Autism: Going back in time


As young children learn to count the small numbers – 1 to 5 – they all learn to count these numbers backwards, too.  Everybody knows, good things happen when you count down. Races begin; rockets take off; that sort of thing.  Excitement, cheering, happiness…  We’ve all been there.  We’ve all felt it.

Ian always loved the pattern of numbers.  Once he had learned one to ten, he was away.  As a highly visual child, he immediately saw that the teens would be followed by the twenties, by the thirties, and so on.  One, followed by one to nine, two, followed by one to nine, three, four, five, six, etc.  That simple.

And if he knew numbers in one direction, so he also knew them in the other.

The smallest numbers 1 – 5 became part and parcel of his day, particularly at bath time.  You want Ian to do something for a longer period? Count him through it.  Ian’s version of getting soap onto his hands is a little casual.  So, to get him to properly soap his hands, it goes like this:

“Take the soap, Ian.  Rub.  One, two, three, four, five, turn (he turns the bar over), six, seven, eight, nine, ten.”

Now, at least, you can see there’s soap on his hands.

In Ian’s mind, a quick swipe is sufficient for washing under his arms.  No it isn’t!  You are a man now, with hairy armpits and a grown man smell.  You will wash properly!  One, two, three, four, five.  And he rubs under his arms in time to my counting.

I reckon people with special needs have enough problems on their hands, without adding ‘not nice to be near’ to the list, don’t you?

So we do our best to make sure Ian always smells pleasant.  Of course, he’s autistic, and it’s an uphill battle.  It’s almost like he goes out of his way to do the opposite.  But we do our best.  Truly, we do.


Many years ago, I discovered that if I counted backwards, I could get Ian to do things he didn’t want to do.

Because he knew that when I got to zero, it would end.

And it didn’t matter where you started – five, or forty – because when you got to zero, it stopped.


How useful is this ?!


In truth, there is never a better use for it than when we visit the dentist.  It takes a bit of persuasion to get a dentist to count down while he’s working, but we’re lucky.  Our man is one of the best, and he bought into this because he very quickly saw that it worked.  Ian happily opens his mouth when asked (thank you, ABA discreet trials) and as he approaches Ian’s mouth with his instruments, the dentist starts counting backwards from twenty.

It’s a bit awkward at times, because if the dentist needs more time, he changes pace, draws the numbers out – which in Ian’s mind is not acceptable; it should be almost metronomic, and if I see a slightly alarmed look in Ian’s eye, I have to step in – but he does okay, and Ian cooperates.

Watching the man’s mouth as he counts.

Waiting for the zero, when the instruments are withdrawn and he can close his jaw.

I don’t know how often I’ve used counting, either forwards or backwards, to motivate Ian. Daily? Oh, more than that.  For so many years.

Little numbers, so well used.

Thank heavens for little numbers.




“From the Inside – Raising, teaching, loving an autistic child” –  available as an eBook on Amazon or in paperback directly from the publishers,

Autism: Grateful thoughts

Today I want to write a little bit about gratitude.

Not gratitude for autism.  No.  I couldn’t do that.  I think I summed up my feelings on that in my book – “… and inside lurks the secret truth that knows you’d change him in a heartbeat if you were given half a chance.”

Gratitude for a type of autism?

Yes, that I feel I can do.

It may seem a strange thing, but I can’t help thinking about how desperately hard it must be for those people who are a different kind of autistic to our Ian.  The ones who know they’re autistic, who know they’re different, and don’t want to be. The ones who just want to fit in, but can’t.

I’m thankful that our son doesn’t curl into a ball and rage against not being normal. I’m thankful that he isn’t high-functioning enough to attend mainstream school, where he might be picked on by his peers who see his differences as threatening. I’m thankful that we don’t have to sticky-tape his broken confidence together, day after day after day, as he struggles with his awareness of his condition.

Ian might have some inkling that he’s not quite cut from the same cloth as others, but does he care about that?  Not a bit!  To all outward appearances, Ian is happy being as he is.  Self-contained. Self-sufficient. Self-involved.

And for that, I am grateful – every day – that we have a child who is so mentally challenged, he doesn’t know how mentally challenged he is.

No difficult questions.

No angst.

No fighting against the condition.

No inner turmoil about something which cannot be changed.

Just a child with special needs who is who he is, but so extra special, he doesn’t know he’s special.

It’s strange what you can be grateful  for, but I’m grateful for that.




Autism: On a lighter note …

Yesterday evening I shaved off the sides of Ian’s beard.  He’d been nagging for ‘Gillette’.

