But normally, each gives their own, taking a swipe and returning a kick. “It builds character,” some might say.
But not always.
In our house, two of my children have always been separated.
Play has always been supervised. They are never left in the same room together. One of them could get seriously hurt, and it would not be the other one’s fault.
My son Rhys is nine. He is autistic. His speech is limited, causing his communication to often be physical.
A rough push away is just him saying, “Get out of my space.”
A scream or a lash out is just him telling his sister to stop her singing or leave him in peace. A pull of her hair is him not liking the flicks of curl picking up the sunbeams that are flooding into the room.
He never intends to hurt her.
She is just smaller.
He is bigger and stronger, and he can’t communicate when he gets overwhelmed.
But I want them to have a relationship, and Rhys and Jessie want to have one too. There have been moments of bonding that are so sweet and innocent, where each face has a smile beaming across it and the laughter floods the room.
I want to build on that. So we keep trying, working safely.
“Jessie’s turn,” I heard Rhys shout yesterday from the swing. Rhys sat on one side, and after a great swinging session earlier, Rhys wanted Jessie to join him again. “I’m coming, Rhys,” she sighed and threw aside what she was doing to go and join him, in an overdramatic way to draw attention to her involvement in our family dynamic. She loved it.
Then they swung, and I watched to make sure Rhys didn’t get triggered. It can happen so easily.
It was sweet. Something that no one would think was special or out of the ordinary. Two siblings playing together? What’s amazing about that?
A hell of a lot.
We are building mountains over here. We are just starting at rock bottom.
Written by Maggs Hay of A and Me
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