I don’t feel like a particularly responsible person. At the same time, I realise that I appear incredibly capable. I have quite a lot of responsibilities, I suppose. Perhaps I don’t think about them unless it is in the context of my inadequacy. You just do what you’ve gotta do. You know?

Autism Spectrum Disorder, oh, so that is the answer. Three words which are the culmination of an investigation into my daughter that I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to explore. It wasn’t really sudden, a suggestion out of the blue, and I think that helped. What, exactly, I’m not sure, but we were already on a journey to discover “how her mind works”, reasons for her reactions to things and understanding of her perspective on things. From the start of discussing my daughter with her teacher, I was clear that my goal was not to change her. Nor was it to define her, for the sake of a definition. Primarily, as with most parents I imagine, I just wanted to understand her. To see how she saw things, to look at the world through her eyes so that I could help her to cope better. So that her school could help her. So that we could react to her in such a way that situations didn’t get worse. And if she stopped running away and hiding, or melting down and needing to be put in the car kicking and screaming (or if I didn’t have the car with me, as was more often the case, being carried home), you know, that would be nice.

It is now a year since her diagnosis and she is 7, my 5 year old son has also been diagnosed with ASD and we are keeping an eye on number 3, at 1 year old. And, at the moment, I’m a bit tired. But that’s ok.

On Ash’s report from the psychologist, one of the features he was listed as displaying was that “The general impression is one of autism”. That was a statement to stop me in my tracks. Even though I already knew that. I had suggested the possibility, another psychologist had indicated it, his pre-school teacher had been surprised that he wasn’t diagnosed and that was the reason for the assessment. But still, this seemed so stark, so black and white. I don’t see my children that way, I see them in glorious shades and colours. To realise how others might see them can be a bit disconcerting.

More than that, I was suddenly confronted with how I identify myself. The mum with the autistic kids… Well, you know, that’s ok. But when I still struggle, at times, to get my head around being viewed as a mum first, regardless of the other layers of my identity, this just added a whole new layer to that conflict.

I don’t like whinging. But I don’t like glossing over, either. The internal dialogue that goes on is incredible, every scrap of patience and gentle voice, every exercise of self-control and mental gymnastics working out what is likely to overwhelm one, or both, of my children, every moment is an internal conversation with myself, and a censorship of my thoughts. The complete opposite of their entire way of being, in fact. My children have virtually no filter, for things going in or coming out, and so I need to filter all the more.

On the other hand, I have no basis for comparison. Often, our days seem so normal to me that any kind of diagnosis is a surprise. Admittedly, both Sienna and Ash have mild autism, not severe, so the more dramatic stuff that happens is not always happening every day, and I feel genuinely blessed that I can connect with my children on a daily basis. As I’ve yet to raise a neuro-typical child to pre-school age, I’ve no concrete idea of what that experience feels like. Our family is my world, and that world is on the Autism spectrum. Times two. Or more, possibly (my husband is mid-way through the diagnostic process himself).

I have a lot to learn. My daughter likes to be wrapped in a light green blanket, underneath her regular quilt, every night. I really had linked this with her love of routine and only a couple of nights ago connected the habit with a sensory need to be enclosed. Lightbulb moment number three hundred and forty six. I have no doubt there will be many more.