The writing was on the wall several years ago that Finian would one day outgrow his true loves in body, but not in soul.
About 3 years ago I could no longer buy him pyjamas sporting his favourite cartoon characters, as people with clipboards and marketing strategies have decided that all boys from age 8 and upwards prefer having weapons of mass destruction and drooling, flesh-eating zombies emblazoned across their chests.
(personally I'd feel more comfortable knowing that future of our world is the hands of people who would choose Thomas the Tank Engine over genocidal mania, but sadly this choice is not presented to them)
|My sister-in-law Alison suggested using hacksaw in the dead of night to remedy this problem. |
Any other ideas that won't end with legal proceedings???
I knew how Brody felt when he realised that they would have trouble squeezing Jaws into a sardine tin.
We are indeed gonna need a bigger boat.
At the ripe old age of 11, I can see that Finian is following in the footsteps of his Dad and his big brother, in that he will block out the light when he enters a room.
He is destined for a future filled with "what's the weather like up there?" and "do you get the bends when you come back down to earth?".
Meanwhile, my older kids enjoy patting me on the head and asking if they can get me something from the top shelf.
Or the bottom shelf.
I often wonder why I had them.
What I'm trying to say is that I seem to be rapidly growing towards the ground while my family are shooting past me.
So, Finian's coming-of-age is not so much about facial hair and biceps as it is about the sad absence of Bob the Builder underpants and extra-large pay-and-ride machines.
Luckily, a very kind relation gave me her sewing machine (I owe Cecile something gorgeous as soon as I can actually make something gorgeous), and another lovely friend salvages cartoon characters from her own little boys' old clothes, in the hope that one day the inspiration fairy will visit and wave her magic wand all over me.
Making life awesome for an autistic boy really is a team effort.
All I have to do is put all these things together.
It's funny how autism has once again kicked me out of my comfort zone and forced me to get creative.
Or at least to try to get creative.
Get arty or die tryin'.
Without Autism, I would be taking my procrastination to my craft-free grave with me.
The fact that I have taken up crochet instead of pouring vodka into my afternoon tea is another example of how getting crafty has saved me from needing a liver transplant. Or, if you want to look at it another way, how Autism forced my hand to get creative with saving my sanity, as well as trying to light up Finian's world.
It's funny to think of all the paths I might have left unexplored without Autism, although I think I'll leave building adult-sized pay-and-ride machines to someone else.