Five Reasons I Hate Snow

 

1~ It’s cold.

Snow can be cold. The kind of cold that strikes through to the bones and freezes your snot. People say that children don’t feel the cold but they obviously never met the likes of me. Soggy mittens were never my idea of fun, people, hence I generally ‘enjoyed’ the snow from the warmth of the dining room window. That said, there have been moments in my menopausal journey where I would have given my right nip to be able to shove my face in a snowdrift..

2~ Aesthetics

There is something quite beautiful about fresh snowfall. I always marvel at the white blanket that magically transforms even the shittest of places.

Then humans and animals ruin it all.

First come the size 14 boot prints of the milkman.

Then, come the patches of yellow snow..

There is nothing remotely picturesque about a snow filled garden when you have dogs. Even less when it’s a small yard.

Then there is the joyous act of cleaning up after your four-legged friend has taken a dump in the snow..

Never had the pleasure of digging out a dog turd from 8 inches of snow?

You’ve never lived!

*snorts*

Lets not forget the lazy-arsed owners who genuinely believe that their dog’s excrement will dissolve in the snow so there’s no need to get that poo bag out eh?

What actually happens is that once the snow has melted – the pavements are smeared with poo which gets on everybody’s shoes and into their homes. Incidentally, these are the same breed of dog owners who believe that slinging shit bags into trees makes them inconspicuous.

*double snort*

3~ Driving

The problem with this country is that we are never prepared for wintry conditions. Our cars suddenly turn into Torvill and Dean – only less graceful.

To be fair, it’s the scariest thing to find yourself sliding down the road with absolutely no control whatsoever. I’ve had a few ‘squeaky bottom’ moments in my time so I avoid driving in the stuff whenever possible. However, I still get anxiety from watching other drivers sliding perilously close to my car as their back wheels have a mental breakdown.

Note to self: Next house must have a driveway.

4~ Snowballs (and other bodily parts)

No matter where you are or who you are with, at some point some idiot will throw compacted snow in your face and fall about laughing. For some reason, this is considered normal behaviour? But if I was to fast-spin a cricket ball at them, I’d be hand-cuffed and trundled off to the police cells.

*throws hands up in the air*

Then there are the snow-people complete with balls and boobs..

Nothing says Christmas quite like the sight of a snowman with a massive set of knackers on the front lawn, eh?

5~ It’s Slippy

As I’ve got older, there is another reason why I hate snow and ice.

It’s slippy.

The problem is that I have Osteopenia.

Osteopenia? Isn’t that a film about mods?

No, that’s Quadrophenia.

Osteopenia is the pre-curser to Osteoporosis. In other words – thinning bones. This means that I am more likely to break a bone should I fall over. Even a minor fall could have serious consequences. *serious face*

This is monumentally crap because I’m only 47 but it is what it is and all I can do is protect myself as much as I possibly can. So I fit contraptions to my boots (cleats) to stop me falling over and they do work. I am the ONLY parent on the school run who wears them. However, the well-being of my bones trumps dignity, no?

Note to self and other snow grip users: Do NOT attempt to walk on a tiled floor with your ‘cleats’ on. You’ll be on your arse faster than you can say Bolero!

Then there are the women who wear high heels when the pavements are blatantly icy. What’s more is that they manage to stay vertical! There’s me taking tentative steps despite the protection of my grips and they overtake me wearing stilettos as if they didn’t get the memo that it has snowed!

Witchcraft?

One theory is that the heels act like little ice-picks so maybe there is some method in this madness?

Even so. I think I’ll stick to my flat heeled boots and snow grips, ta very much. I’d rather look like Nanook of the North than end up sprawled on the pavement with a busted hip.

So, there are my five reasons why I hate snow.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it NOOOOOO!!!

I rode on a plane a couple years ago with Snow Patrol and didn’t know who the hell they were. They said they were big fans of mine and were playing Madison Square Garden. And they let me listen to one of their records on their iPod. I started to weep. ~ Neil Sedaka

 

 

The Teenager That Santa Forgot..

One year, Santa forgot me.

It’s true.

To be fair, I wasn’t a small child. I was a teenager.

So how did I come to be left off Santa’s list?

It was 1985. The year of the first successful heart transplant, Windows 1.0, The Golden Girls, The Breakfast Club, Live Aid, Take on Me and wearing your jacket sleeves rolled up Miami Vice style..

I was:

Fifteen. Teenager. Vegetarian. Knew Everything. Annoying.

I don’t remember how I came to be vegetarian, I just know that from 14 I declared myself a meat free zone. I lived on cheese, as 80s vegetarian options looked (and tasted) like Trill. Thank God for Linda McCartney, eh? Problem was, Mum never did understand the concept of vegetarianism. She gave me cheese in place of meat but then poured gravy over it which kind of defeated the object..

Maybe it was hormones combined with my undiagnosed autism (and copious amounts of cheese) but my teenage years were funked up and not in a good way..

