Living with Autism - It's Not You, It's Us...But Actually, It's Mostly You...

Living with Autism...in the kingdom of parenthood, each family has its own unique circus to manage. My family, however, doesn't just have a circus, we've got an entire Carnival Extravaganza, courtesy of my unique and quirky children.

Autism, folks, is not just a diagnosis, it’s a way of life, complete with its own set of rules, dialect, and preferred currency (in our case, crunchy apples and ice blocks). And let me tell you, it's not for the faint-hearted or the well-intentioned-yet-oblivious aunties and uncles.

Take, for example, family gatherings. Aah, the grand tradition of forcing people who share some DNA and a common inability to mind their own business to sit together in a room and make awkward conversation. Picture this: There’s **Max, in the middle of the room, flapping his hands like he’s manually guiding in airplanes, while the rest of the family gives us 'the look'. You know the one, right? It’s a cross between 'I just ate a lemon' and 'I think I stepped on a Lego'.

Then, there's my Uncle Bob, the self-appointed Autism Guru, who doesn't actually know anything about autism. He's got a PhD in Old Wives' Tales from the University of Nonsense. "Have you tried a gluten-free diet?" he asks, while simultaneously wolfing down a dinner roll. Or how about Aunt Patty, who always has a fresh anecdote about the autistic savant she saw on the telly, and seems quite disappointed that **Max can't play the violin, paint a masterpiece or solve a Rubik's cube blindfolded. Sorry to burst your bubble, Patty, but his superpower is memorising train schedules, not recreating the Sistine Chapel on the living room ceiling. And let's not forget Cousin Linda, a self-proclaimed parenting expert with no kids, who’s always ready with some enlightening advice. "Maybe if you disciplined him more," she begins, and I immediately fantasise about catapulting her into the next postcode.

But the gold medal in the Autism Olympics goes to my mother-in-law, who seems to believe that **Max's autism is a result of too much TV, too many video games, or perhaps that one time we let him stay up past his bedtime. She gazes at **Max with a solemn shake of her head, as if he's a maths problem she just can't crack.

Honestly, I’m surprised these well-meaning kin haven’t suggested that his autism might be because of that one time he wore mismatched socks, or the phase when he only ate food that was beige.

Despite the sometimes overwhelming frustration, these laughably misguided interactions provide a comedic relief to the day-to-day challenges of parenting autistic kids. **Max, with his unconventional responses, myopic obsession with vacuum cleaners, and aversion to clothing, is a vibrant splash of colour in our monochrome world.

So, for all you folks who still aren’t quite sure how to handle our Carnival Extravaganza, here’s a tip: next time you feel compelled to suggest a new therapy, offer unsolicited advice, or comment on our parenting style, remember that we don't need more critics in the peanut gallery. But we would appreciate a sturdy shoulder, a listening ear, and perhaps someone to take a shift on the Tilt-A-Whirl of our life.

Our family may not be the 'norm', but let's be honest, who wants to be normal anyway? That's so last season. In the grand circus of life, we're the main event, the fire-breathers, the trapeze artists, defying the odds and stealing the show, one misunderstood meltdown at a time. And we wouldn't have it any other way.