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January rolls a sleepy head and I can feel the Year sprawled before me. January has always been the foundation for me. It’s when, the dates and times slip and slide and I meander through the things that are out of reach during the year.
It’s school shoes, I just need to sort the orthotics first.
It’s lunchboxes but it’s also about settling in food around meds.
It’s new meds, or new doses of old meds, but it’s also prescriptions, repeats and reviews.
It’s school books but it’s also about revising so we don’t lose the gains made last year.
It’s a GP visit for a new mental health plan so she can see the psych in the holidays.
It’s a chance to do the physical therapy that fell away in term 3.
It’s the dentist that we never get to.
It’s the scans so we don’t have to miss classroom time.

Sweet soft January. Waves and board games are calling. Star gazing and painting at the kitchen table, Minecraft and Disney are stirring my dudes into another day without a name. January, finishing Christmas ham, that school holiday cereal and that single jar of chocolate spread, you know the one. Even the bright joy filled balloon of January is pierced: by The Year. It looms over me. All the bits and pieces that need to be clicked into place are nudging their way in.

And while the planning and the getting out of the way and managing time out of school is such a driver in our life, is it really what January is for?

needs: Siblings – a brother and so much more.

My family was watching Wonder again. We all freeze, when Via, says “August is the Sun, Me and Mom and Dad are planets orbiting the Sun”, even Via’s metaphors are in terms of August’s interests. My family holds their breath, as if my boy doesn’t already know he is our Via.

My neuro diverse girl is dreamy – that can be scary for her but for her younger brother, it is a constant hum of frustration. Can you imagine your primary play mate, for your whole life, zoning out? Leaving the game, the show, the conservation. For years we didn’t know why she was dreamy, and for years we didn’t understand why he would bring her back with his pudgy toddlers’ fists.

Later when he was 8, and we were at taekwondo a light went on in him that we haven’t been able to fully put out.  She lunged out of the way and ran full pelt, head down into a brick wall, just as two other dudes ran into her. Bone and brick at full speed was followed by a sharp collective in-take of breath. This terrifying silence was broken by a howl, not hers, but his. He was close to the action and instinctively he howled “Mum”. By the time we parked at the hospital, I couldn’t leave her. I charged him to get a nurse and a wheel chair. I don’t know what happened to him the minutes we were apart, but a nurse came and I went with my girl. There was an hour or so before my beloved came and I recall my boy there, squashed in the cubicle, on the floor, under the seat, finding blankets, being as still as possible and not daring to speak. It all washed over him and into him. I know there were moments where I left him in hallways or on chairs, and I will never know what his world looked like from there. Feelings and fears exploded for him that day and they repeat now when we least expect it.

In the 6 months that followed, we just couldn’t make it to his activities, or have sleepovers, and his world became smaller, wrapped around hers. He began a new school, and made new friends in default mode. We got him there, but we couldn’t support him. It was a miracle that everyone was fed and bathed.  My boy began to check on her, in the morning and before bed and then in the night. After 3 months when she returned to school, I won some time away from watching over her but he never did. The reports began, “she’s not doing so good”, “better after lunch than before”, and “her relief teacher doesn’t get it”. Slowly he began to stop listening to grown-ups, telling them what to do, walking out of his class, to make sure she was ok. And people would say “He is so good with her”, “He told us what would be best” and I wished for a world where he didn’t have to.

He is 11 now. He is still finely attuned to her needs: on a scale of 1 “living it up” to 10 “this shit again”, but frustration has moved in. He still disarms me with his compassion, but there is a shift. He is done with being late to school for her, or her homework getting more support than his, and he feels the unfairness of it all if she is unwell when he has an activity, sleepover or something planned. He now looks to protect his world from time to time, and that’s okay.

If my boy is a house, only the garden, the fridge and play room lights should be turned on. After bearing the weight of and witness to her needs, all the lights, in all the rooms of the house, are turned on. My darling boy is hyper vigilant, and we’re working on powering him down.