That’s the trouble, you see, when you teach an autistic child to read.

They read everything.

They notice everything.

I shave him regularly with soap, no problems; his dad shaved him once with shaving cream and he’s been nagging – admittedly intermittently – for ‘Gillette’. He read the bottle, and never forgot.

I thought he might be finding the full beard a bit warm in the humid summer weather we’ve been having, so last night I reduced it to a goatee. Easy peasy, no problems.

So far, so good.

Ian was particularly quiet today, which was a pleasure really and I didn’t think anything of it.  Oh silly me.  I went into the bathroom to find Gillette shaving cream everywhere.  And I mean everywhere – on the bath towels, on the wash basin, on the face cloth, on the hand towel, on the wall, on the floor, even a few spots on the toilet.

I started to laugh.

I just couldn’t wait to see what he’d done to himself.

I peeked in his bedroom.  There he was, lying in state in his bed, with half a moustache and a chunk missing out of his beard…

Still laughing, I called Neil and we went into Ian’s bedroom together and stood staring at Ian’s creative attempt at shaving.

“Gillette,” said Ian, with a satisfied smile on his face.



Autism : abuse is abuse, no matter by whom


The other evening when Ian got home from his day placement, he got out of the taxi with a frown on his face.  “Oo oo oo,” he said as he approached me, rubbing his right arm.  That’s his noise for sore. Oo oo oo.  And a frown.

I immediately checked under the sleeve of his t-shirt.  There was a redness on his upper arm, and when I ran the back of my finger down his skin, I could feel the beginnings of a lump.

This had just happened.  Not earlier in the day;  the bruise would have surfaced by the time he got home.  No. This had just happened.  In the taxi.

I gently rubbed Arnica on Ian’s arm and gave him some juice to drink.  After that, he was happy to rest up in bed and play on his iPad.  It was only later, at bathtime, that I looked at his arm again.  Sure enough, there they were, three distinct yellow bruises, one below the other.

He had either been grabbed roughly, or – more likely, given the lump under the skin which accompanied the bottom bruise – he had been knuckle-punched.  Three times.

More Arnica and a kiss to make it better, my heart squeezed at my sweet, precious, vulnerable child, and the unnecessary pain he had endured.  Time for sleep now …  and a deep sigh from me at the continuous unanswerables which get thrown up when you have a child with special needs.

The next morning, I wrote to day placement to inform them, and when the morning taxi arrived, I showed the driver Ian’s arm.  Mummy wolf was on the case.

The bruises were now ripe circles on his skin.

And we discussed the problem of having special needs with special needs together on the back seat, behind the driver’s back.

Mummy wolf growled softly, and promises were made for greater attention and a possible change in the seating arrangement.

But my blood still ran cold.

Ian doesn’t complain.  He doesn’t cry out.  He only said his “Oo oo oo” because I was there to meet him.

How open to abuse can one person be?

How can a person with special needs and a compromised sense of responsibility be made to understand that his actions are not appropriate, and that if he doesn’t like the behaviour of someone else, he cannot just lash out, when – or because – the person he’s lashing out at gives no reaction?

The middle bruise has faded quickly, but the others took their time, fading through the bruise colour-spectrum until they were finally gone.

But there is a bruise in my heart and a worry in my head.





Autism: Listening to the people who matter


blog - conflict 4


Six weeks ago, we got an email from Ian’s principal carer notifying us that Ian had ‘soiled himself’ whilst at the centre.  It then went on to say that Ian had become violent.  Hitting out, banging his head off the wall, kicking out at staff.

… three staff [were] present due to his physicality…”

Our Ian.

The most gentle chap you could ever hope to meet.

Our Ian?

Three staff members holding him down, all because he needed to be changed…?

Our Ian?



 “We are MAPA (Management of Actual and Potential Aggression) trained …..”



Training is all very well, and in a generous moment I’m going to say I’m sure there’s a very real place for the ‘Management of Actual and Potential Aggression’.  Yes, I know there are parents who may not be able to adequately cope with their child’s behaviours, and yes, I know, some young people with autism can present very serious problems. I’m not stupid.  We have to accept these things. Sometimes frustration leads to violence; we all know this. Having a ritualised coping mechanism in place could certainly make staff members feel more secure in their ability to do their jobs.

BUT there are also parents out there who are well able to deal with their children.

Every single day.

Parents whose methods, bizarre or unconventional as they may seem, have stood the test of time.

Methods which work.

