Conjugal Bliss

Lulu phoned up last night. It was quite late but Jimmy was still up, so her conversation was disjointed at first. She gave up on the first attempt, then phoned me back once he had finally gone to bed.

She had been drinking, enough to loosen her tongue but not enough to render her incoherent. She is always in control of herself, even when she is relaxed with us. I recognise the signs, I'm exactly the same.

She has just come back up north, I pronounce it 'oop noorth' to myself and giggle that she would need a translation. Jimmy had another hospital appointment at the end of last week. The appointment went well and she managed a long chat with the consultant, who put to rest a few of her fears. She deserves a bit of good luck.

Unfortunately, the good will didn't extend to her husband, Phillip. She had a long, cold journey back down south and had to make an unprecedented stop at a service station about forty minutes from their home. She rang home to tell him how close she was, I suppose she was idly hoping he would have the dinner on and turn the central heating control up a bit more. He didn't, in fact, he wasn't even in the house when she eventually arrived home. It never amazes me to wonder about the optimism of a woman married to a man with Asperger's. They are so different, so unfathomable, that we always think they will wake up one morning and behave normally. By the time that Lulu and Jimmy arrived home, the central heating remained off and the dinner remained on the supermarket shelves, Phillip had escaped to the pub, to treat his stress.

Every time I speak to Lulu, she slips another little detail of her life into the conversation. She's an old-fashioned woman, full of the notions of unity at home and supporting your husband. At first the tidbits were vague 'I think Phillip is very like Jimmy', 'we have money down south but I live on very little up here', 'Phillip spends all his evenings in the pub' but as she slowly relaxes in our company, we are beginning to get a clearer picture of life chez Phillip. This time her sex life came tantalizingly under the spotlight with a vague 'he thinks of me in terms of cooking and bedroom duties. He only touches me when he wants sex'. I roared with laughter; men with Asperger's can make sex a torture and 'bedroom duties' is too ephemeral a description of the perverted acts which we become so used to.

Let me explain, men with Asperger's don't like physical contact but they accept that some contact has to take place during sex. However, with a bit of ingenuity they can keep this down to the minimum necessary. I think they also tend to fantasize about prostitutes, who must be pretty near to their idea of the ideal woman since they don't make demands, they aren't there when you don't want sex, they do all that is required but don't expect any affection or enjoyment in return and they don't ask for extra money in between. What more could a man with Asperger's want? I suppose he would object to the fact that he has to pay, but at least he can negotiate on that.

I first realised Jay had a thing about prostitutes when he asked me to urinate on him, 'because that's what prostitutes do' implying that I was one. By that time, I had learned to do what he told me to do during sex, as his tantrums had become quite dramatic and significant. He's very logical, so I managed to get out of that rather unpleasant situation by telling him that I would wet the bed and hence the mattress. I had calculated my response brilliantly, he had clearly worked out the cost of a new mattress and I was allowed to just perform sex on him.

It wasn't the sleazy prostitution which was the real upset for me, it was the whole seedy act, from tea-time on Saturday until early Sunday morning, which was the real problem. Let me walk you through one of our typical Saturday evenings:

After a day in the company of the children, Jay would be getting anxious and bad tempered. He would usually manage two or more trips to the bookmakers and a pint or two, but the rest of the time he would sit in front of the television, watching the racing as it competed with the noise of three children, trying to tell him they were bored. Shopping with the children was always difficult and particularly expensive, so I would try to fit the weekly shopping trip into the afternoon, squeezing it between Jay's 'I'm just popping out, won't be long' trips to the bookmaker.

By about six o'clock, Jay would be like a caged animal, so I would take the children into the kitchen and sort out their meal. By seven o'clock he was nagging me to send them to bed 'because we want some mummy and daddy time together'. I always fell for that one, assuming that he meant what he said and actually wanted to be alone with me. I'd whizz through their bath, their story telling and their bedtime and come down to find the wine bottle was half empty and the Tesco Gobi Aloo Saag was already in the oven. Time to clear the dining table, get out the plates which weren't chipped and didn't have Peter Rabbit on them and to light the candles. Within minutes the dinner was on the table and I managed to snatch a half glass of wine from the bottle. I sat down opposite him and tried to remember how to flirt but I didn't need to. Jay always sat with his legs parallel to the edge of the table, crossed away from me, with his plate cradled in the arm nearest to the table, so it could protect his meal from any sudden attacks from me. Not that I would, I always served out his meal first and he would be stabbing the last few forkfuls into his mouth before I could pick up my knife.

As I asked him about his week at work, he would reach over to the wine bottle, snatch it and walk into the sitting room. I would be left to enjoy my romantic meal for two in silence and peace. Once or twice I would ask him to sit with me but the response was always the same 'I've finished my meal already'.

Tidying up and loading the dishwasher would always take time, so the bottle of wine would be finished by the time I collapsed on the couch next to him, curious to know which television show had been so important to him that he had to race out of the dining room. It was then that I came to realise that Saturday night television is always poor. I had problems keeping awake as I snuggled up to Jay as he sat unresponsive in the corner of the couch.

At ten o'clock, bored with the lack of conversation and disinterested in listening to a minor celebrity recount their memories of 1970s adverts, I would announce I was going to bed. It was already clear to me that Jay had not really been interested in a romantic 'mummy and daddy meal' and just wanted the children to shut up. I walked upstairs and sank into bed disappointed about the lack of interest in me but thankful that I wasn't going to be humiliated tonight. This time I would make a more determined effort to pretend to be asleep.

At eleven o'clock Jay would march upstairs, even he was bored with the TV fare. He would stumble about in the dark and I would mumble that I was tired and didn't want to be woken. That should put him off – but it didn't. Minutes later he would climb into bed and reach over to my right breast, kneading it thoroughly for ten seconds before announcing that it was amazing that I still turned him on. I would mumble back that I was tired, had a busy day ahead and wanted to go back to sleep, but sleep was the last thing on his mind and this was clearly the foreplay they described in the books.

Do you remember Wilfred Brambell, the dirty old man in Steptoe and Son? He had a horrible, vile, dirty old man voice which Jay used to reproduce when he talked dirty to me. Talking dirty is supposed to be quite a pleasant experience and I've since enjoyed it, but not from him. He would grunt 'fancy a bit of anal?' in that disgusting voice and wait for me to go weak at the knees. I would lie there rigid, unsure of how to react. I had already tried 'don't be objectionable, piss off!' but it got him angry and noisy. So did 'I'm tired, please let me go back to sleep', 'I'm not turned on by that and I'm not interested in sex until I am turned on', 'you ignored me downstairs and I didn't think you were interested', 'I'm sorry but you have to try harder with the foreplay' and 'I find the idea of anal sex disgusting and sickening'. I was running short of alternatives and I was too tired to think straight, so I would roll over onto my back, open my legs and look over to the clock, thinking 'I'll just give him straight sex, he will be happy and within ten minutes I will be fast asleep'. Sure enough, within less than ten minutes he was snoring, even accidentally leaning against me in his sleep but I was always wide awake, ashamed and upset, with tears quietly rolling down my cheeks.

