We have survived another school year.

This one has been laced with more change than we normally allow. Which is to say… there has been some change. Our little fae has coped remarkably well in some ways and spectacularly failed to cope in others. Such is life with an autistic child. Milestones like the end of a school year always make me reflective. Birthdays do the same. They seem to encourage taking stock of where we’ve been and wondering how on earth we got here.

As I write this, I’m sitting in our usual quiet booth at the gym. For once, however, my long-suffering husband is not enduring the wait with me. Partly because somebody has to walk the dog (another one of those changes), but mostly because my incredibly generous mother bought me a car. We are no longer joined at the hip every weekend.

Our fae daughter greatly prefers my new car. Not because it’s newer. Not because it’s more comfortable.

No.

She likes it because it has a feature that allows you to make the car fart at unsuspecting passers-by.

I’m sure the engineers had a legitimate reason for including this function. I have yet to discover what that reason is. At present, its sole purpose appears to be making an eight-year-old collapse into hysterics while innocent strangers question every life choice that led them to that particular pavement. Also whether they are being gas lit by a car. 

I have time to write this because my daughter is eating lunch.

Well… “eating” may be overstating the situation.

She asked for beans.

Now, I am genuinely grateful that she is voluntarily consuming something with even a passing acquaintance to a vegetable. Unfortunately, she has decided that each bean requires an individual name before it can be eaten.

Not only that, but I have now been treated to the complete life stories of several beans, their extended family trees, and a lengthy explanation of why Tommy absolutely must be eaten before Mary so that Sarah doesn’t become sad.

I confess I don’t know why.

I confess I no longer want to know why.

I tried. I truly did.

But my will to live has bean and gone.

At this point I would honestly settle for her announcing that she’s finished so we can leave. Sadly, I know exactly what will happen next.

In about twenty minutes she’ll finally attempt a piece of chicken, declare that it’s cold, loudly inform everyone within a three-table radius that “the kitchen is stupid,” and refuse to eat any of it.

She refuses to acknowledge the laws of thermodynamics.

Energy, inconveniently, tends towards equilibrium. Heat flows from hot things to cold things. Food left untouched for two hours becomes… less hot.

Apparently this law of physics does not apply in her universe.

In her world, food should remain at precisely the temperature she considers acceptable for an unlimited amount of time, patiently waiting until she has finished introducing the baked beans to one another.

Honestly, I think Einstein overlooked this when developing his theories.

Next time I’m ordering her a salad.

At least lettuce doesn’t usually need introducing. It’s also easier to scrape into the bin.