When I received the first evaluation of my son, I was a little gloomy.

I remember three things distinctly. Firstly, it started off well enough with something like ‘he is a good looking happy faced child…….......’ ahhh…..........…but then went downhill at a rapid pace. What followed was a laundry list of deficits. Truth be told, it doesn’t matter what euphemisms they use, deficits equates to ‘bits to fix.’ That was the second bit. The third bit was the value laden phrase ‘window of opportunity.’ I was left with the distinct impression that in our case, the boat had left the harbour, sunk and was now moldering away as an old abandoned shipwreck, but then some of us are terminal pessimists.

If you have found ‘good’ experts, this is usually bad, or bad for the parent. If you have a bad expert, then their conclusions are worthless. Horray! If you have ‘good’ experts, then there is no wriggle room. It is hard to read an objective report about your delightful child, where they appear to have been reduced to the clinical minimum of an experimental rat, not that I have anything against rats per se. There are few things as sobering as black Times New Roman font on crispy white paper, when the subject matter just happens to be your own offspring.

The experts provided me with a treasure map, a ‘how to’ guide. The guide had lists of recommended therapists as an appendix to the fifty page document. For many of us, the report is confirmation of what we already knew but tangled up in a lot of jargon. The experts take time to explain the jargon and it all makes perfect sense at the time. It’s only when we return home and start burning the midnight oil that the graphs become blurry, the bell curves upside down and we forget that 99th percentile is not good.

I suspect that all parents transform themselves into speed readers overnight. In my case I knew that there were little bits here and there that captured my attention more that the general moribund conclusion. There were little chinks of light.

What can with we do with this dire situation? We could plan our next existence in hell fire and damnation for all the errors we have made. We could fortell our next life as an amoebae or worse still, a dung beetle. Alternatively we could telephone all the therapists to discover that there is an 8 months waiting list. We could spend those 8 months saving and making economies, because we already know that medical insurance is a waste of time. There again, it might just be that we can identify some tiny huge significant morsel to concentrate on.

A first word would be a huge goal, but unrealistic in the great scheme of things. Maybe potty training is 'doable,' but the last 18 months of failure make this a bit of an Everest. Maybe there is something else, something unique and on the periphery that we could work on? We already know that it may take days, weeks, perhaps months, but there is something, something that we can identify that holds a plethora of possibilities. Something on the fringe might be fun, not to painful for either your child or you. Something realistic. I don’t know what that might be for you and yours, but I managed to dig out something that would work for me and mine, two versions for two oh so very different children.

For now I’ll just mention one of them. It is unlikely to hit a chord with anyone else because all our children are unique but it might just spark an idea for you.

I should first explain that I used to belong to the school of parenting that dictates that ‘each child should be treated the same.’

Every morning my children would descend the stairs. At the first footfall I would step out of the kitchen where I could watch them all come down. My daughter and son would run to exchange a hug, kiss and ‘how did you sleep?’ routine, or some variation on a theme. One of my sons was unhappy with this arrangement. As soon as his eyes met mine from his position in the stairwell, he would collapse on the floor screaming. Week after week, month after month, it ruined the start to every day. I had no idea what was amiss.

To say that I tried ‘everything,’ would be an exaggeration but I certainly tried everything I could think of. There was one thing that I wouldn’t think of, one thing that I wouldn’t do, the one thing that their dad suggested. I knew I was right. I knew that he was wrong. Who in their right mind would ignore an autistic child! A newly diagnosed autistic child should never be ignored. That was the whole point! Window of opportunity! Be all over your child all the time like a rash. Think of all the time we’ve already wasted. Hurry up before the window closes. I swear it’s like swamp fever on the parental brain.

Suffice to say, their dad was right. I left my son to his own devices. I carried on with my morning domestic duties as if blind to his existence. At some moment between the bottom stair and the start of breakfast, a pair of little arms would encircle some inappropriate or random part of my body, when he was ready to greet me on his own terms, in his own way. The meltdowns, or rather that particular meltdown, disappeared.

Why?

I asked every expert I could bribe. Their opinions ran the gamut. One expert’s explanation in particular, made sense to me. For my son, in his chaotic and overwhelming world, he has little, if any, control. Physical contact is often an issue for our children. To allow him to control this exchange was the answer. His time, his terms, his choice.

This one incident taught me many things, primarily, ‘get used to being wrong.’ These days I’m never afraid to canvas opinion, or brainstorm as we call it out here.

Also; ‘take your best guess and then try the opposite.’

Lastly, a hug needs no words but an unsolicited embrace leaves me speechless.

"Cheers dears"