“How come he’s allowed extra screentime?”
Our daughter’s voice has a special timbre in complaint-mode. Like a violin being played with a hacksaw. My fingers reach for my temples, and begin to knead.
“It’s not extra. He stopped for dinner. He’s got ten minutes left.”
“Well, what about the ten minutes you took off when he called me the ‘b’ word yesterday?”
Damn, she’s right. I’ve nothing to fall back on but the affable, dopey dad schtick.
“Ah, yeah. I forgot.”
She leans in, narrows her eyes, brings a note of disappointment to that voice.
“You always forget.”
There’s nothing new or unusual about envy-fuelled sibling rivalry. Never mind Cain and Abel or the wicked sisters of King Lear –check the glassy-eyed, teeth-grinding grins on Eric and Don Junior when they’re posing next to golden kid Ivanka.
Even in the most well-adjusted families, resentments will fester, grudges grow and injustices gnaw away at the bonds between brothers and sisters. But in ours, all this comes with a twist.
Even in the most well-adjusted families, resentments will fester, grudges grow and injustices gnaw away at the bonds between brothers and sisters. But in ours, all this comes with a twist.
This is because our daughter’s brother, 20 months her junior, was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder when they were six and four years old.
Since then, she’s seen herself stranded on the sidelines, her needs seemingly relegated and preferences overlooked as her little brother commands all the attention - the squeaky wheel that always gets oiled.
How many of her birthdays have been marred by his meltdowns? How many unending dinnertime conversations on whatever might be his current obsession has she endured? How many times has he whacked her around the head, only for her to get the third degree about what she must have done or said to trigger him?
For pity’s sake, don’t ask me or their mother – we’re too exhausted from messing this stuff up day to day to keep track, but I’m betting one of those notebooks in her bedroom (the ones that used to have glitter and unicorns on the front covers - these days, not so much) contains an unforgiving tally of slights and grievances.
And yes, she’s right to feel aggrieved. No, it isn’t fair.
From the age of six, she’s been expected to flex and accommodate, because, well, we know we can count on her, and she knows that we love her, but her brother just needs a bit more support… How many children of that age can pronounce magnanimous, let alone be it?
From the age of six, she’s been expected to flex and accommodate, because, well, we know we can count on her, and she knows that we love her, but her brother just needs a bit more support…
She’s risen to the challenge - put up with him, looked out for him; she gets him. She knows exactly which buttons to push if she’s looking to wind him up (a never-gets-old, rain-or-shine diversion), but also just when and how to offer an olive branch.
There is no sweeter music to our ears than the sound of her lightly knocking on the bedroom door he’s ten minutes earlier slammed shut with stump-juddering ferocity, and murmuring a plaintive “Friends?”, followed by the slow creak of that door opening, and his begrudging “Friends” in response.
These are the moments my eyes meet those of my stoic co-parent and we share a sigh of relief, content to wallow in fleeting domestic harmony, the room humming with an unspoken, “Well, look at us – we’ve got this!”. Until the next detonation.
It’s kind of made her grow up fast, having a brother on the spectrum and a slack pair of parents.
It’s kind of made her grow up fast, having a brother on the spectrum and a slack pair of parents.
So we’ve only got ourselves to blame that she’s hurtling into the maelstrom of adolescence a few years ahead of the schedule I thought we’d all agreed on.
Not yet twelve, but already into the big change, those complaints of inequity vindicated by the monthly menstrual drag, resentments fomented by hormonal riots.
She throws herself on her bed and wails, “Why does he have to be so angry all the time? Why is he so weird? Why does nobody care about me? You don’t know what it’s like.”
I crouch down, murmur stuff about autism, and love, and family. All the while thinking, good grief, can I do this? Is this what the next five, six years are going to be, a relentless round of crisis whack-a-mole? And we’ve only got two – how the hell do the parents of three or four even cope?
She must know my heart’s not in the pep-talk, because she’s pushing me out of the bedroom door, slamming it shut in my face.
And I’m back at the kitchen sink, breathing. And it strikes me how long it’s been since I spoke to my sister. Which makes me think of my mum, gone for 13 years.
The bottom line is, we want these kids to grow up close, to always be there for each other, because we know we won’t be, can’t be, what with the mortality elephant that squats in every room. For him, especially – if we could only guarantee he’ll always have that one person who understands him, that one, precious source of unconditional love.
The bottom line is, we want these kids to grow up close, to always be there for each other, because we know we won’t be, can’t be, what with the mortality elephant that squats in every room.
But we can’t guarantee a thing for our children, not really, with or without an autism curveball.
I’m contemplating the sweet agony of parenthood as I put away the dishes, when I hear his stomp down the hall. Three knocks on a door. His voice, gruff yet gentle.
“Friends?”
A door opening.
“Friends,” she says.
Exhale. All okay again, for now.
