2013
‘We’ve noticed a few things about D we’d like to discuss.’
It’s been six weeks since that first drop off. Of course, this meeting is not out of the blue; first come the rumblings. The ‘can I have a quick word?’ at pick up time. Carrier bags of soiled clothes, heavy and soggy, handed over with his school bag. ‘Has he always been such a slow eater?’
A lot of questions with simple, functional answers. But all together, they are building to create a picture. One that has culminated in myself and D’s father sitting across from his teachers. The barrier between us is the table. They smile across it and I take a deep breath, feeling sweat gather on my palms. For me, this is the unknown. A table, a canyon. The effect is the same.
‘We’ve put him in to a couple of groups to encourage him to communicate more. Does he talk much at home?’
‘Well yes. He chats about his cars and lampposts a lot.’
‘Lampposts?’
‘Yes, he has names for them and he likes us to drive a certain way to see them. The other day as we were coming home they started to light up and he got so excited!’
Their bemused faces aren’t news to us.
2012
‘This one is a flat head lamppost.’
‘Is it?’
I am pushing D’s sister in the pram. L is recently out of hospital, having developed bronchiolitis at a month old. Her wheezy chest has not receded and at night we still take her in to the bathroom, shut the door, and flood the room with steam. I sit with her on my knee in the fog of heat. My hair is glued to my temples and my body feels uncomfortably hot under my skin. When we are finished, her apple cheeks are crimson and her small mouth is wide open as she screeches.
Now she is sleeping, lulled by the rhythm of the walk to D’s nursery. A blanket is tucked up around her shoulders, a knit hat covers her head.
‘And so is this one. But this one is a spring head lamppost.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Look at the shape of the head.’
I look up, squinting in to the bright June sky. The clouds are few and far between but those that exist are knotted together in puffy sponges.
‘See?’
I am not sure what I am seeing what he sees, but I agree. He skips on and I push the buggy, the wheels stuttering over the uneven pavement. When we come to the opening to an alleyway, he stops.
‘This way?’
‘Not today, D.’ I’m tired. I need to get L home; she’s due a feed and a nappy change. I need to start cooking lunch for me and D.
‘This way!’
He stands stock still at the mouth of where he wants to go. I press the brakes of the buggy and take his hand.
‘On Thursday, D. I promise.’
The screaming is immediate; his face is red and his body is rigid and it sounds like agony. I wonder what is wrong until he points down in to the alleyway with his free hand.
‘Come on then,’ I said. I can hear the resignation in my voice and I resent it. I have given in again because no matter how many times we pass this alleyway without going down it, his reaction is always the same.
That is where he needs to go.
2013
‘We’ll monitor his progress in the groups and go from there.’
Selective mutism. I have never heard these words in any context before. Selective; choosing. Mutisim; not speaking. He is choosing not to speak at school. I think of all the accidents he is having when at home he has been dry at night since he was 3, and thankfully he cracked day time dryness in the month before school began. Of the lampposts that we stand beneath as they tower over us, dissecting their finer points. Giving them names. Taking photos with them.
To me the lampposts are nothing new. And children have accidents all the time.
It’s just the way it is.
It’s just D.
That’s him.
A Different Kind Of Jigsaw 