The squishy fish stress ball was what tipped us over the edge. When we spotted that thing sitting dumbly on the shelf near the living room door, we knew what it meant.
That we are terrible parents, that’s what.
“We forgot to give him this!” my partner shrieked, squeezing its lifeless, rubbery blue form in my face, its eyes bulging in accusation. It is one of the things that reliably calms our neurodiverse child. “Now he won’t have it for the coach journey!”
“I thought you gave it to him.”
“I thought you did.”
The stupid fish knew we were just as bad as each other. My partner tossed it back on the shelf.
What had we done to our boy?
Hats off to his school for ambition. At a time when most schools are taking baby steps back to regular routine, the choice of a five-day camping trip to Canberra – eight hours each way – was a bold one.
At the briefing for parents the other week, the teaching staff looked visibly shaken by the agenda. “What happens if a child gets sick?” was a big feature. One angry dad turned Q and A time into a lecture on the danger of sexual predators. The teachers internalised eyerolls.
Afterwards, sitting down for a one-on-one with our son’s teacher, the last thing I wanted was to be another difficult parent. She’s been great. Always open to tweaking his behavioural support and individual learning plans, updating strategies. But between even the most finely tailored plan and its effective implementation stands the child.
“There are three things we’re concerned about,” she explained. “The swearing, of course. Then the not following instructions. And the disrespectful behaviour.”
This trip is tough enough without wildcard variables – I get it.
“We do think it would be best if one of you could come along.”
And I see that. We even wish that we could. But I’m tied to working interstate that week, and we can’t leave our daughter alone. The teacher eyed the desk between us. The air crackled with unspoken ultimatum. We decided to let him go without our supervision.
We know his autism means those five days away could be a tough gig. Still, we convinced ourselves (and our son) that it would be great. That we believed in him.
In the weeks leading up to camp, we gently coached our son towards getting the most out of camp. And, mostly, how not to get sent home.
“Why are you making me go?” he asked me.
And why were we?
We know his autism means those five days away – among a throng of social cues and expectations he might struggle to get a handle on – could be a tough gig.
Still, we told ourselves, and him, that it would be great. That we believe in him. That even if camp feels like something he’d prefer to avoid right now, soon he would look back on it with satisfaction and pride. That Canberra is great – there would be amazing crystals at the National Museum. He loves crystals. And seashells, and sharks, and skateboarding with unbridled, genuine passion.
To smooth things out, we’d get him some word search puzzles for the coach ride. Perhaps a new skate-deck if he could do what’s asked of him and cut out the swearing.
We’d remember to pack his stress ball fish.
By the morning of the camping trip, he was convinced. Excited, even. He was up before us.
But as we walked past the waiting coaches, through the pre-dawn car park and into the school hall where the kids were being marshalled into groups, his mood shifted. When his mum leaned in to scrape some dried toothpaste off his jumper, he pushed her hand away, scowling from behind his mask.
We got some quiet time with him in the small alcove behind the stage to calm him down. It worked, but there was a cloud hanging over him as he shuffled up to the front of the coach, eyes on his shoes, the last to board.
He got a window seat. We waved him off. By the time he noticed us, and put his hand up to the glass, the coach was pulling away.
Back at the house, the squishy fish reproached us.
What were we thinking? Were we just trying to prove a point to the school?
To stand our ground on some principle of inclusion? At what cost? (Besides the new skate-deck.)
What were we thinking? Were we just trying to prove a point to the school?
We might have stayed that way for his whole trip, mired in self-recrimination, if it hadn’t been for Sandra.
Sandra is a parent who did go along on the trip. And who knew how worried we would be. She reassured us, within the first few hours, that our son was doing fine. That he’d been entertaining the other children by spotting roadkill along the Hume Highway.
Two days later, in my hotel room, I was looking at a photo she texted us.
In it, our son stood, beaming, beside a display of fossils and rocks at the National Museum. Next to him, his teacher was grinning too.
Maybe the squishy fish was too tough on us. Maybe we did the right thing – this time.
