The ghosts of Christmas Past

Source

Two years ago we'd moved into our new house. We were all settled and by the time Christmas came around our three kids were firmly entrenched and happy in our home. Our one year old baby boy was commando crawling (we called him the wounded soldier as he dragged one leg all the time, great for polishing floorboards with his wondersuits) and was a happy little chappy chasing his big siblings around.

He babbled a bit, had no really clear words yet but we figured the big kids did enough talking for all of them.

On Christmas day my mother-in-law came for lunch and we had a lovely relaxed day together.


Last Christmas that boy was two. He had a brand new baby sister and was coping really well with the changes that brought. He still slept fairly well of a night and was fascinated with her.

He was, we thought, a late talker. He had lots of words but maybe not as many as the others at that age. But he was a boy and the third child and everyone knows kids with older siblings are often able to have their needs met without verbalizing.

He smiled a lot, a huge toothy grin. He looked people in the eye and was openly loving and affectionate. I couldn't believe my luck in this gorgeous happy little bloke, so relaxed and easy going.

On Christmas day my parents and mother-in-law came over for lunch. We had a beautiful day full of joy and laughter. The baby was passed around and loved all over and the three big kids played with their new toys.


This Christmas will be a little different, because our boy is a lot different. More so by the day right now.
This year our boy has less language than he did last Christmas. He rarely looks people in the eye and hides his face when he meets new people. If he looks at you and talks to you, truly you are one of the chosen few.

This year the busy-ness of shopping centres is too much for my son. This year he spends at least part of every single day shutting himself away and gazing into space, occasionally moving his mouth in odd ways or looking out the corners of his eyes. This year he has meltdowns that put any toddler tantrum you've ever seen to shame. This year he has moments when he seems to not even see me, to not even know me when I am right in front of him.

This year my boy wakes every one to two hours overnight. On a good night I can resettle him in about ten minutes each waking. On a bad night we have up to an hour of screams that would break your heart. This year I take painkillers too often of a morning to try and stave off the ever present exhaustion headache.

This year my heart aches a little for the innocence of last Christmas. For our boy as he was then. Because when I really think about the year that has passed the extent of his regression is blindingly obvious.
This Christmas it is a little harder to smile. To think of anything but this all encompassing autism that is never more than a second from my thoughts. This Christmas is about surviving with my mental health intact.

But next Christmas may be different again. I live in hope. Next year will see lots of appointments and therapy and new situations for all of us. Next Christmas my little boy will be four. And no matter where he is on his autism journey he will be loved.