Dad Diaries: A Plane, A Honeymoon, and Autism

My son Frank and I are sat on a plane, about to experience our first take off together. A shared aeronautic adventure across the skies; the stuff of memories and bonding experiences, right? No. No it’s not. We are actually both terrified. 

Not, it has to be said, of the flight itself. Yes, we are ostensibly launching ourselves thousands of feet in the air in a tiny pressurised tin comprised of wings and duty-free beauty products But my father-in-law, who builds these things for a living, is sat across from me and owns a pair of Unflappable Eyebrows that inspire great confidence. Nor am I terrified because the UK’s terror threat level was raised to “severe” just 72 hours before; or in other words on our wedding day. Statistically speaking, fireworks are more dangerous than a terrorist attack. I'm 10 times more likely to die from an accidental fire in my home than from a terrorist attack (this is particularly illuminating in a year where I have set a hoover, a toaster and my second microwave on fire). 

No, we’re not terrified for any of these reasons. Frank; almost three years old with autism, is terrified of the seat straps holding him down.  These straps are unfamiliar; they restrict his view, his movement, and is subsequently hulking out with the equivalent magnitude of an atom bomb. We’re talking full-on eyes bulging meltdown. The engines are firing to the tune of 200mph, and it’s at this point I realise Frank has Houdini’ed the straps entirely, and is writhing and thrashing out of his seat. Me? I'm terrified that I'm on a plane with him.

Frank is a compelling bundle of contradictions. Yes he’s a toddler, but his mental age is closer to a (particularly petulant) baby. But I find his habits and preferences actually have more in common with an elderly pensioner; he knows what he likes, and sticks to it.  With variety comes risk. Novelty is often overwhelming. Routine is paramount. Autism is a spectacularly broad spectrum of children, and yet surprisingly prevalent is a love of trains, and I think I know why. 

Just like trains, these kids’ lives are on rails, the journey mapped out and pre-laid. It doesn’t take long for the parent’s lives to end up the same way either. Brick by brick, you build up a solid foundation for an easier life, painstakingly positioned with trial and error; diet, play, safety, what to avoid, encourage, or compromise. Before you know it however, you’ve inadvertently walled yourself in, trapped by your choices, and left feeling isolated. As a parent you start saying ‘No’ a lot, often with good reason, but opportunities nonetheless get shot down. That party invite goes unaccepted for fear of the dozens of things that could go wrong. You visit your friends less often than you’d like, else your child’s hard fought sense of routine is disrupted. So what happens when we sledgehammer this foundation to pieces, and take our Frank away to Spain for a week?

We’re on route to Majorca. Previously the most foreign place me and Frank have been to is Wales. I am with my new wife, her parents, sister and niece-a honeymoon come family holiday. Frank has mercifully collapsed into nervous exhaustion; I quietly nurse a few heart palpitations. I coo at the sights beyond my window, seasoned travellers elsewhere apparently equate being airborne with Buying Stuff from a catalogue. I marvel that I’m sat on a chair in the sky, nearby kids show each other pictures of themselves on Instagram that they took 30 seconds ago – 20 seconds ago – now, right now. I have the revelation that up here, no matter where you are, its always sunny- Frank meanwhile wakes up and immediately pulls down the blind to shield his eyes. With an hour of flight left, I unstrap Frank so he can stretch his legs. I sip Prosecco among the clouds like an Olympian, and watch as BANG! The sun pops up, and everything instantly bursts into full song and colour; the Mediterranean Sea in particular a shade of blue Dulux have patented as ‘mind-f*cking’. I hear the seat belt chime, notice the horizon is suddenly at entirely the wrong angle, and Frank is curled up resolutely on the floor. 

Here we go again. 

We arrive at the hotel. We have literally driven through a mountain to arrive at Port de Sóller, Mallorca’s best kept secret.  Everything I see looks beautiful. Everything. Its love at first sight; the heat, the culture, the sheer differentness of it all. This is my home for a whole week, where every perfect, lazy, happy day boils down to: “Where shall we have lunch — and what new beach shall we visit in the afternoon?”

My familial entourage have all been here before, so I turn back to Frank to see what he makes of it all. I find him running around a fountain like a dervish, oblivious. The next two hours go like this; Frank spots a large of body water, the fountain, the hotel swimming pool, the ocean; and wants to immediately jump in it. Within 20 minutes he’s running around in his bespoke birthday suit. We try to shepherd him towards nearby cafes, away from traffic, away from the massive tram that runs along the beach, away from the boats. He’s having none of it. It goes incredibly badly, and we have a succession of rather impressive meltdowns. Me and the wife share a look that communicates exactly one thing-what have we done? What were we THINKING? 

An old migraine returns, originating from airport security hours before. I had to momentarily relieve Frank of his metal train so he could get pass the scanners, to which he swiftly rebuked with a headbutt. Or maybe the migraine started just after, when Frank threw that very same metal train at my head as we passed through a gift shop (the fluorescent lights were too bright). 

It's been a long day. 

The migraine shifts gear into curb stomp levels on account of my glasses being broken (guess who?). I feel the kind of despair you can only experience whilst surrounded by exquisite beauty. This is going to get worse before it gets better.

Except…it doesn’t. 

Day by day, our family does what it’s always done; observe, learn, adapt. We start adding new bricks to the foundation, judging Frank’s triggers and finding ways to alleviate them. We still had plenty of hair-raising moments for sure. You could take years off your life-span just watching Frank’s devil-don’t-care attitude towards pool safety (I spend so much time in that bloody pool my arms become elongated and disproportionate like a T Rex) . Frank ate nothing but biscuits all week because the chips or whatever was the wrong shape, size, or weren’t put on ‘his’ plates from home. But things got better, a lot better. 

Thanks to our entourage, we are even able to steal away for a few fleeting hours of honeymoon magic. Riding segways to a distant lighthouse. Bickering in a canoe all the way out to sea. Trudging through a deserted side of town, past construction sites and cluttered docks to find a Secret Magical Bar. Tequilas and passing out on the beach. Cava and conversation on the hotel balcony. But the best memories were made with Frank, as a family. Once the safety net of his home routine was lost, we became that safety net instead. His introverted bubble of monotonous interests temporarily popped, he found joy and delight in the unlikeliest of places, and crucially wanted his Mummy and Daddy to be part of it. We really did have a fantastic time.

If I have front-loaded the bad stuff here, it’s because I would need a thousand more words to articulate the good stuff, which isn't even the point. It’s exactly the bad stuff, or specifically, the fear of the bad stuff that freezes us parents up. I'm not saying everyone should jet off somewhere, not everyone can. We could only do so thanks to the grace and kindness of my father-in-law's wallet. No, just resolve to try new things, see new places. Reintroduce the word 'Yes' into your lexicon. Aim higher. When you do fail, because you probably will, make it at least a blaze-of-glory failure. Why aim low, or resolve to ‘take away’ certain elements of your life? That’s making your life smaller. Balls to smaller lives. Balls to denial and isolation and rationing. Aim for the stars and fail instead. Trust me, it’s a lot more exciting. And among the debris, in the mess you've created, you’ll discover things about about your child, about yourself, that you simply couldn't before taking that leap. We took our little boy with autism to Spain, and it wasn't the end of the world. He didn't just fly, he soared. 

In the strictly metaphorical sense. The plane journey back was still an absolute clusterf*ck.



Holiday snaps courtesy of my lovely wife Sara Harvey, you can see her professional portfolio over at sarajanefotography.com. She is also the founder of Admiring Autism, a photographic project aiming to visualise the highs and lows of Autism. More information can be found HERE.