I’d argue that black was white and I’d do it with a PASSION. Not content with being meat-free, I terrorised everybody else for being ‘murderers’. Dad took it all in his stride. He thought it was hilarious, but Mum was suffering from the menopause (or rather we were suffering from her menopause) and that particular year she and I clashed more times than a pair of cymbals.

By Christmas, I was struggling. Doing the social thing exhausted me mentally and physically. Going out took hours of stimulating myself with rock music and days of recovery time afterwards. Every time I convinced myself it would get easier but it never did because exposure only works with shyness and I wasn’t shy. I was autistic.

That year I’d asked ‘Santa’ for loads of records including The Cult’s ‘Love‘. I’d been borrowing my mate’s LP but she was pissed off with it spending more time on my record player than hers, so I was looking forward to getting my own copy. Gimme a whoop!

Christmas Eve

We were allowed to lie on the sofa watching films all day and the jar of Quality Street was ceremoniously opened. It was a good day and in the evening Mum challenged her inner Hyacinth Bucket (It’s Bouquet) and did a candlelight supper, which was V posh.

I felt very grown up.

I was even allowed wine. SHHHHHHHH!

Dad was on the Jack Daniels.

Brother was semi-pissed on Southern Comfort.

Mum was on the Stella (I’ll fight you and everyone else) Artois.

Everyone was happy.

Until it went tits up..

I don’t remember what I said, exactly. Maybe it was something about meat and murder again? I just know that I opened my big mouth and said something that had my mother slamming the louvered doors off their hinges as she flounced off into the kitchen.

In my confused mind, ONE thing registered.

SHIT!

Dad was rolling his eyeballs.

Brother was smirking at me.

Elvis was crooning Blue Christmas in the background.

My mother was turning the air blue in the kitchen in-between nose blowing sessions.

Tentatively, I inched my way into the war zone but took one look at her face and knew that grovelling was futile. She looked like Alice Cooper, only with red eyes. Even in my limited understanding of body language, I knew my best (and only) option was bugger off upstairs and leave Dad to smooth things over.

So I went to bed and endured one of the most miserable nights of my 15 year old life.

What, in the name of Ian Astbury, had I said to incur SUCH a reaction?

I still don’t know.

All I know is that I was forever being reprimanded for ‘showing off’.

Showing off?

Er, I’M AN INTROVERT?!

In hindsight, I know that the Christmas Eve fiasco wasn’t ALL down to me. I blame Stella Artois and lack of oestrogen. Stella because it always made my mother do the crying thing and lack of estrogen put her on a permanent hair-trigger. It could have just as easily been my dad or my brother who said something to upset her, eh?

But it wasn’t them.

It was me.

Mostly what got me into trouble were my meltdowns. I’d become overwhelmed, therefore out of control, and it was interpreted as me being a little shit – as so often is the case with autism.

Nobody knew I was autistic.

Not even me.

Christmas Day

I unenthusiastically wished Jesus a happy birthday and prayed that he’d put in a good word with my mother overnight and she’d forgiven me for “ruining Christmas”. I lay in my miserable pit until I heard sounds of life downstairs, then slowly made my way down into the kitchen where Mum was perched on her stool puffing away on a Silk Cut. She narrowed her eyes at me. This look meant, ‘Approach me NOT. I’m still pissed off with you!’.

I slunk into the living room..

There, lit up in all it’s magnificence was our faux Christmas tree and underneath it were three piles of presents.

One for my brother.

One for my dad.

The third pile was my mother’s.

FUCK!

Didn’t say fuck – obvs -my life was hanging in the balance as it was.

For the first time in my existence, Santa had forgotten me.

I’D MADE THE NAUGHTY LIST.

THE SHAME!

Mum looked weird. Sort of angry and sad at the same time and that’s quite a hard one to pull off!

Brother was still smirking. That litle shit positively basked in my misery!

Tears slid down my face.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so sorry for myself in all my life.

Dad couldn’t take it anymore. He looked at Mum and said, “You’ve made your point Flo. Come on now. It’s Christmas”

Mum snorted and flip- flopped upstairs in her new mule slippers.

A few minutes later she appeared with my presents.

She went from angry to misty eyed in a matter of seconds and hugged me so hard I thought she’d busted my lung.

“And let that be a lesson to you, Madam!”

Despite having no literally NO idea what this lesson was supposed to be, I chose to keep my trap shut.

Maybe that was the lesson?

Ordeal over, I started ripping into my pressies with the finesse of a three year old on E numbers.

My first gift?

It was Love.

When I tore off the wrapping paper that Christmas morning in 1985, I had no idea that 32 years later, the lyrics to the title song would have such significance to my very existence on this planet.

I guess you could say that I’ve spent most of my life in the ‘wrong hole’?

Now don’t go and ruin this moment by thinking rude thoughts about holes? *serious face*

I mean ‘wrong hole’ as in trying to be neurotypical.