But I wasn't the only one upset about all this. Nina, who's bedroom was across the landing, would be listening to it all. She developed an irrational fear of going to bed on Saturday night and would creep over to her doorway, shutting the door and lying across it, sobbing until exhaustion took over. I found out when Jay left, finding a note she had written to try and explain it all to me. To Nina, what was happening was little more than rape but I looked upon it as a selfless act which might just reduce Jay's anger and make him a nicer person to work around. It didn't but I always lived in hope.
As I sat there, curled up on the couch, recounting my innermost embarrassment to Lulu, I heard a sigh of understanding. She could so relate to my experience. Tomorrow we are meeting up at the art gallery for coffee, I know that with a bit of a prod, she will be able to tell me an equally miserable and hideous story. The problem is, are we both up to the emotional challenge of stirring up our own memories?

Another Quiet Weekend

This weekend has been a total washout. I look back and the majority of our weekends since last September have been a total washout. Nothing new there, then.

Nina has taken the day off school and is trying to catch up with her sleep. This time, when I phoned the school, I didn't excuse her absence with vague hints about stomach aches or sore throats, I told the truth: 'Nina won't be at school today, her brother has Asperger's Syndrome and got himself into a state. We've had a traumatic weekend, Nina and I are both still upset and she is in no state to face school this morning.' It's the first time I have told the truth directly, which just shows how traumatised we really are. As I write this, I alternate between despair and anger.

So, what caused it all?

Pip has decided that he wants to learn to drive. He is only 16 but can already apply for a provisional license. One of his favourite all time fun activities is applying for car insurance quotes on line. Before, it was just a fun thing to do but now, with only six months to go until he can sit in the driving seat of a car, he is a man on a mission. He has decided that it will probably cost another £700 to add him to my insurance and was surprised and disappointed in me when I said I wasn't going to triple my insurance just so that he could learn to drive. I had already told Nina the same thing and she had accepted it with some grace but obvious disappointment. Let's get this straight, I'm a single parent surviving on child benefits and carer's allowance, it's a struggle to find the money for car tax, let alone splurging out another £700. Pip somehow managed to accept my decision with bad grace and moved on............. to his father, Jay. I begged him not to contact him, as Jay is like some Old Testament caricature of a father and will not respond well to a demand for money.

Of course Pip didn't listen, wrote the email anyway and was surprised when his father replied in a negative fashion, stating that he wouldn't give Pip the money as he hadn't got a licence. Pip was furious at being thwarted. I was furious because the refusal was based on the rather stupid premise that Pip didn't have a licence yet, so at some point, when that argument no longer applies, Jay would be obliged to either ignore Pip, or make up another excuse. I asked Pip to leave it, but Pip is obsessive, so he typed a rather well written response. I say that it was rather well written, meaning he wrote in sentences, most of it made sense and he used a spell checker. I don't mean that it was appropriate, polite, acceptable or inoffensive. I think any email which ends on the high note 'You are a selfish twat' is bound to cause offence and this one did.

His father, for once, wrote quite a sensible reply. He didn't detail his health problems or take a swipe at me, or even mention that I was taking up the majority of his finances (which I'm not, but he has never relied on honesty in an argument). He argued, quite rightly, that he would not give Pip more money than he gave to Nina or Alex. He also argued that Pip's friends wouldn't write such an offensive email to their parents. Now, there is some question about whether Pip has friends or whether they are just random people he talks at, but let's just pretend, for the sake of it, that they are real friends.

I know, from talking to the parents of other children in Pip's school, that verbal abuse is terrifyingly common. Most of the children describe their parents as 'selfish twats' on a daily basis. We learn to behave like the proverbial duck in water and just shrug it off.

When Pip read that bit out to me, I laughed and thought of Ella, who is known as 'that f****** bitch' by her Asperger's son. However, I took the opportunity to beg Pip not to write back, to accept that Jay would not send him the money and move on. But Pip wouldn't and spent Friday night worrying about it. He was clearly already working himself up for a tantrum.

On Saturday morning I drove Nina to the nearby town, to her voluntary work. I came back to chaos.

Jo, the neighbour's son, had been round and had accidentally broken one of Pip's darts. Darts is one of Pip's new obsessions and I had originally been quite delighted that he had taken up a new hobby which didn't involve stalking politicians or goading on children with ADHD. I walked in to find Pip screaming at Alex, who coolly reminded him that it was an accident and Jo would replace the broken dart but it wasn't enough for Pip, he wanted a proper punishment and since Jo had long since escaped, Alex and I had to pay the price in his stead. I dozed in between the bouts of verbal abuse, tired from a week of Pip's restless nights. By teatime he had remembered silly little events at school, where teachers hadn't responded immediately and effectively to name calling or offensive stares from other pupils. It was becoming clear to him that there was a major conspiracy against him.

By bedtime, he felt that I wasn't very supportive, I didn't love him, I couldn't be trusted and I was part of the conspiracy.

I went to bed, grateful for some peace.

Sunday morning dawned bright and sunny. Alex's football had been cancelled so he arranged to meet his friend at the gym. I looked forward to a late morning church service followed by an hour or two in the pub with friends. As the time drew near, Nina tentatively knocked on Pip's door and asked him if he wanted to come to church. The response was offensive but left us in no doubt that he wouldn't be leaving his room any time soon. A while later, with my coat and shoes on and Nina standing on the step, I approached Pip's door again. I used my most coaxing, reassuring tones 'Darling, I would like to go to church but I'm worried you are unhappy, will you be alright?' 'I won't kill myself and I won't run away but I can't trust you, you've let me down.' Pip barked in response, the bitterness and anger exuding from every word he spat out.

That did it for me. Pip was clearly blaming me for all his imagined misfortunes and the longer I left it, the more I would be expected to suffer. I calmly walked downstairs and informed Nina that she would have to make her own way up to church. 'I'm not going without you,' she wailed. I was torn between pleasing myself and Nina and pleasing the mad despot who was lying brooding in his bedroom. I chose the despot but couldn't resist telling him how much he had upset us.