So why is it that when the situation demands an intervention – of ANY sort – the parents’ words are thrown to the four winds, and completely ignored?  Words of wisdom, collected over years of dealing, perhaps repeatedly, with exactly what you now face.  Words which might be gold dust, and which you are leaving scattered on the ground behind you…

Realistically, there comes a time when the training manual isn’t going to cut it.  If you are so rigidly stuck inside your box, so slavishly adhering to your instructions and methods, maybe, just  maybe, you are doing more harm than good.

I mean, when your method ignites World War III with a gentle soul like our Ian, surely you must realise that something in the system isn’t working?

In the carers’ heads, intervention might look neat and straight out of the manual, like this:- blog - conflict 5

But remember, in our heads it looks like this :-

blog - conflict 3


Upon completion of the programme, other benefits include the abilities to:

  • Establish emotional contact and bonding between staff and the service user through the use of verbal and physical interaction.
  • Allow the expression of anger, frustration, anxiety, and emotional turmoil in a safe and controlled environment.
  • Enable staff to explore issues of threat and confrontation with the service user.
  • Enable service users to recognise their feelings and to learn to express themselves in meaningful and constructive ways.
  • Help service users identify and adopt alternative coping strategies.  


Alternative coping strategies?  Okay, so where are you on that? What else do you have up your sleeve, once you’ve pressed all the wrong buttons and ignited a major conflict?

We know our son, and we have freely shared all of our knowledge.

We have explained, repeatedly and in some detail:

Don’t use these trigger words … 

Be firm.                      

No fuss.  No fight. No issue. No hysterics.  No violence.  No need for two other members of staff.  And best of all, no objection from Ian.

Perhaps instead of grimly holding on to your MAPA training and having to search for ‘alternate coping strategies’ when your own methods don’t work, you could START by doing what the parents told you – in the way they suggest , including body language and tone of voice – and see where things go from there … blog - curlicues


From the Inside – Raising, teaching, loving an autistic child is available as an eBook on Amazon and in paperback directly from the publishers

Autism : Allowing the worst


Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!!!

I went into Ian’s room first thing this morning and horror! He was standing in the middle of his bedroom floor with his head to one side, and his face held the most spastic expression you can imagine, and it was all twitching.  His face, his hands, his torso.  His body was practically vibrating with the speed of it all …..

Dear God, it was awful!

I took his face gently in my hands and tried to bring him back.

“Look at me,” I said to him, my heart twisting at the sight of this awfulness.

Look at me!” I had to insist.

He remembered himself and his body fell still as he gazed into my eyes.  But the damage was done.  I could not unsee what I had seen. My heart was bent out of shape, and it would take a lot more than one clear look to repair it …

When we first started Ian’s therapy programme, I don’t think it was ever our intention to cure Ian, as such, but we definitely went into it with a view to moulding his behaviour into something more socially acceptable.  Rightly or wrongly, that was our aim.  If it could be done, we would do it.  I had read that the less time Ian was allowed to behave in an autistic manner, the more it would become his habit to behave otherwise.  Perhaps if we worked hard enough, behaving in a non-autistic manner would become his life-habit.

The interesting thing was that with our Ian, the changes came about really quickly.  It was almost – when he was young – as though the autism was a thin veneer and we could penetrate it if we worked with enough determination.  And make no bones about it, we were determined.

It wasn’t that I was embarrassed by Ian’s behaviour in public.  Nothing like that.  After all, I had survived Rory;  by comparison, Ian was angelic!  It was more about wanting the best for him; wanting the most for him; and this, we felt, would be more likely without the worst of the more obvious side of autism; the hand-flapping, the face-pulling, the posturing or the high-pitched shrieking.

It worked.  In fact, it worked exceptionally well.  We could take Ian anywhere with us and he would be beautifully co-operative.  At home, he was responsive, bright, clever, learning, funny, and good company.  Don’t get me wrong, he was still profoundly autistic.  He was just more there than not, more interactive than shut off, more bright light than twenty watt bulb.

That was then.

You see, if you accept that someone is autistic, and allow them to behave as they please – because they’re autistic, aren’t they, and that’s how autistic people behave – then that’s what you’re going to get.  Despite everything.

Despite all the patience.

Despite all that dedication.

Despite all the hours and hours.

This is what has happened with our Ian.  With the expectation of good behaviour taken out of the equation, he indulges in the worst of the worst.  And today, the worst of the worst is even worse because he’s older, bigger, more determined, and much further away than he ever was.

