My Son's Not Rainman

by John Williams

  I’d never realized just how many potholes there were in south-east London until that journey home. Then there were the speed bumps, protruding out of the tarmac like giant baby killers. Don’t they know he’s got no neck! The roads were a disgrace. Other people were a disgrace, driving too fast, taking risks, clogging up the streets with unnecessary journeys. Had no one spotted the ‘Baby on board’ sticker I proudly attached to the rear window last night? The only time I’ve ever driven so carefully since was when driving home from a speed-awareness course. The car never got out of second gear the entire way.

  Of course, I’d heard him cry on the hospital ward. It seemed almost cute there, this gentle wailing against the backdrop of other babies, people coming and going and the general business of the hospital. It was barely audible, tiny little lungs desperate to leave their mark on the world. Now, within the confines of our small London flat with its paper-thin walls, he showed exactly what he was capable of.

  There’s something about your own child’s cries. They’re broadcast on a different wavelength to those of other children. You could be in a room of two hundred babies all wailing their hearts out and pick yours out in an instant. As a parent, it’s a skill that never leaves you. I’ve sat in soft-play centres and heard the cry from afar and, like Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle, I’ve known it’s for me. I’ve been pulled into schools and heard the same faint noise from the far end of a playing field. And it’s only writing it down now that I realize how much that saddens me: how much he has cried over the years in order to be heard.

  Those first few weeks at home were tough. There were moments where it felt like the crying might never stop. A few years ago I was on a child development course for a job I had at the time and one of the talks was about attachment theory, how the bond formed in the early months of life is so important to a child’s future development. It described how neglect is often more harmful than abuse to the long-term outcome for a person, since at least abuse is some form of contact. Chilling. It talked about how maybe our generation got it wrong. In the seventies you had a ‘good baby’ if they didn’t cry, made no noise and could generally be left for hours on their own. But crying is a baby’s only form of communication. And a baby soon learns to stop crying if no one comes.

  I might be reading too much into all this now, but I was never sure where a baby like ours fitted in with all this. Here was a baby who cried and cried and, despite our best intentions as parents, we never seemed able to meet his needs because we never seemed to discover what they were. Sometimes it felt like he just wasn’t pleased to be here very much.

  That makes it all sound awful and of course it wasn’t. It might well have been a perfectly normal start to life. I hope that by now you’re beginning to recognize that I have a habit of over-thinking and over-analysing everything. I’ve only had the one experience of having a baby and bringing up a child. Much like I’m his only experience of having a father. It’s all each of us know. Now there’s a terrifying thought.

  So life went on, and we relaxed into our new roles a little bit more. I remember our first trip out as a family, a fortnight after we came home from the hospital. I was due to return to work after the weekend, so we thought we’d do our first family outing to Bluewater shopping centre, just east of London. It might seem like it was a random choice, but it was selected for a number of reasons:

  1 Fairly close by with minimal speed bumps and a very sensible 50mph speed limit on the main roads.

  2 Indoors to protect the newborn baby from the dangers of air.

  3 Baby-changing facilities.

  4 If anything was forgotten, it could be purchased at Bluewater.

  5 What else can you do with a baby?

  That morning, my wife piled up the entire contents of the flat at the door and I loaded it into the car. We got the car seat attached in only forty-seven minutes, knocking a good four minutes off the previous personal best on leaving the hospital; we were getting so much better at all this. That was it, we were off. After a gentle drive during which I twice allowed myself to cruise in third gear, we arrived at Bluewater. I reversed into the parent-and-child bay feeling warm and smug. As I stepped out of the car, I half expected the world’s paparazzi to swarm around us. Here I am, everyone, a virile father with his family.

  And off we went, my wife pushing the pushchair, me carrying the contents of our home in a rucksack. We headed into Bluewater and it was perfect. He slept the whole time, we went for a coffee, the ambient temperature was to everyone’s satisfaction, the trip was great. We were doing it, this parenting thing. We’d forgotten nothing, our son was safe, we were just like everyone else. We headed back to the car park, congratulating ourselves on a perfect day out, being perfect parents (I say day, it was an hour and a half). We’d do it more often, this going out business, it was easy. At first I couldn’t remember where I’d parked the car, but then I saw it from a distance. It was pretty easy to spot, really; it was the one with both rear doors wide open and the keys in the boot, just the way we’d left it. Perfect parents.

  It’s funny, the transition from the neuroticism of the early days of parenting to the nonchalance that soon kicks in. I’m not really sure when it happened, but it did and quite quickly. The rucksack was soon replaced with a nappy and a few wipes shoved in a pocket. I saw other ‘Baby on board’ stickers and realized most of them were on Volvos and quietly removed my own. And eventually I stopped waiting for strangers to stop me in the street and tell me that they’ve done a survey and, although everybody says it, mine genuinely was by far the most beautiful baby that they’ve ever seen.

  People ask now if there were ‘any signs’ in those early weeks. I don’t know. I don’t know what we should have been looking for even if we were looking for it. I had nothing to compare him to. The crying continued, I know that much. Early evening and then into the night. His mum bore the brunt of it. I remember walking home from the train station after work, Tarzan hearing the cry from up the road and then walking around the block one more time before I could bring myself to face it. My poor wife, exhausted at the door.