Spent a long time in this hole
Spent a long time in the wrong hole

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas and the Autistic Child

child-1867394_1280

Most children like Christmas right? For many on the autistic spectrum, Christmas is a stressful time of year. The inevitable changes to routine are enough to send some children spiralling into one meltdown after another..

Same for autistic parents.

The Boy’s anxiety has been climbing for weeks. As soon as things change at school his behaviour deteriorates. He’s on a VERY short fuse and the simplest of requests, like taking his coat off, has him throwing stuff and stomping off upstairs screaming that he wants to DIE. He’s eight going on thirteen only this is him BEFORE the hormones kick in!

Can you imagine when they do?

damage-42658_640

Trip hazard? Or my son when the testosterone kicks in?

The Boy’s need for me is ever greater as he battles with a brain that struggles to cope with Christmas. He likes Christmas but struggles with it just as he struggles with a lot of other things he likes.

There are no decorations up at our house yet as we’re trying to keep stimulus to a minimum and my anxiety is so bad that the mere thought of them makes my heart race. The control freak within me struggles to allow other people to do it and in the past when I have let the kids, er, ‘help’, I have stood there fighting the urge to rugby tackle them to the floor in order to prise the baubles from their clammy little hands. *whispers* I re-did it once they were in bed. It’s something I don’t like about myself but it’s a pathological need for certain things to be aesthetically pleasing in my eyes.

When it comes to visiting Santa, forget it. It’s a sensory nightmare.

Queuing = Hell.

Noise = Hell.

Migraine inducing fairy lights = Hell

Sitting on Santa’s knee. Do they still do that? = Hell.

I hated it as a child. The Boy managed one minute in a queue once and we had to leave. Do your child and yourselves a favour and go to an autism friendly session where the visits are timed, you can take your own present. Visiting Santa should be a pleasant experience for every child, no?

There are things you can do as a non-deranged parent to make things a little easier for your autistic child.

Decorations

  • You can involve your child in buying decorations or letting them help you to put them up.
  • Introduce the decorations gradually. It’s probably best not to have it looking like Santa’s Grotto if your child gets easily overstimulated.
  • Give some thought to your Christmas lights. If your child is very sensitive, a migraine inducing strobe effect probably isn’t the best idea. Static or gentle fade in and fade out lights will be more appropriate.
  • Use countdowns for putting the decorations up and taking them down.
  • Use social stories and visual calendars.

Visiting Santa

  • Check your local papers/social media for autistic friendly Santa-sessions

Presents

  • Mountains of presents will overwhelm most autistic children so it’s best to limit how many they get or don’t put them all out on Christmas Day.
  • If your child has sensory issues pay attention to the paper you use to wrap the presents with.
  • If unwrapping make them anxious then don’t wrap them at all.
  • Place a familiar toy next to the new presents.
  • Try some gentle classical Christmas music in the background especially if classical soothes them normally.

Family

Don’t feel under pressure from your family. If you know your child can’t cope with a big family get together on Christmas Day, then don’t be afraid to tell them to sod off – albeit politely. Your child’s well-being has to come before Great Aunt Ada parking her arse on your sofa all day scoffing the Quality Street eh? Life is different when you have an autistic child. If people get it, great. If they don’t, educate them until they do get it. Maybe give them a book on understanding autism as a Christmas present?

Familiarity

Christmas Day is just the three of us. There are no visitors. There is no Christmas dinner with party hats and other such paraphernalia. The Boy has his usual food and bedtime is the usual time with the usual ritual of a story and his Classic FM.

The Rules are that there are NO rules when it comes to autism. Each person is different. Some love Christmas, some don’t. All autistic people are affected but not necessarily in a negative way.

Me? I find Christmas stressful BUT it’s also the season of fairy lights and I BLOODY LOVE fairy lights!!

As a child I used to lie on the floor under the Christmas tree and stare at them for hours on end. My Nan, having downed a few brandies, would say, “You’re a funny little girl” I used to wonder why she was calling me funny when I hadn’t said or done anything funny. Now I know she was calling me weird. MY OWN GRANDMOTHER!!

Christmas is difficult for me in ways which most people wouldn’t understand. I’m not a Christmas hater – it’s just that there is too much going on and that sends my anxiety orbital. Social media is crammed with Christmas. TV is bombarding us with adverts/mini-movies for the hard sell and it gives me a headache. If I could cherry pick bits of Christmas it would be lights, carols and the act of giving. You can keep the crowds, commercialism and my pet peeve, ‘Secret Santa’.

I don’t suppose it helps matters that my father decided to shuffle off his mortal coil on a Christmas Day. To lose someone you love on any day of the year is bad enough but to lose them on Christmas Day is epically crap. The image of Dad’s lifeless body while Noddy Holder screeched “IT’S CHRISSSSSSSTMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS” is forever seared into my memory and while I fight to bring forward the memories where he was the life and soul of Christmas, this one always wins.

As regards The Boy, we try to keep things as close to normal as is possible. Whatever ‘normal’ is.

Header Image via Creative Commons