'I'm not going to church because you are being stupid. I hope you are happy that your selfishness has paid off. Get downstairs now, if Nina can't go to church then I'm going to take you out for a walk, so she doesn't have to suffer you and your evil behaviour all day!' I screamed. He got up and came downstairs but I was too angry to look him in the eye. 'You'll have to wait while I make the lunch for Nina and Alex. It isn't fair that they have to starve, give up their activities and stay at home by themselves all because someone broke your dart!' I screamed. Pip just hang around the hall way, sullenly.

There was something so familiar about Pip's anger and his response to me. I was transported back to life with Jay, his anger, his aggression, his lack of empathy and his (erroneous) view that I couldn't be trusted. I suppose the years of abuse welled up inside me and I snapped.

For half an hour I screamed at Pip that my life was being horribly dictated to by his stupid, twisted mind, that Nina and Alex didn't have a life because he had to destroy their happiness and peace, that he always ruined the weekends for us, blaming me for every set-back he suffered. I was mean and selfish but months of stifled pain came tumbling out and somewhere I was having to accept the distressing truth that basically, he was no better than this father. Three years of therapy, years of providing a calm environment and what had I achieved? A bitter, twisted, paranoid man, just like Jay.

I threw the half cooked dinner on the floor, threw the kitchen knife into the table and started sobbing to myself. I was only half aware of Nina coming in, putting her arms around me and telling me gently to stop before I said something I regretted. That just made it worse, as I was aware of all the times I had allowed Pip's ego to dictate the family's lifestyle.

Eventually I sobbed myself quiet and I took Pip out. We drove to a lay-by out in the Peak District, parked the car and I pushed my seat back and lay there, alternating between sobbing and sleeping. By three, I was sufficiently calm and rested to make the return journey. Alex met me in the hall way and hung on to me, he'd been worried about me. I went to bed and slept through the night.

This morning I woke up with the alarm and dragged myself out of bed, to ensure that the despot got to school on time. I almost threw his breakfast at him, telling him that I was too upset by his behaviour and couldn't face sitting in the dining room with him.

He ate his breakfast and ran off to his taxi. He texted me later in the day 'School going well, hope you are having a nice day.' By that time hysteria had taken over and I roared with laughter, Nina rushed in, read the text and muttered 'Bastard!' before joining in.

Hecate, Queen of the Night

Ella emailed me on Saturday night. She really has gone too far this time and I told her so (but made a mental note to act as a character witness, should it come to it).

Ella is funny and intelligent, with the most pronounced sense of justice I have ever met and I admire her deeply for that. However, she seems to have a misguided naivety which sits uneasily on her personality and an amazing courage which unnerves timid old me.

I first met Ella over a year ago, at our usual bookshop cafe. Her son, Steven went to the school I had recently removed Pip from and she understood only too well why I had taken such extreme action during his GCSE year. Both Dee and I had been openly critical of what we saw as a failing school with little discipline and an incompetent headteacher and we knew we weren't alone in that. Dee set about to find the other disappointed parents.

It wasn't long before she found Ella, the mother of one of the new boys, whose behaviour was an obvious cause for concern. One night, at midnight, Dee phoned me, her voice breathless and hurried, her words tumbling out as she told me about the boy and his bitter mother. Within days we were all tightly wedged in our usual corner of the bookshop cafe, listening to Ella as she recounted the deception the headteacher had used to get Steven into school, agreeing with Ella that the school was not appropriate for him, then turning up at a tribunal hearing to say that she could meet all his needs and offering him a place, promising he could continue studying for five GCSEs when she didn't have the resources to teach three of them and then demanding more and more money from his education authority and social services as his behaviour deteriorated until he became a danger to himself and his fellow classmates. As the afternoon wore on, Ella's stories became funnier but her anger became more naked. We laughed when she recounted her regular meetings with the headteacher, her blatant accusations of lying, her parodies of the woman's clothes, walk and simpering. We gasped in horror when she told us of the day when she had marched out of a meeting, followed by the simpering headteacher, then turned on her and threatened her, swearing in solid, uncompromising anglo-saxon, then ran down to the car park, to throw up and empty her sweet wrappers on the ground, as the ultimate retaliation of a powerless woman. Ella had a loud voice and a booming laugh as we soon fell under her spell.

By that first meeting, although we didn't know it at the time, the headteacher's days at the school were numbered. Her boss, a determined and uncompromising accountant had to protect the reputation of his company and school. Although he rarely acknowledged our complaints and never apologised for the distress and upset our children were clearly suffering, he was carefully entering our complaints into his spreadsheets, analysing them, quantifying them and assessing the damage. He resolutely hugged his complaints procedure to his chest, refusing to implement it but he didn't need to, he could already see the headteacher was a liability and within six months she had left. However, by that time, fed-up with my powerlessness and aware that Pip was missing out on his education, I sent Pip to another school.

Ella kept Steven at the school, determined not to upset his education further. One Sunday evening she phoned up the school, to be told that he was washing staff cars, to atone for some previous sin, and hence was unavailable. She later found out that he had been in the city centre, climbing up the down-escalator. One evening he ran off to the nearest town with a very troubled teenager and tried to break into a shop. Another Sunday evening was spent running to the nearest railway station. The staff had been told not to follow him, so rang the police. By the time the police found him he was calm and asked to be driven back, but the school refused to accept him. The headteacher later told social services that the school could no longer care for him, as he had tried to jump in front of a train. Ella proved that the trains hadn't been running that afternoon.

Throughout the spring term we continued to meet up in the cafe, Ella recounting all the problems Steven was having, the lies the headteacher was telling and her pathetic attempts to remove him from the school. I told Ella about Pip's new school, his new found calmness, his successes and his achievements. Then suddenly, soon after Easter, Steven was expelled for threatening to throw stones at the headteacher. It was sudden, it was out of the blue and it was mismanaged by her. Ella found out later on that evening, when a social worker rang her to tell her what had happened and told her to wait for his possessions to be sent home. Steven found out later, when he arrived back home.

We found another school for Steven, with more professional staff and a keen understanding of his problems. But by then the damage was done. A year of poor behavioural management and lack of boundaries, failed GCSEs and months without the routine of school had taken their toll and he was unable to attend lessons. He developed a cruel streak and his parents could no longer deal with his anger. Neither could the police and it was decided to put him into care.

The months went by and we still met up for coffee, joined by more dissatisfied parents. The head teacher left and took up another headship at a state special school in a nearby city. Only Dee and Lulu kept their children at the school, the other four children having moved elsewhere.