  ‘I’m sure it’s just a bit of colic,’ the health visitor repeated whenever the subject was raised. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll grow out of it.’

  Oh, son, how I wish we could have helped you more.

  In those early months my contribution always seemed to be in the kitchen as it’s fair to say that my wife wasn’t a great cook. As a result, I did most of the cooking at home. And most of the eating. I remember when we were dating I was promised a sample of her ‘special recipe’. (Reading that line back has made me laugh. Part of me thinks I should delete it, but the schoolboy in me wants it to stay. It’s staying.) Her special recipe was Boston baked beans. For weeks I was promised this culinary delight, the recipe a secret that had been handed down from the forefathers of Boston itself or something like that. It turned out Boston baked beans was baked beans with some treacle in it and it was as hideous as it sounds. That was the last time she cooked, until her son arrived.

  I came home from work one day and, as well as the customary crying, there was something new to greet me: smells wafting from the kitchen, lovely cooking smells. Ah, dinner, I foolishly thought to myself. I popped my head around the door; it was an impressive sight. Blender out, pans out and on the work surface lots of ice cube trays filled with colourful dollops of puree.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t come in here without washing your hands!’ She rattled through each ice cube tray. ‘This is organic sweet potato and butternut squash. This is fennel, artichoke and some other vegetable I’ve never even heard of. This is apple and pear compote…’ The Boy would dine like a king on his first solids. That night, I gave him his bath, put him to bed and phoned for a takeaway.

  Maybe I’ve painted the wrong picture here. A pair of neurotic parents with a screaming baby – it’s as if a psychiatrist would have a field day. I suppose the sad thing is that the crying and the unsettled behaviou
r in the evening has taken over as the main memory. But it certainly wasn’t the only one. The Boy could smile. He had a smile that you could dine out on for weeks. Other people debated about whether it was really a smile or just a bit of wind, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that those precious moments were enough to get us through the relentless sleepless nights.

  And it wouldn’t be long before that smile turned into a laugh. A laugh that had a life of its own, that would gargle and chuckle and forever march to a different beat. When I look back now, I realize that in those first few weeks of his life he taught me more about myself and the so-called meaning of life than anyone has before or since. Before he came along, I thought I was a nice person. I thought I did things for others because I was good or kind. Only now do I recognize that so often I did things for others because I wanted something in return, be it praise or thanks. But in those precious first weeks he taught me what it means to truly love someone. To give everything and expect nothing in return; maybe that’s the true definition of love.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A Family Affair

  There’s something strangely hypnotic about watching your own child sleeping. I’ve found myself doing it often over the years, going into his room to quickly say goodnight and, before I know it, I’ve been there for minutes, even hours, just silently studying him, learning him. Over time, the surroundings might have changed – from the glow of a nightlight and the chimes of a long-forgotten nursery rhyme to the flickering screen of a left-on iPad and the shouts and clashes of a far-off Power Ranger, but the serenity, the calmness on his face, they have largely stayed the same.

  Whatever drama and chaos may have dominated during the waking hours, they have always seemed a distant memory as he sleeps. No furrowed brow, no sign of anxiety, just a little boy at peace with himself and the world.

  And then, in a few hours’ time, he’ll waken. There’ll be no snooze button, no five more minutes. The Boy’s eyes have always sprung open from sleep with an urgency that wasn’t always appreciated in the adjacent bedroom. Looking back, I suppose it’s one of the most defining moments of being a child. He opens his eyes, flings the bed covers to one side and leaps out of bed. There’s no doubt about it, today is the day. There is a world to be discovered, and a life to be lived. Each and every morning, etched on his face is the undeniable knowledge that today, this very day, is going to be the best day of his life. EVER. It doesn’t matter what day it is, it could even be a Monday, but it will always, without fail, be the best day.

  When do we lose that?

  MY SON’S NOT RAINMAN BLOG

  They were quite isolating I suppose, those first twelve months of The Boy’s life. We were the first of our friends to have children and both of our families lived hundreds of miles away. We were fortunate to have my younger brother nearby and he very soon adapted to his new role in life of Best Uncle Ever, a title he’s never really lost. At that time he had no children of his own, but he was a natural parent and was always tuned into The Boy’s wavelength in a way that others could only hope to replicate.

  We’d travel to see the rest of our families too – in North Wales or Scotland. And they’d travel down to London to visit us. It was always lovely to see them, my heart swelling with pride as they cooed over The Boy in whatever new bought-for-the-occasion outfit he was wearing at the time. Hasn’t he grown! Doesn’t he look like both of you! Hasn’t his hair got lighter!

  And then a few hours into the visit, when they’d had time to settle and it became clearer that The Boy wasn’t quite meeting whatever developmental milestone we should have reached by that time – sitting up or crawling or making sounds – someone would invariably offer their own parenting advice or opinion they believed might make all the difference. Often it felt like the opinion was that he was pampered too much – just leave him be, let him cry, he’ll soon stop. Put the toy out of his reach, he’ll grab for it eventually.