His beautiful life-habit of connectedness and clear-eyed brightness-of-spirit and responsiveness has been swept away by people who mean well but who have entirely undone what we worked so hard to achieve.

Worst of it all, I don’t think Ian is happy.  I don’t think he’s even content.

Maybe it isn’t right to insist that someone do as you say, all day, every day. But what if that brings them to a place where they can obviously start to find joy in life? And what if taking that away from them – in the interests of giving them autonomy – actually does them more harm than good, and steals that joy away?

What I’ve learned about having an autistic child is that you can’t take anything for granted.  In the long run, your special-needs child, it seems, does not actually belong to you.  What you say, and the way you do things, are apparently not as important as someone else’s methodology. You can talk the hind legs off a donkey, explaining how things are done in your family, how to get the best out of Ian, but the past – that autistic child’s past, and with it all his learning and behaviour management – no longer belongs to him.  Now, other people know better, and no matter what you say or how often you say it, they will do things their way.

And that precious brightness will fade from his eyes, even as you watch.

And you will get notes about ‘behaviour problems’ and ‘anxiety’ and ‘misbehaviour at mealtimes’ which you’ve never encountered before, and which really, really surprise you, and you don’t say anything, because you know it’s not worth it.

You know what isn’t being done.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again:

Put the child first, the diagnosis second

If you treat him like he’s autistic, that’s exactly what you’re going to get, no matter what he can do or who he used to be.

He will be autistic, because that’s all you see.



blog - curlicues

“From the Inside – Raising, teaching, loving an autistic child” is available in eBook on, and in paperback directly from the publishers,

The blog that bounced

Well, that was interesting.

Usually I try to write about the positive, the useful and the helpful, or at least something vaguely motivating. I try to keep my negative thoughts to myself, never sure if anyone really wants to read about the darkest side of having a child with special needs.

But this latest blog – self-indulgent, filled with angst and anger – has ricocheted around the world and given me my best readership figures ever.


Do people really want raw emotion? Me at my worst?

It would seem so – although with so few comments, it’s hard to be sure.

And to my reader in Brazil who checks the blog every day to see if I have posted anything new:  Thank you. You make me feel appreciated, and motivate me to write more.

So, let’s see where this goes from here …


the scottish pic

Autism: Coming to terms with the changes

A couple of years ago, I had an adjustment to make.  My son was no longer in school, he had moved into Adult Services. The time for learning, it seemed, was past.

I didn’t take it well.  The frustration seethed inside me, and in true INFJ fashion, I vented in written form.  I post this today just to show that being the parent of a child with special needs is hard in ways you cannot anticipate.

I have moved on now.  I have accepted.  But back then, acceptance was the last thing on my mind ….

It’s MY problem. Not theirs. Not even Ian’s. Mine.

I just feel they are selling him short. Dumbing him down. Doing him and his extraordinary abilities a disservice.

I can’t read these notes any more. They make me too angry. Really hit-someone angry. I can’t take it. I have to raise my hands and surrender to them. Completely. It’s their show now.

I had my turn.

Just let them not forget that everything he knows, everything he can do, is because of me.


Not them, and their quaint little ways. Not them, with their puzzles and ‘table time’ and ‘helping Ian get over’ an anxiety he never had.


And now I have to swallow it, all this anger and hurt. I feel let down in ways I didn’t even know existed. I feel belittled by it. Made worthless. All that work, all those years of dedication and persistence, worth nothing in the eyes of these people.  They take Ian back and back yet further, and I remember…

I remember the joy I felt when I taught Ian that, all those years ago. When it was new to him, and his eyes shone with understanding, and his mouth curved when I praised him. And we mastered it together and moved on, and he was happy, and I was happy, and the joy we shared was our private wonderland.


Am I so utterly wrong in all this? Should I really just be able to step back and say ‘It doesn’t matter any more’?

I poured my heart into teaching my son. Everything I had. It took over my life, and perhaps for the first time ever, I felt as though I had a purpose.

Now, who am I?

What am I?

I feel utterly betrayed.



Sometimes, lessons are hard but the pain teaches us, if we let it.

Now, I am just the mother of an autistic man who – if he’s properly reminded – can still do amazing things.

Our journey continues…


“From the Inside – Raising, teaching, loving an autistic child” is available on as an eBook, and in paperback directly from the publishers,



Autism: Teaching a simple exercise

Today I’m going to take a simple exercise I used with Ian, and look at it in detail.

The tree.