Last week Pip was surfing the net and told me that he had found his old headteacher on facebook. I grunted a recognition but it didn't register. I should know by now that whenever he mentions her name he is always planning some obscure revenge which neither fits her crime nor is legal. The next comment shocked me and saw me running to the computer 'She's a witch.' Sure enough, as I scrolled down the page, I saw her link with a Wicca organisation. I clicked on the link and there was no mistake. 'That must be the friend she used to visit' said Pip, pointing to the blurry photograph of a middle aged woman who purported to advise on spells. I laughed and emailed Ella and Dee with the link.

On Saturday I got Ella's response, a copy of an email to the vicar of the church which neighboured the school and the managing director of the company which owned the school. 'Rest assured,' she wrote, 'if I had any idea that that woman was a witch, I would never have allowed my children to cross the threshold.' I phoned Ella up, to tell her I thought she had gone too far, feeling responsible for her actions because I had given her the link. 'It's only my opinion and my views, anyone is allowed to have an opinion!' she boomed 'I always said she was evil and I was right!' 'Well, I just thought she was incompetent,' my voice sounded weak and timid after Ella's determined tones. 'Shall I inform her new school that they are employing Hecate, Queen of the Night?' she giggled. 'That's too far!' I declared, for once sounding like I had a backbone to match hers 'don't you dare!'

Teenage Love

The snow is beginning to clear now and I’m willing to venture out more. Yesterday afternoon I walked over to the supermarket. As usual, I was late and met Nina walking home from school. She always appears in her own little world, her bag over her shoulder and her long hair flowing down her back. Sometimes I can persuade her to come with me and we enjoy the hour, without her brothers, wandering around the shops, talking about her school friends. This time, I couldn’t persuade her, she had too much homework and was already cold after the short walk. ‘I had to work with Christopher in French. I’ll tell you later, when you get back’ was the parting shot, which she knew would make me hurry back home, anxious for news.

Christopher is a tall, shy boy in her class. He’s from a large family and both of his parents have impressive jobs. He suddenly appeared in her life, as a peripheral figure, last year. This year, as the class became smaller and more intimate, they began to sit next to each other. By the end of last term he was texting her regularly throughout the day. Christopher’s humour was sufficiently weird that he soon attracted my attention. He would spend the rare free lesson making origami hats in the library or argue, in a good natured way, that he is cleverer than she is. That riled her, as she has a reputation for being a blue stocking and he, like many boys, is too lazy to work hard.

Last autumn I met Christopher’s mum at the school. I told her how much he entertains Nina and she appeared very surprised, he spent his evenings at home, quietly and soberly sitting in his bedroom, she didn’t recognise the comedian I described. The school hall was crowded and Alex was pulling me away, so we parted before we could say more.

By October, Christopher was looming large in our lives. Nina would come home daily and tell us anecdotes about their friendly rivalry and their running jokes. May, who knew the family, would raise her eyebrows and drop a stitch as we listened to the latest news. As Nina walked out of the room, May would look at me significantly and reiterate that there was clearly something going on there. If a boy showed a girl that much attention then it was obvious that he fancied her. Finally unable to keep it to ourselves any longer, May broached the subject of young love to Nina. ‘Oh, no, it’s not like that, Christopher isn’t like that. We are just friends’ Nina tried in vain to reassure us but we were women of the world, with a wealth of experience between us. Her protests became stronger and stronger but we would just look at each other across our knitting, in a knowing way. Finally, the truth blurted out ‘he’s gay, he fancies one of the other boys in the class. He told me.’ Sure enough, as the weeks wore on, we heard more and more about this. He showed some boys his diary, detailing his crush on the (unfortunately) heterosexual classmate, he was caught looking at the Gay Times (but was too scared to buy it), he followed a younger boy with a cute, snub nose around all day, he had even asked out a boy in their year (who had politely declined). There are plenty of boys in Nina’s school who are openly gay but Christopher wasn’t like them. Here was a boy who was still well and truly stuck in the closet, anxious that his mother shouldn’t find out yet confiding in not very discreet friends. It just didn’t make sense, so May and I developed increasingly far fetched theories to explain his situation away. But fact is always stranger than fiction and teenaged hormones can make the most sensible person behave like a prat.

One Friday the heterosexual Crush, Nina and Christopher sneaked out to the shops during the lunchbreak. Christopher had initially been excited at the prospect but became increasingly bad tempered as they walked. Finally, as the crush popped into the baker’s, Christopher hissed at Nina ‘why did you have to come and ruin it for us? We wanted to come on our own, you aren’t welcome.’ Then flounced off to meet the emerging crush. Nina was upset about the treatment but they are all still children and I assured her that everything would be back to normal on Monday morning. But it wasn’t. Christopher was still angry with her and pointedly ignoring her, worst still, he was sitting next to the Class Bitch in English lessons. Then Nina made the situation totally worse when The Crush sat next to her in the library and made her laugh just as Christopher walked in.

There followed weeks of frankly girlie spats. The emails stopped and he refused to sit next to her in lessons. She wailed that she had lost all her friends and that no one liked her. In a totally new twist, he started the ‘death by Facebook’. It started innocently enough, with him dropping her as a friend and posting that he couldn’t wait to leave home and make new friends. I emailed him privately, telling him I would do whatever was necessary to help them resolve their differences and stop my daughter from being upset. He responded by dramatically telling me that it was too late, they could never be friends and they had to just manage the next five months of living in close proximity as best they could. May declared that if an actress had written that then she would have accused her of over-acting.

Other classmates started to mention that Christopher was acting strangely, not only with Nina, but just generally.

Christopher clearly spent the next few weeks trawling through the more obscure clubs and groups on Facebook. I think it started with ‘I used to like you but I don’t like the way you’ve turned out’ or some other such twaddle. Within two months he had joined about 10 of these groups but they didn’t satisfy his anger. My post to Nina was pure retaliation, ‘Can you find the group You Behave Like a Wanker and Fight Like a Girl, I want to join!’ It entertained me for half an hour, until Nina read it and removed it. At New Year he became Nina’s friend on Facebook, but not in real life. He has started telling other classmates that she is a liar.

Nina has mentioned discussing the problem with a teacher. May and I are encouraging her because we both feel that Christopher is getting a bit mixed up and needs help. We are also concerned that he is going to say something stupid to The Crush and alienate most of the hot blooded boys in his year. I am hurt at the way that he is upsetting Nina but I can’t do anything about it, just provide her with support and love.

As for her news last night, she says he didn’t talk to her, just worked by himself. And no, the teacher hadn’t put them together because she knew about this bitch fight.

