunch, of which he was very proud. I’ve never witnessed him be so genuinely happy with manual labour, and without me being there. So that was amazingly surprising.
And a lesson in never underestimating your neurodivergent child.
Sal, JJ and I piled in to the van to take the first load to the new house. And this was when I wished I’d explained a bit more about ‘the chain’ when you move house, and the inevitability of waiting until mysterious money you never see, is credited in to a mysterious bank account you know nothing about.
As the sun’s rays enveloped us, and our new road, and the bright cloudless blue sky stung our eyes, we sat in the van and waited. And that was when I realised JJ had a tin of baked beans in his pocket.
Why? Well, I honestly have no idea. I suspect it has something to do with a meme…But I was very distracted and instantly forgot.
The previous owner of the house, Emma, was waiting for us, and together we waited for a call from our solicitors to let us know that the new house was OURS. We waited. And we waited some more. Emma, who I now consider a friend because we supported each other throughout the whole ridiculous process, was aware that JJ may find this situation difficult. She suggested to kill some time that she give us a tour of our new home (and I explained to JJ that we couldn’t have the keys yet). Emma took us to the front door, and her two young girls followed behind. I couldn’t help but think what a strange situation this must be for them, and I felt sad that they were seeing their happy home for the last time.
As Emma opened the door, and we all stood behind her, everything seemed to slip in to slow motion. I heard JJ say ‘I’ve not had my lunch, mummy!’ and we all spun around and watched – in a sort of fascinated horror – as he retrieved the Sainsburys Baked Beans from his pocket, and used the ring-pull to speedily open the tin, raise it to his mouth, and dramatically pour half of the contents in the vague direction of his mouth. Whilst the rest of the beans began a slow and tomatoey journey from his chin, to his t-shirt, and beyond.
It was at this point, very very late in the process, that I realised that JJ was overwhelmed…
‘BEANS’ he grunted, throatily. ‘BEEEAAANNNSS!!!’ and he began to cackle and giggle and lurch around like it was whiskey in the tin. When JJ is overwhelmed, overstimulated, confused and generally pretty lost, he sometimes reverts to humour and clowning around as his escape route.
Time then seemed to stop, but the bean juice didn’t. It skimmed his t-shirt and began a never-ending journey past his shorts and in to his crocs, where it finally found solid ground. I managed to gently wrestle the tin from his hand, as JJ found the situation funnier and funnier as the reaction he received was palpable.
Lovely Emma, in her seemingly infinite wisdom, decided to ignore the beans. She opened the door, welcomed us in, and showed us around her lovely home. And she didn’t even seem to notice the beany-footprints that JJ made as he followed her around.
A couple of hours later, when the bean juice was well and truly dried, we were given the keys to the house. And the rest…well the rest is for another post.
Humour aside, it’s worth pointing out that we have all had vastly different reactions and coping mechanisms in terms of the move. I found it best to throw myself in to sorting and packing, firstly very carefully, and then as time was running out I slung objects in to boxes and generally hoped for the best. This helped me not really have to think about the reality of the upheaval, and of not living with my mum for the first time in seven years.
That night, as we all climbed wearily in to our king-sized bed, JJ said ‘I didn’t realise moving would be so hard, mummy. I wish you’d told me.’ I wish I had too, but I often prefer not to think about things until they happen, you know?
A Boy Less Ordinary 