  I understand now that all this was done from a place of love and I even catch myself doing it unintentionally nowadays when I visit new parents. How soon we forget what it was to know nothing about newborn babies and just allow instinct to carry us through. Every generation seems to feel like the next are too spoilt, too cared for, dare we say it, too loved?

  That sounds almost too cruel a description of the friends and family I love dearly, especially when I know they just wanted to offer some reassurance. Everything was OK, they’d say. Your brother didn’t walk until he was twenty months; your grandmother’s sister cried non-stop until her twenty first birthday… Maybe my memory of those events says more about my own insecurities at the time than anything else. Sometimes it just felt like they were only serving to highlight my own shortcomings. I was more likely to win Rear of the Year than Dad of the Year, I knew that, but we were doing our best.

  I think that was the toughest part of that stage – there was no diagnosis to back things up. I had an instinct that something might not be quite right, but nothing I could really put my finger on. There was just a whole group of people whose love clouded their judgement, who didn’t want to accept that anything might be wrong. Instead, they over-compensated, looked for other reasons to explain what was going on. And invariably that would occasionally mean pointing the finger at the two amateur parents in the middle of it all.

  I can remember when I heard the a word mentioned for the first time. Autism. Much like imagining a world without my child in it, it seems strange now to imagine a world in which I never really knew what it was, where it was just another condition that didn’t really affect me so I blithely ignored it.

  It was one of my brothers who first said the word. He was my twin and a head teacher. We all had children around the same time – my elder brother already had two children, then within twelve months along came The Boy, swiftly followed a few weeks later by my twin’s son with a brilliant shock of red hair and personality to match. The Boy Who Loves Being Ginger had arrived in the world – poor Nana would have to wait another few years for her elusive granddaughter.

  I suppose there was a certain inevitability to the cousins’ friendship, given that their dads are twin brothers, and the closeness in age, yet it’s funny how different they seemed as babies. The Boy Who Loves Being Ginger’s developmental milestones seemed to just be targets to be beaten, a checklist to tick off so the family could get on with the very real business of living. The Boy seemed more passive, I suppose. He’d get there eventually, when he wanted to, but he’d just take his time.

  If anything he came across as distracted and ill at ease with the world. It’s difficult looking back now, with the knowledge I’ve gained over the years, because at the time I knew none of that stuff and, if I had, maybe I would have spotted things sooner. But everything seemed so easily explained. The excessive dribbling was because he was teething or liked putting things in his mouth; he didn’t crawl because some babies don’t, he’ll go straight to walking; he’s stubborn, his mum was the same as a baby.

  Yes, I had a sense my son was different, but in comparison to my brothers I had also been different. When we were growing up, they were the cool ones, they were the ones that were forever begging me to play football with them so they could have a goalkeeper, they were the ones with the first detentions and the first ones with girlfriends. I was the quiet, withdrawn one, the one who spent all his time in his bedroom reading and daydreaming. I can’t catch a ball, I still struggle with shoelaces, I didn’t even discover that you sat on the toilet seat and not on the rim until I was nineteen years old. I suppose I just put the differences The Boy showed in those early years down to me. He was different because I was different – anything that appeared out of the ordinary was just down to being ‘son of John’.

  It happened when we were in my brother’s car, I guess with The Boy around the age of two. I’m not sure where we’d been, but we’d put the two children into their car seats in the back. The respective dads reached in through each passenger door to fasten the kids’ sea
t belts. The Boy Who Loves Being Ginger had already fastened his. Even at that age, he had a streak of independence, a desire and a thirst to do things alone. By the age of four he would be out gardening and tending to the lawn. The Boy wasn’t even an arm’s length away from him in the car but at that very moment it seemed like he was a whole world apart. I don’t think The Boy had even noticed a seatbelt, let alone worked out how to pull it around himself. It’s something he struggles with to this day. He’d never move out of the way to help or lean over slightly so you could slot the belt together. It was always as if it was happening for the first time. I suppose if there was any sign early on, it was this lack of inquisitiveness, the lack of wanting to know or to learn that seems to fill most children’s every waking moment.

  I got into the front seat of the car, my brother next to me. I noticed him continuously looking in the rear-view mirror at the two boys sitting side-by-side, only weeks separating them in age. The Boy Who Loves Being Ginger was peering round his dad’s seat, eager to see the control panel light up as the engine started. The Boy was next to him, perfectly happy in his own little world, dribbling away to his heart’s content, chewing on the delectable seat belt that had just been served as a light snack.

  ‘John, do you think he might be autistic?’ he asked me.

  Fuck. Off. I’m not really one for displays of anger but I remember the rage that filled me that day. You may have noticed that I used the f-word a couple of chapters ago but I asterisked one of the letters out to make it more polite. This one’s staying in. I’m not sure why the comment upset me so much. Maybe it was the bluntness of the word. He didn’t say, ‘Do you think something might be wrong?’ He just came out with it. Autism. I suppose it felt like rejection, this idea that there might be something wrong with my son. Because that’s what autism means, isn’t it? Was I really that shallow?