Back to School

It’s my first day of freedom, with three children in school and the day, filled with unknown promise, stretching out ahead of me. I pour myself the perfectly brewed mug of tea, sit back and luxuriate.

Actually, that’s not strictly true. Monday was my first day of freedom, or would have been if Pip hadn’t had an anxiety attack at college, phoned me and begged me to let him come home before he was cut off over there. I managed thirty minutes of ‘getting used to an empty house’ time before the phone calls started. The next hour passed in an adrenaline fuelled haze, as I contacted his school, his day release college and finally his taxi driver to sort things out and get him home while I still knew where he was. We spent the next three hours sorting out his emotions and reassuring him that I wasn’t angry and that it really didn’t matter.

I put my freedom on the back burner yesterday, as the school had closed down again. We went to the gym for the morning, so that I could work out and he could sit on a training machine, gently lifting his legs periodically whilst staring vacantly at ‘Bargain Hunt’ on a mute TV. My unspoken fear that he will end up in a home seems totally misplaced when I see him sitting gormlessly, watching day time TV. At times like that he wears his body as if he has borrowed it, not totally certain what all the parts do but determined not to break anything through over use. My mind strays and I begin to believe that the fairies used to swap children with changelings. Maybe I should have kept his bedroom windows firmly shut when he was a baby?

We walked back hand in hand, like young lovers. I found it uncomfortable but he seemed to need it so we carried on. As we walked past the Catholic Church he slowed down and asked me if priests had to demonstrate a sexual interest in children before they got the job. I spent the rest of the walk trying to explain to him that no organisation would recruit anyone because they were child abusers. I didn’t need to think of my response, his question was rhetoric, he had already decided that all priests were perverts. I hope he never comes across one, I couldn’t face the embarrassment.

The rest of his day was spent on the computer, internet stalking famous politicians. He seems to have grown out of Martin Mcguinness and now follows my father’s MP. I noticed that Pip’s zeal for northern politicians has spread and half of his classmates are following the man. At least three of them are so fuelled up on the heady mixture of sugar and e-numbers that they probably don’t understand what an MP is. The MP has responded to his comment on Facebook and Pip is delighted. He emails Alex, his bright but scary classmate, a new convert to politics. Alex emails back that he is fed up with the lousy school, the deputy headmistress is beginning to ignore his daily meetings with her and he’ll have to arrange a meeting with the headmistress to explain all his complaints. I laugh, Alex is clearly unaware that Pip completely bypassed the headmistress and complained straight to the charity who run the school. The response had to be a disappointment, so he has been in daily contact with OFSTED for the last two weeks. I sometimes wonder if I should bother to tell them that the half-literate, badly spelt emails they have been receiving from The Most Reverend Pip Asperger are just the ramblings of an emotionally illiterate and disabled boy. Maybe I should warn my Dad’s MP as well.

Today dawned as my first free day and started quite well. By eleven the supper was made, I had informed Pip’s school of his imminent arrival, the washing was on, I had advised the mother of a similarly disabled child about education, welfare and benefits, knitted three rounds of my latest project – much needed gloves, when the phone rang again. It was the school, advising that the weather was closing in and the college would be shutting early, could I re-arrange Pip’s transport? OK, I’ve been thwarted again, but some day this country will warm up and we will be back to the usual routine.

Back to work

I'm busy typing up a letter of complaint to Lulu's local hospital. It's tedious deciphering someone else's handwriting but she has no access to a computer and we both recognise the need to keep copies of all letter, so I offered.

Let me explain. Lulu is another mother of a boy with an 'autistic spectrum disorder' but he also has a number of health issues on top of the behavioural ones. In fact, Jimmy's health problems could provide the basis for at least a year's worth of medical lectures. He's had more operations than all of my friends put together, has a limited life expectancy and is doubly incontinent. Lulu has a theory that behavioural problems and incontinence are the least popular medical conditions, making Jimmy a social pariah. I've met him and she has a point.

Lulu is married, but suspects that her husband has Asperger's Syndrome. I've never met him but I have heard of him and she is probably right. They were married when she was about seven months pregnant. I'm not certain why either of them bothered, given what happened afterwards, but I suppose we must assume that they were both attracted to each other at some point.

I know Lulu as a carer, her life revolves around Jimmy, his social ineptitude, his malformed body, his bladder and his bowels but there was a time when she was a real person, with a job, aspirations and a social life. Then, she trained as a chef and when she isn't snowed under by Jimmy's needs I sometimes get a glimpse of the cook she should have been. Her kitchen is a wonder of ergonomics and ingredients and really reflects her interest. Physically, she is stick thin and worn with worry, but still clearly an attractive woman.

For really complicated reasons, known only to her local education authority, his school and Lulu, Jimmy attends a school in the Midlands but she has a home on the South Coast. Because of Jimmy's myriad health problems, Lulu spends term times in the Midlands, in the cutest little cottage. The problem with that is that Lulu doesn't fit in to the gritty Midlands. She probably stands out less than she thinks, but she is essentially a southerner and feels that we are all pointing at her, making assumptions based on her accent. I haven't the heart to tell her that although I've always lived between Birmingham and Edinburgh, I have visited the South, I've had friends from the South and I'm comfortable with people from the wastelands below my current home. Last month she was trying to decipher my northern dialect attempt at the word 'aunty'. Ok, so I pronounce it 'anty' but surely she has heard enough episodes of Coronation Street and Emmerdale to realise that I was talking about my uncle's wife? When it finally twigged and she unconsciously exclaimed 'Oh, you mean 'aunty'!' I laughed good naturedly and told her we'd make a proper human being out of her yet.

Anyway, here is Lulu, stuck in the Midlands with neither family or friends and a horrible, needy child for her only company. A member of staff at Pip's old school (one of the few I respected) phoned me up one day and asked me to invite Lulu for coffee. I like to think he recognised the empathy and kindness in me but it was probably just because I lived within an hour's drive. It took a long time for Lulu to respond to my invitation but as soon as I met her, I saw she was close to breaking-point, so I persevered. And thus began a strong, close friendship.

I try to be there for Lulu, to listen to her gripes, help her with her inevitable skirmishes with the care and health professionals and just to let her know that she isn't on her own in all this. She has parents, who live near her home, who I've never met. They are loving and helpful, but one is quite old and the other has other family with health problems, so they can't see as much of her as she would like. The rest of the time, certainly during term time, Lulu is stuck with Jimmy in a picture book cottage in a small Midlands town. Knowing Jimmy as well as I do, if I was Lulu then I'd either turn to drink or drugs. She already has.

