Not a cloud in the summer sky. Were setting up the tent for our first sleep outside. "It will be raining on the tent", says Thomas, our 8 year old son. "Well it might", I reply. "It will be raining on the tent tomorrow", he says insistently. (Not according to the weather forecast).

Its just after 7am and I'm unobtrusively watching my son wake beside me in the early morning quiet of our tent. He lies there looking around, a little surprised at where he is. A smile grows on his face as he hears the gentle pitter patter of rain. "It's raining on the tent", he says aloud to himself. Magic. The world is a big and complicated place when you're young and growing up. It's even bigger when you have autism and can't make sense of it. Some magic helps.

In hindsight, there were signs from his earliest weeks. Feeding was very difficult, settling down of a night impossible unless rocked in a rocking chair until sound asleep and some toys were absolute essentials but generally, Thomas seemed to do all the things in the right order. He got his teeth early, he talked early with many difficult words, he knew colours and shapes, he ate well, was giggly and fun-loving. People said that he was going to be really bright. As a parent of a first child you have no experience and no point of reference. Advice is everywhere; everyone is both reassuring and concerned.

At about 18 months everything changed. Foods that he had happily eaten one week, he now rejected and in quick time had moved to a diet of the "auditory" foods - dry cracker biscuits, weetbix, dry pasta - anything that went crunch, which he accentuated by putting his hand over his ear. He had to have exactly the same thing for the same meal each day, often in the same order or in the same place on the plate.

His daily routine changed just as dramatically. His morning and afternoon sleep were wars of attrition, trying to get him to settle and stay asleep for any reasonable time. Trying to get him to sleep was as bad as him going without sleep. Toilet training proved impossible.

Visiting people was a nightmare. He would scream in the car or while at the house until it was impossible to stay. Any change in activity, routine or location resulted in constant screaming until things reverted to the way they had been Nothing would placate him. Thomas wouldn't put on new clothes or shoes, everything had to stay the same. Getting a haircut became traumatic; walking past the hairdresser or stopping in the doorway created such terror in Thomas that we stopped getting it cut.

My parents returned from several weeks overseas and were shocked at the rate at which his development had gone backwards.

How my wife coped with this I don't know. For me it was easier, I could escape every day by going to work. I didn't understand the relentlessness of being at home with Thomas all day, every day, until much later. I could see his eating problems and I experienced the terror of haircuts and shoe fittings but it wasn't taking over my life in the same way as if I was at home fulltime.

Over the next four years, we identified the features of his behaviour - the very slow language development, parroting our words back to us, pronoun reversal, talking in the third person, grabbing our hand to get it to do a task, repetitively playing with the same toy, often inappropriately, the overwhelming desire for routine.  In play I actioned, he received. Sometimes Thomas played in the same place as other children but it was beside them, not with them. More often, he went to his bedroom by himself until they left. Throughout this period, his restricted diet and fear of the toilet led to a seriously extended bowel.

We didn't know what it was or where to start looking. We decided to follow the medical diagnosis trail, eventually getting a reluctant pointer towards a pervasive development disorder with autistic features. Along the trail we met some very caring and helpful people and some infuriatingly incompetent.   Consistently they did not want or were unable to complete a diagnosis and label Thomas. Conversely, we wanted a label. Only by knowing what the problem was could we move on emotionally and physically do something about it. In our experience, this has been a common parental need but very difficult to convey to the medical professional in general.

Once we had pointers to autism, my wife devoured every scrap of information she could find about it. Books, articles, audio and video tapes flowed through the house.  She met, talked and networked with other parents as well as professionals in education and medical fields. If it had something to do with autism, it got her attention. This has proven decisive in our understanding of what is going on and how to deal with it. Her thirst for knowledge and understanding had been the foundation for Thomas' development.

Acknowledging a developmental disability in your child is a progressive journey rather than a definitive event. In our family it has created difficulties and strains, we've been angry, frustrated and disappointed. But it has also given our lives an unexpected focus and depth. There is a richness and joy in seeing small accomplishments and simple pleasures. The future is uncertain and sometimes scary but there is only one choice and that is to get in and do what had to be done.

Thomas is now almost ten. He is in a specialist program for children with autism and for a half day each week is included in a wonderful regular school. We've watched him grow physically as well as in confidence and complexity. He has a sense of humour, his own musical tastes, he loves plants and the garden.  He is a very polite, sensitive and kind person. He just has autism as well.

We love him.

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