Anyone can draw a simple tree.  You start with two lines like this –


And then add two more –


And then do twigs, and add a few leaves –


Voila! A recognisable tree.

Then you turn your tree into a simple question-and-answer task.  For example ‘How many leaves are on the tree?’ and leave a line for a response.

It seems so simple and straightforward, doesn’t it?  We glance at the tree, our eyes rove over the leaves, and we know the answer.

Enter the autistic child, for whom nothing is simple or straightforward, and we have to look at our question again.

What does it pre-suppose?

‘How many?’

Immediately, we are faced with the notion of counting.

Does the child understand the term ‘how many?’, and can he count?  – and then give a clear answer for the total?

Can he point clearly to each leaf?

And once he has started counting, does he know how to stop?

Let’s look at the next word – ‘leaves’.  Suddenly we are faced with plurals, which is an exercise in itself.

‘Leaves’ belongs in that group of more complex plurals, way beyond ‘cup / cups’ or ‘book / books’.  It’s even beyond ‘house / houses’ and ‘horse / horses’.  We’re almost at the end of the line: child / children; leaf / leaves – heading towards the worst of them all:  tooth / teeth; mouse / mice; goose / geese, etc.


Does the child know what a ‘leaf’ is?  Could he pick one up off the ground and show it to you? And could he show you which tree it came from? — Oh sorry, that’s a different exercise!

If the child understands what ‘leaves’ are, he can count them.  Good.

Let’s look at ‘on’ next.   Here we get to the murky area of prepositions: On, under, over, in, etc.

This can be presented as a task in itself – ‘Put the toy in the box’ or ‘Put the toy under the box’ or ‘Put the toy behind the box’.  There’s hours of fun, right there. But until the preposition is understood, the exercise can go no further than counting the leaves – not where they are.

And lastly, of course, we get to ‘the tree’.

Does the child know a tree? Will he point one out to you? Touch it, if you ask him? Recognise that there are different types, some big, some small? And most importantly, I suppose, does he understand your drawn representation as a tree?

Only if you are sure that ALL of these aspects are fixed in the autistic child’s mind can you present a task like this one. You cannot pre-suppose anything, and you cannot take it for granted that they ‘just know’. If you want to teach, and make real, meaningful progress, you have to teach everything, step by step.

Then – and only then – you can take the simple tree task, and start playing around with it.  First you could increase the number of leaves (making it harder to count them all);  then you could draw a few leaves on the ground, so –


using the leaves ‘on’ the tree as a decoy, and asking ‘How many leaves are under the tree?’ to catch any autistic requirement for sameness or patterning.

Then you can draw other things, like birds (‘in the tree’), or flowers (‘under the tree’), moving away from the idea of counting ‘leaves’ at all.


And so it goes.

Small increments, leading to wonderful moments of achievement.  And you don’t have to be a qualified teacher to do this, either. You just need patience, and determination to make a difference.

blog - curlicues

The Ethereality of Independence


With a growing autistic child, the ins and outs of daily life do eventually settle. There aren’t any landmark breakthroughs to celebrate, and when he reaches 20 – as our Ian has – there are no great traumas either. It’s all pretty mundane. He is who he is, and that’s okay. I’ve come to accept that now. It took me years, but I’m pretty much there. I don’t like it, but it’s okay. Changes are few these days; the routine is rock-solid and we’re all doing well.

And then we meet another hurdle, our final one perhaps:


The word twists in my head.

What do you mean, independence? Ian will never be independent! He’s a runner; he will disappear at the drop of a hat; he can never be independent…

I am reassured: Not full independence, of course not, that would never work. Independence only insofar as Ian can possibly be independent. We want to help Ian to be as independent as he can.

Hmmmm. My mind works over this one.

If a person craves independence, certainly that must be afforded, as much as is possible. If a person shows signs of wanting it, grant it where you can. But here’s the rub: the person has to want it. The impetus for independence has to come from inside.

And if it doesn’t, what then? If you are plugging away, day after day, guiding, assisting, facilitating, when there is no push from within to achieve independence, aren’t you eventually just pissing in the wind?

I have been asked more than once: ‘Does Ian brush his own teeth?’ It seems such a small matter in the greater scheme of things, but surely that’s something he ought to be able to do, isn’t it? Brush his teeth?

Well, yes, he could. He used to. I taught him well, supervised him regularly, and let the lad get on with it. But when he was six and we first arrived in Ireland, something went wrong. It became obvious that Ian had toothache. Bad toothache. He would wake up in the morning, crying with the pain of it. It was awful to see. I tried to get him a dental appointment, but there was no Health Service dentist who had a waiting list of less than three months. I even ended up speaking to the man in charge of Dental Services, begging for his help, and while he absolutely understood my plight and sympathised, even on the emergency list, Ian couldn’t be seen sooner than a month.