Once a fortnight a group of mothers from Pip's old school meet for coffee. We call ourselves the coven, basically because we assume that headteachers, health professionals, social workers and education authority staff would look upon us as a difficult, bad-tempered cabal of bitter mothers. We are, but we also celebrate each other's good news, share in each other's families and support and listen to each other. For the last year, we have got each other through the numerous crises and disappointments which are the lot of the mother of an emotionally stunted child.

We have three venues for coven meetings, all of them hand-picked and all of them welcoming. The first of them is the bookshop. It's an old, rambling building stuffed full of books, with a tiny little cafe at the back. We squeeze onto a tiny pew, shuffling our ample bottoms ever closer as more of the coven arrive. We start off by discussing our choice of cakes, interspersing our deliberations with news stories which we can't contain any longer, polite questions about each other's children and rude observations about the officials who have thwarted us. We are noisy and lively, our conversations dominating the room, the waiters interacting with us, chatting and joking as the day wears on. Then suddenly, without any warning, we rush out to meet our homecoming children.

The first time I met Jimmy was a cold, winter's day. Lulu, Dee and I had already established our table at the bookshop, on our third pot of tea and reluctant to break up our meeting. Lulu rushed off to the school just down the road, then came back to introduce us to Jimmy. Jimmy has the high pitched whine so common to children on the autistic spectrum. I offered him a choice of cakes whilst his mum went back to park her car. His whine reached a crescendo as he found himself in an alien environment, with two caring, fussy women and a choice of cakes. Dee and I looked at each other and I mouthed 'ADHD' at her, she responded with 'and a hefty dose of Asperger's'.

A tiny, cramped cafe is no place for a child with ADHD and a generous slice of chocolate cake is of no interest to a faddy child, so when Lulu came back we let Jimmy wander off into the children's section of the shop. It was literally around the corner, well within hearing range. Within minutes we heard the whine now anxiously shouting 'It's my book, not your's, I found it first, leave it alone'. We ran out, to find Jimmy in the middle of a tug of war with a shop assistant. The magic of the place suddenly evaporated and we left, with the untouched chocolate cake in a napkin. Knowing Jimmy's lack of appetite, I expect it made a surprise and welcome tea for their dog.

After that, aware that Lulu is bored and lonely in the evenings and at weekends, I have tried to meet up with her. But it is difficult when I have my own disabled child. One evening I found myself in the area, waiting to collect Pip from a party, so I passed the time at Lulu's little cottage. Lulu already had a generous glass of whisky in her hand as she welcomed me in. We ate soup and warm bread, or rather, Lulu and I ate the soup, whilst Jimmy fretted about a board game he wanted to show me. Lucy filled up her empty glass with wine, offering me my usual glass of sparkling water. Eventually, after repeated reminders, we gave up on the untouched bowl of soup and emptied the board game onto the table. Jimmy reminded me of the official rules of the game, demonstrating some of the more difficult aspects, showing me alternative games, talking about the programme the game was based on, showing me some of the pieces which particularly attracted him then taking me over to the toy cupboard to show me yet more board games. The phone then rang, it was Pip asking to be picked up. I helped Jimmy tidy away his game, listening to him whining that I hadn't got round to playing the game and that I had to come back soon, so he could show me the game rules in more detail., Lulu poured herself another glass of wine and thanked me for coming, then I left. As I drove up to Pip's restaurant, I shook my head at the quantity of alcohol Lulu had drunk, then reasoned that I would have shot myself in her place. An evening of planning a board game with a child who is too hyperactive to settle down to the game, followed by a stomach wash out then patiently picking pieces of poo out of his bath was my idea of hell. On the way home I thanked Pip for being such a wonderful son, he looked at me confused but decided that was just the eccentricity of a neuro-typical woman and ignored the comment, preferring to tell me in detail about the meal he had eaten and his plans for when he became prime minister. I hugged myself in delight that we might be weird but at least our conversation was two sided and his interest in food hadn't diminished.

Jimmy had an operation last year. It was relatively minor for him and only required a few days in hospital. Lulu told me about the impending operation during one of our regular meetings, confiding in me her bitter hatred of most hospital staff. It's a bit scary listening to a woman who's son's life depends upon the expertise and kindness of nurses and doctors, as she proceeds to criticise them, but her dislike is understandable. Jimmy's autism seems to affect every aspect of his life, so that his pre-med drugs, designed to make him drowsy and comfortable have the opposite affect, making him noisy, angry and irritable. The anaethetist stands by in horror as Jimmy proceeds to shout and swear at anyone who will listen to him as he bounces on his bed. Jimmy's dislike of change makes every visit to hospital, every procedure and every interaction with hospital staff an embarrassing and humiliating experience for Lulu. She described how a doctor, in a child friendly moment, toured the ward, asking his patients how they were. The Little Lord Fauntelroy in the bed opposite, lisped his grateful thanks for the attention and generously showed the doctor his new toy. As the doctor neared Jimmy's bed, Lulu's anxiety rose. 'And how are you feeling today?' questioned the unsuspecting victim. 'How do you expect me to feel? I hate this bloody place, f*** off!' came the honest reply. Lulu can take these responses without even wincing now and, under the influence of the coven, is beginning to see the funny side of it all.

But to add injury to insult, Lulu loses Jimmy's Disability Living Allowance and her Carer's Allowance whenever Jimmy goes into hospital. In a marriage where she enjoys none of her husband's income unless she is at home and cannot work because of Jimmy's complex health needs, that loss is significant. The argument is that Jimmy's needs are all met in hospital, but in practise, few nurses are trained and experienced to meet his complex personal needs. Besides, since he is so talented in verbal abuse, few of them would welcome the challenge. Food is a similar problem. A child who can turn his nose up at the perfect chocolate cake at the end of a busy school day and who is significantly underweight is not going to be tempted by standard hospital fare. It takes all of Lulu's finances, ingenuity and imagination to keep that boy from inadvertently starving himself to death in hospital.

Lulu's most bitter criticism is directed at social services. It's one of the strange anomalies of autistic spectrum disorders that most mothers hate social services with a vengeance. After we have circumnavigated the bland 'he doesn't fit our criteria' argument we face the assessment of needs test. Emboldened by our coven, who egged her on, Lulu contacted her social services. Because of Jimmy's physical needs, Lulu managed to get to the assessment of needs stage quickly, so far so good. She was then handed a forty page questionnaire and left to fill it in. She cried to me as she recounted the experience, telling me she was too emotionally raw to fill it in. Always one to find a silver lining in all clouds, I told her it was a blessing as it would give us an opportunity to clearly demonstrate her need for help. She wasn't sure, so I arranged to meet her the following week to complete the form.

