“Hey Harry, look at this.”
I am with my six-year-old son, blocking the doorway to his classroom at morning drop-off as he grapples with a shoe. Harry and his mum have just arrived behind us.
My son now pulls a cross-eyed grimace in Harry’s direction while extending and wiggling his tush, managing to finally get that shoe off at the same time. Both boys double up with mirth as his mother and I exchange eye-rolls and usher them to their lockers.
“Harry’s my friend,” my son explains, tugging me towards the corner of the classroom where he last caught sight of the huntsman spider he’s been tracking.
Figuring out how to get along with other people, to make and keep friends, is no walk in the park for any of them.
This is surprising news. Only two days ago, he’d marched red-faced from his classroom into the playground at pick-up, yelling that Harry was his “worst ENEMY in the whole WORLD”, scarcely able to catch his breath through his tearful anti-Harry ire. Now they’re buddies. Go figure.
It’s that time when kids are being allocated teachers and classmates for their forthcoming new year-groups. At our school, we don’t get much say in this, beyond coming up with the names of three friends with whom they may be placed, other factors allowing. This is a tricky call with our son. And not just because he’s so fickle.
He was diagnosed with high-functioning autism last year. Fine for mainstream schooling and free from the level of challenge that would qualify for extra funding, but still in need of extra support here and there (most likely more than is available).
Autism is a spectrum disorder, of course, and kids with the condition come with presentations in all shapes and sizes, but all will share a degree of what’s clinically termed “social impairment”. Figuring out how to get along with other people, to make and keep friends, is no walk in the park for any of them.
Our son has plenty of acquaintances, most of whom drift in and out of his orbit, depending on how taken they are with whatever his current obsession might be. It’s been spiders for the whole of prep year. Specifically huntsmen spiders. He’s become the local community’s go-to kid on all matters arachnid, which lends him a certain kudos. That he milks.
When it comes to games unrelated to spiders, though, he can struggle. He can’t quite follow the script, wants to join in but isn’t sure how to, and often plays alone. Reports with heartrending regularity that the others have “been mean” to him.
We’re working on social skills with him through a wonderful speech pathologist named Bernadette. Trying to get beyond the bum-wiggle/face-pull and toilet humour schtick he resorts to in his quest for a sense of belonging.
Right now there are a couple of handouts Bernadette has printed out for us stuck up on the kitchen wall.
One depicts three little happy emojis brandishing upturned thumbs under the words
“Expected Social Behaviours: things kids do or say that other kids think are friendly, helpful and respectful to others”.
The one beside it has three variously vexed or perplexed faces, with “Unexpected Social Behaviours: things kids do or say that other kids think are unfriendly, hurtful, weird and disrespectful to others.”
The sweet thing is they make an effort for one another. The kid’s developed an interest in spiders. My son only ever gets all fan-enthused when he’s around. They fall out sometimes, but soon make up.
We’re trying to steer him towards Expected Social Behaviours, see, and drill him on what they look like by referring to these signs, this language, what is and is not “Expected”. And I’m down with that, I can see it’s a useful tool, that he needs the support that comes with this being spelt out, I get it. It’s just...
The inclusion of “weird” on that list of undesirable behaviours that make an emoji frown kind of bothers me. Weird can be okay, in my book.
If behaviour isn’t hurting anyone, if it’s not hostile or destructive but just kind of left-field, then what’s the problem? Rather than reprogramming kids like this to behave in ways that are “Expected”, couldn’t we be working on others to loosen up those expectations, to work harder at being inclusive?
At least there’s one name I can put down right away on that classmate wishlist.
When it comes to games unrelated to spiders, though, he can struggle. He can’t quite follow the script, wants to join in but isn’t sure how to, and often plays alone.
It’s the name of a kid our son met this year. Sometimes he behaves a little bit Unexpectedly, too. They got on like a house on fire, right away, as did his dad and me. He told me their family could be heading down the diagnosis path, too.
If our son’s thing is huntsman spiders, this kid’s is electric fans. He switches all of the ceiling fans on the minute he sets foot in the house and asks politely if I might have any others, maybe the portable kind, in the shed.
The sweet thing is they make an effort for one another. The kid’s developed an interest in spiders. My son only ever gets all fan-enthused when he’s around. They fall out sometimes, but soon make up.
When one of them has a meltdown, triggered by whatever’s just happened in the playground or classroom, the other looks on, curious but non-judgmental, might even offer calming words.
It’s like Bogey, that charismatic, supercool weirdo from the old movies, once said.
I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