“But my child wakes up crying!” I said to him, almost in tears myself. “He has autism. I can’t wait a month… it just can’t ….”

He gave me the name of a private dentist who, good man that he is, saw Ian the very next day and after a brief examination, booked him into hospital to have proper treatment under general anaesthetic.

And there occurred the worst day of my life.

Not only did I witness my child being gassed prior to anaesthetic – and nothing will ever take away the sound of his voice clearly, desperately, calling to me from behind the mask – but I was utterly unprepared for the sight of him when he was wheeled back into the ward afterwards. It was like something out of a horror movie; my beautiful perfect child, with blood pouring from his mouth. Only it was real, and I was there.

Ian had to have six teeth pulled that day. Thankfully he was young and they were only his baby teeth, and they would be replaced in due course by their elder, permanent cousins. But oh-oh-oh, it was awful.

And more awful still, because Ian blamed me.

I had been there when he went under; I hadn’t stopped this horrible thing happening to him. He had called to me, and I hadn’t rescued him.

He turned away from me in the hospital bed. He wouldn’t let me touch him, my soft huggable child…..

And then and there, I vowed to brush Ian’s teeth myself. Always. He would never have to experience anything like this again.

And still I get asked: ‘Can Ian brush his own teeth?’

A step towards independence, yes, but at a cost I’m no longer prepared to pay.

So there’s the teeth issue.

‘And how independent is Ian with regard to toileting?’

Ah. Yes.

I apologise in advance, and hold onto your hats, folks, because this is going to get mucky… No, seriously, I’ll save you the worst of it. There won’t be any details; I’ll generalise as much as I can and save your sensibilities.

Ian was toilet trained – and properly so – when he was around four and a half. We considered it a tiny miracle. I had read that if he were toilet trained before the age of six, it would be unusual. Well, he was.

I had also read that if he was toilet trained too soon, this might have consequences later in life. I chose to ignore that bit.

Shouldn’t have, though. Coz that bit came true.

I don’t know when it actually started. Perhaps when Ian was about fourteen or fifteen, maybe before. He took against the toilet. Not for peeing. That was okay. But for all that other stuff. And it’s kind of slowly gone downhill since then. He’s 20 now, remember? A certain strength of character is required to daily clean the a**e of a twenty-year-old, that’s for sure, no matter how much you love him. A task shared between husband and wife, and entirely understood and hugs freely offered when a spouse returns from the bathroom with the kind of wide-eyed, blank, 1000-yard stare you might expect to find on an infantryman who’s just survived a bombardment…

When it comes to independence, with regard to Ian’s toileting habits I have realised that, God love him, there is no way on earth that Ian – no matter how cleverly taught – would be able to keep himself adequately clean on a daily basis, the way we have to, up to our elbows in sh*t…  Wet wipes, latex gloves, the works. It just wouldn’t happen. And then he would smell, and be unclean and unpleasant to be near, and require Lord knows what intervention, and it would all be undignified and more difficult, both for us and for him.

And all for what? Just a little more independence?

I taught Ian to bath himself ages ago, but what if he’s happy for me to bath him, over and over again, every single night, as the years tumble into each other? Oh, I have taught him most thoroughly, and the techniques we use are straightforward and easy to replicate, but does he actually bath himself without constant active supervision?


He goes through the motions, wafting the facecloth over his face but never quite making contact, and soaping his hands and never actually cleaning anything. It’s all too haphazard.

The same with drying. He dries his hair and his ‘bits’, and then hands me the towel while he stands shivering and dripping wet, ready – in his mind – to step into his pyjamas. No, sweetie, you’re not quite done yet…

Independence for Ian is an ethereal thing, sort of ‘out there’, and not entirely solid. The truth is, he likes being looked after. He likes having things done for him. That being the case, should I stop?

The day he decides he wants to take control and he does so properly and with true intent, I’m outta there! Until then, we make a good team. And I will continue to brush his teeth just as long as the dentist – the same one that pulled Ian’s teeth so many years ago – praises me on how very clean they are. And every time I am pushed to give Ian more ‘independence’, I will smile and say ‘sure’ and make certain that we carry on just as we have been.

Because the dentist is happy with it.

We are happy with it.

And most importantly of all, Ian is happy with it.