We met up the following Friday, Lulu with the form and I with a note book and a stack of pens. We met at the art gallery, our second favourite venue and prepared ourselves with strong coffee and cakes. For the next three hours, amply fortified from the cafe menu, we ploughed through the form, writing and re-writing our responses, adding all the relevant details like her husband's drink problems, her depression and the lack of support. Even Dee and I got a mention, as the two local(ish) women who provide limited support in spite of their own problems (single parent of disabled child in my case, single parent of disabled child with terminal cancer in Dee's case). As we wrote the damned report we alternated between crying and exaltation at a particularly splendid turn of phrase. We left each other optimistically arguing that even the most stone-hearted social worker, work-hardened by listening to years of sob stories would be obliged to respond positively to this particular tale. I spent the next two days working well into the night, perfecting our case. A week later Lulu presented the report to her social worker and we sat back, delighted and proud of our work.

Months later, concerned that we hadn't heard from social services, Lulu contacted them and waited for the response. It came just before the end of the autumn term. As usual it came to her home address and her husband opened it. He phoned her up, annoyed about it and the coven assumed it was the allegations about his drinking. At our last meeting we all nervously told her to come back up north if he became violent and waited anxiously for news. Eventually she phoned me and assured me that his concern had been for his driving license, which he had lost after being caught drink driving. He had been in the process of reapplying for the license and was concerned that social services would read the report and block his application. Clearly, Lulu had spilt the beans to social services just to upset him and prevent him from driving again.

But what about the response of social services? Had our heart-felt plea for help, clearly worded and detailed, liberally sprinkled with true anecdotes outlining Jimmy's behaviour and physical problems melted some bureaucrat's heart? Would social services arrange for the necessary support and give Lulu the much needed break we had requested? I inadvertently laughed as Lulu explained that all of the family problems were caused by her poor relationship with her husband, that the pair of them were so selfish and antagonistic towards each other that their unhappy marriage was affecting Jimmy's care and that a series of sessions at RELATE and a positive attitude would solve everything.

We have arranged a coven meeting for next week, snow permitting, and before we have even sat down with our lattes we will have already started blackguarding the social work profession.

In the meantime, it's time to get back to that letter...............................

Merry Christmas!

Well, it was a happy Christmas in the Asperger family. The happiest Christmas we have enjoyed in a long, long time. Pip doesn't like surprises, so I told him what his present was two weeks before the event. It was a shared present, a new, flat-screen, large (for us), family TV and I told him to keep absolutely quiet about it, so it was still a surprise to the rest of the family. As an extra Asperger's-friendly gesture, I gave him a copy of the specifications. There were enough technical words to keep him occupied and happy for days. The week before Christmas Day, I bought him an enormous TV aerial, to install in the loft. We spent the run up to Christmas cold, with an icy blast blowing through the house from the loft hatch, but with a really useful Pip blissfully running up and down the ladder, with screwdrivers, compasses and wires. The only slight upset was on Christmas Eve, when I banned access to the loft for the following day, on the grounds that I wanted to feel warm on that one day. Christmas Day was spent discussing the ban and how far it went, would it apply if there was a fire in the loft, if the roof started leaking or if Grandpa phoned up and demanded we all climb into the loft? But we were both too happy and relaxed to get worked up about each other and we took each other's responses in good heart.

It hasn't always been like this, even as a child, whilst I happily dreamed of presents, or sat up all night waiting for Father Christmas, there must have been tensions in the family. My mother was a wonderful, loving, kind hearted woman but she had an obsession about food and this could always lead to conflict. To her, Christmas was about food and being the perfect hostess, so there was bound to be a problem.

My father hated white meat and my sister and I were vegetarians. However, turkey is a traditional Christmas Day meal and traditions had to be observed. A huge turkey would be ordered months in advance and mum would take delivery of it in the days leading up to Christmas. Because my dad hated turkey, mum only cooked it once a year and wasn't very confidant. She also read every newspaper article about food poisoning, so she was only too well aware that under-cooked turkey can kill. In the week before Christmas, when other women were worrying about presents, my mum was panicking about the turkey. Dad used to preface most of his conversations with 'Oh my God, the turkey!' much to my delight. Mum didn't find it as funny.

The turkey had to be kept away from everything edible, to avoid cross-contamination. It would sit in the dining room, in splendid isolation on the table, carefully draped and with the door locked to ensure that it couldn't escape and run wildly about the fridge, poisoning us. The two days before the meal, my mum would regularly phone up the butcher, to confirm cooking times and temperatures. He was a distant family relative, so took mum's calls cheerfully, waiting until he next saw my dad, so they could both exclaim 'Oh my God, the turkey!' The meal was cooked with military precision, adhering to times and temperatures exactly, then adding another hour on, to ensure that all the bacteria, like the turkey, were burnt to a frazzle. Cooking would start at four in the morning, to ensure a good eight hours of high temperature roasting and for the rest of the morning, mum hovered about the kitchen, worrying about whether she had removed the giblets, if the silver foil was adequate, if some temperature-resistant bacteria had permeated the bird, if her timing calculations were accurate enough and if the rest of the meal would be adequate for the majority of the diners, who wouldn't be eating the turkey anyway.

My grandmother and great aunt would come over for Christmas Day, two very old, tiny ladies who both ate like birds, anyway. Their portion of this huge bird would amount to three or four slices between them. My mum, exhausted from the emotional upheaval of the cooking, was too tired to eat the turkey. My dad refused to eat the damned thing, so mum cooked a ham for him and we ate nut roast.

For the next week mum would dish up ever more imaginative meals involving the turkey, always having to include a 'dad-friendly' and a vegetarian option. Finally, fed up with all the turkey, she would hang out the remaining carcass for the local birds to gorge on.

And yes, we tried to tell her that none of us liked turkey, that she hated cooking it and that most of it was thrown out but she would always retort that you have to eat turkey at Christmas, it's traditional and besides, everyone else likes turkey so we shouldn't just think about ourselves. As we grew older, my grandmother died and my great-aunt was too frail to come over for Christmas dinner, but still she was adamant that everyone else likes turkey.

The turkey tradition was finally put to rest when my sister and I left home, the butcher died, leaving my mum with no-one else to reassure her and with her increasing ill-health, Dad took to cooking the meal. When she had done the cooking, food-poisoning had been a possibility but she decided that with dad it would be a dead cert, so she finally relented and agreed to a cooked ham.

