We're baaaaaaaack....

After a couple of cocky years of avoiding too much therapy and big title doctors appointments, I'm baaaaack. I'm sitting in the waiting rooms, making polite conversation with receptionists and nursing that omnipresent gnawing doubt that I'm missing something vital.

Again.

On the Autism World rollercoaster, I'm back strapped into my seat wondering when something's going to hit me from left field and suck my breath away. Hoping that it'll be something super cool, thinking it's likely to be poo.

It's slightly different these days, though, because Billy's tough enough to be in the appointments by himself (a situation I am not completely reconciled with). He's in with his diagnosing psych today, reacquainting, in preparation for a WISC next week. I can hear him through the walls, hooting and laughing and being more than a little bit charmingly bossy. I'm buoyed by his confidence, and scared by the chance he might poo his pants without realising and prematurely end the session.

It's an odd game, this Mummy of the SN child caper. Sometimes I'm busting with pride, amazed at what we've achieved and sad to leave. Other days, I feel like hiding. I want to take off my 'Yes, my kid is bung' t-shirt and go and get drunk.

Yesterday, it was the Gastroenterologist at the Children's Hospital. I quite like the hospital appointments because I can lurk in the grey area between autism world and medically diverse world. It somehow feels more legit to be queuing for blood tests and ticking boxes on pathology requests. The hidden bonus (booby prize) comes when medically diverse world cuts into my autism reality, and we find ourselves in genetic testing for a range of disorders I didn't even know existed until yesterday. More about that in future posts.

Today, the psych and the GP. Next week, aqua-therapy. After that, Outer Space.

OK, I lie. I haven't booked the aqua-therapy yet.

It's a lesson for the soon-to-be parents, really. Keep in the back of your mind that you may find yourself doing stuff you didn't know existed. You may well do playgroups, and Gymbaroo, and Baby Teddy Decorating Classes. You may even retain your PhD worthy brain while you do those things. On the other hand, you might find yourself sifting through rice to find trains, making visual schedules depicting the steps required to do a poo without unduly distressing the visitors or you may spend time perfecting your death stare for unsuspecting non-autism world residents.

You may also waste time riding high on the cocky assurance that you know best for your child and therefore do not need therapy, therapists or their boxes of rice. You may spend time plotting revenge on the doctors who mention the 'a' word and frantically researching cases that refute their theories (just to reinforce your notion that said doctor is a weird tool who must have found his medical qualifications in a cereal box). You may spend your time identifying obscure medical conditions that on a Friday, in spring, when you lean out of your upstairs window look a bit like what your kid might have.

And you may find yourself staring at your sleeping child wondering what they are dreaming about, and who they might become and whether you'll be around to see it. You might smile at the memory of their laughter, cry when you remember their tears, get to curl up next to them and find your own peace in their sweet smelling sleep.

Some days it feels like Poltergeist, and other days it feels like Mary Poppins. Most days it will, no doubt, be your very own Discovery Channel. And we all love those shows about eating deer poop and counting down to air crashes, right?

You'll be fine.