Holiday blues

Well hi.

It's been a long, long time since my last blog. Things have happened. Some nice, some not so nice.
Essentially, other than the children being bigger, funnier, more amazing, more frustrating, things are pretty much the same. I still try (and mostly fail) to bake. I still try (and mostly fail) to eat well, exercise and take care of my health, both mental and physical. I laugh about pretty much everything, because if you don't laugh you'll cry, right?

But today, today I decided to blog because I read something that cut me to the bone. It wasn't in any way aimed at me, but it upset me to the point that I've laid awake all night pondering, and if I don't get it out I'll explode, so here I am.
It begins with a Facebook status. One mother, who had noticed that already, when it's only day 1 of the summer holidays, mums are moaning about their kids. There followed after this, a conversation whereby those who moan about the holidays are deemed to be unfit parents, who probably should never have had children in the first place if they can't be bothered to make the holidays fun.
I didn't just cry over this. I sobbed. I am one of “those" mothers.
I don't mean to be. I love my children unconditionally, with every fibre of my being. But school holidays for me, are not fun. They're horrific. We become captives in our own home, unable to venture further than the garden. Autism keeps us all prisoner. We can't all jump in the car and go hunting for the gruffalo, or digging for treasure at the beach. We can't go to the park. We can't ride our bikes to the shop and buy ice cream. We can't take a picnic to the woods and have rounders tournaments and rolling down a hill competitions.
Basically, the things I dreamed of, when I had my babies, the promise of long summer days filled with fun and laughter, they were taken away from me. From all of us.
Our reality is getting through 6 weeks of changed routine, of bored children desperate for my attention, of trying to come up with things we can do at home and convincing my “normal" children that this is JUST as fun as the things their friends are doing. They're getting too old to be fooled. Luca is getting too big, too strong and too clever to be contained. So on top of feeling like the worlds worst mother, I become the worlds worst housekeeper, my house is trashed. And yes, I know, “I'm rocking my baby" and all the other “it's OK to have an untidy house" poems and memes can be posted all over Facebook. But that doesn't change the fact that clothes need to be washed, plates need to be cleaned, food needs to be prepared. Pee and poo needs to be removed from the bathroom walls, the nutella all over the bed covers? Well that can't be left, either. It takes 20 seconds of turning my back to create a mess that will take 30 minutes to clean. And in that 30 minutes, 50 more messes will be made.

I can laugh and joke about it, I'll spin it and try to see the funny side, but under the surface I'm stressed, overwhelmed, and increasingly anxious. What if my children grow up hating me and resenting Luca, because our lives revolved around everything he was unable to do? What if social services knock on my door, see the mess and decree I am indeed a crap mother who doesn't deserve to have my children?

I mean, I could jump in with both feet and say that the mothers who are out every day doing amazing things, and making scrapbooks to take in to school come September to show everyone what wonderful memories they've made, are clueless, and smug. But I wouldn't say that. I say you're lucky. Lucky that fun is possible. Lucky that while you may have the odd day of whining or arguing and proclamations of how boring this all is, for the most part, you'll be loving the time together and thinking it's going far too quickly.

I just have 1 request. Don't judge others based on what you are able to do. Making me unable to express how tired, or stressed, or overwhelmed I feel, denies me of the opportunity to hear other mothers say “me too" or “hang in there, not long now" so that I know I'm not alone. In short, you make the not so “good" mothers feel even more isolated.

Believe me, we feel rubbish enough as it is.