My cousin, another neurotic housewife, maintains the family tradition. My aunt reassures me that in the past she has thrown the turkey away on Christmas morning simply because it smelt a bit funny if you shoved your nose right up its bottom and inhaled deeply. She now maintains an extra freezer full of emergency Christmas Dinner rations just in case she comes across another 'slightly odd' smelling turkey.

Christmas continued to deteriorate when I got married. My husband, Jay, felt awkward in social gatherings which didn't involve large quantities of alcohol and my parents felt awkward when their son in law drank large quantities of alcohol, ignoring everyone, becoming increasingly drunk, then falling into an alcoholic sleep on the sitting room floor. I found it easier to celebrate Christmas on our own, but it wasn't much of a celebration. My mother in law would send a Christmas card, including a present for Jay, my parents would send a card and presents for both of us. At first, I found it hurtful and expected Jay to mention it to his mother, then I told him he should mention it, then I just accepted it in mute, but increasingly bitter silence. He maintained that it could not be discussed with his mother, case closed. Over the years, I continued to buy my in-laws a Christmas present, but was never thanked and the present was always left, unused and unwanted at the back of a cupboard. The Christmas meal was spent in silence, like all of our meals and no-one ever came to visit.

When we had children, Christmas became more meaningful. However, I started suffering from extreme sleep deprivation, since none of the children slept through the night or even took daytime naps and I was continually fighting the desire to fall asleep. That problem was finally resolved when our youngest child, Alex became six years old and suddenly decided to sleep through the night. Jay also had problems sleeping and when he was asleep he was the windiest person ever. My nights were spent listening to, and smelling, his frantic guts whilst waiting for the children to demand my immediate attention. At four o'clock, Jay would wake up, wake me up, stomp downstairs, rush to an internet betting site, then wake up the whole household by a noisy trip to the toilet. Even now, two of his children call him 'the fart man'.

So, given that I was exhausted, Christmas was always a subdued affair. I would offer to make a lasagne for Christmas Dinner, since it was the only meal that the children would all eat which didn't involve tomato ketchup, chips and beans, Jay would grudgingly make a meal which the children wouldn't eat, then go back to nursing his whisky bottle in a quiet corner, then I would tidy up the chaos of wrapping paper, broken toys, half chewed sweets and plates full of dinner.

And all the time, I ached for Jay to talk to me, show me affection, tell me I looked good or that he loved me.

As the children grew up and Jay's behaviour became more isolated and anti-social, his need to drink and the obsession with horse racing became more noticeable. The last Christmas Day he spent with the family was enjoyed in a drunken stupor, making strange comments about how miserable I was, how boring Christmas was, how awful the children were and how miserly other people were. The next day was spent glued to the racing programmes, with regular trips into the town, to the bookmakers. I sat playing with the children, watching in disbelief as he shouted at them for making too much noise, for not sitting still, for having friends who knocked on the door and for breathing loudly. He left early in the new year, still angry with the family and still adamant that his behaviour was acceptable.

His daughter, Nina, celebrated him leaving but spent the next three years in therapy.

You would think that once he had gone, order was established, happiness was welcomed into the home, life carried on and I would start to enjoy Christmas. Sorry, I'm clearly too weird to do that. For the next two years, our Christmases were ruined by Jay offering the children wonderful presents, then demanding they see him, or keeping his sister's presents from the children because of some unspecified misdemeanor. I would be left frantically searching for the money to pay for a present which was so big and so wonderful that it took away the mean-spiritedness of Jay. Finally, I gave up, as Pip grew into the part of Scrooge.

Pip is incredibly self-centred and just forgets to even consider other people. He would contact Jay, asking for a particular present, then sit back and expect it. It never occurred to him that Jay regularly let him down and manipulated him through his presents. Two years ago Pip wanted a particular mobile phone for Christmas. He phoned up his dad and asked for it. He told me that Jay had agreed to buy it. I doubted that Jay would be so straight-forward enough to listen to Pip and act upon what he heard, but I left them to it and chose an alternative set of presents. At the time, Pip was interested in the army, so I bought everything from the local army surplus shop. He had an arctic sleeping bag, a tiny stove to fit in a rucksack, a water bottle, a penknife and the ubiquitous sweets. I carefully and lovingly wrapped them all up and placed them under the Christmas tree ready for the following morning. In the meantime, the present from Jay arrived and it wasn't a phone. Rather, it was sixty pounds worth of high street gift vouchers. Pip was furious.

Christmas morning arrived and Pip's alarm clock rang through the house. For the only time in his life, he got straight out of bed and marched downstairs. He opened his presents in record time, discarding them amongst the wrappings. His siblings and I woke up slowly and met on the landing to wish each other a happy Christmas, then started walking downstairs. Pip pushed past us on the way back up, announcing that he hadn't got a phone, the presents were shit and Christmas was shit. That set the tone for the rest of the day, as the weather was shit, the meal I had carefully baked was shit, his siblings were shit and I was shit. We dragged him to church and thankfully managed to keep him quiet during the service. When all the older members came up and wished us a happy Christmas and kindly asked what the children had received, Nina and Alex skillfully kept them occupied, chatting about sweets and toys whilst I ran after my incandescent Pip, grateful that most of the congregation was deaf, so couldn't hear the obscenities issuing from his cherubic mouth.

Looking back, that Christmas was painful but helped the rest of us come to terms with Pip's problems. We knew from first Jay's behaviour, then Pip's, that Christmas is a difficult time for people with Asperger's and we accepted that we weren't going to have that warm, fuzzy Christmas which other people seem to enjoy. We already knew that Pip couldn't accept life on our terms, so we couldn't expect him to behave any differently at Christmas. It was up to us to change and we did. Now, just as my mother managed to juggle three meals on Christmas Day, I juggle two worlds. They sit side by side and overlap periodically. I've learnt to enjoy and rejoice in those overlaps but not to expect them. I accept that Christmas involves change for Pip, which he finds painful, I accept that I cannot make firm commitments and arrangements in case Pip gets upset, I accept that Christmas has to be celebrated amongst our closest friends and family members, that he will probably sit in his room alone and that he will never appreciate the effort that we go to. However, on the occasions when Pip does interact or take part in something, I have to be thankful.

And as for Jay? Earlier this year I finally bought the last high street voucher off Pip and spent it on toothpaste I didn't particularly want. This year, Jay has decided that the children didn't even deserve a Christmas card and strangely, Pip is happier receiving no present than the wrong one. It really has been a blessed and peaceful Christmas here.