The War Behind His Eyes

My goodness…

A deep purple streaks across his face, soaking into his pores. The vivid colour mixes with perspiration from the sun beating down on his face.

I count his freckles like I have done many times before as they slowly disappear behind the paint.

I smile, in my dumbstruck, frozen state. Inside, my stomach is doing back flips.

I am not a religious woman, but pray silently nonetheless.

I pray the meltdown away. That he won’t regret the enormous step he is taking, out of the deepest, most vivid of blues. That through no fault of his own, he might throw himself on the floor and hyperventilate as panic takes hold. I pray he won’t scream; he won’t kick or hit. And most importantly, that he won’t run, for I will never catch him.

I grip my walking stick and try to hide my nerves.

What a moment.

What a victory.

My boy is going to war, and no one but us is aware there is even an army bearing down upon us.

A tear slowly escapes my eye. I wipe at it, quickly, grateful beyond words that his eyes are closed.

I will take it to my grave that I worry about his differences. He will never know. Anyone who has ever had the honour and the struggle of raising a neurodivergent child will know how rewardingly beautiful it can be, like finding flowers blooming where they should not.

But this world is not tailored to people like him. People can be cruel; they fear what they don’t understand. He needs protecting.

That is me. I am his armour.

A splash of blue slowly caresses his eyebrow. I notice the tremor in his hand, so does the artist who glances at me for permission to continue. I nod nervously.

She continues at a snail’s pace, talking him through her every move.

I can’t help it - I whip out my phone and start taking pictures.

Somewhere behind me, a parent tuts, their impatience obvious.

I am well aware that the other parents are staring holes in my back as their children play up, frustrated in the heat, but pay them no mind.

The hot summer’s day causes sweat to accumulate on his top tip. I wait for the trigger, wait for the meltdown – but it doesn’t come.

A woman’s irritated voice carries on the thick, warm air from somewhere at the back of the line.

It’s tough. They will have to wait.

I had asked the artist to go slow. I explained as best as I could without making a big deal out of it.

I didn’t want to knock his confidence.

His request had, of course, taken me by surprise, although I hadn’t let it show. I had smiled and ushered him to the back of the queue like it was any other Saturday morning. Nothing to see here, I told myself, as my palms grew sweaty, bracing for impact.

Things like this had been out of our reach for almost a decade, and I truly believed such a simple, childhood activity would never be on the cards for him. Too wet, too sticky, too sensory.

I would be a miss if I didn’t admit that in the dead of night, I sometimes mourn for him; For the experiences he would go without, the simplicity of childhood memories he might not be capable of making, the friendships he unknowingly might destroy. I vowed to always be his person, his sounding board, and navigate this version of parenthood for which I was unprepared.

It’s a technicoloured, jewel-encrusted road less travelled. But a road I am honoured to walk.

However, for him, it can be, at times, an albatross.

Your heart still weighs heavy for them in those moments where they recoil from the unexpected.

As they age, you see the differences wriggle out of the woodwork. You try to recreate memories, push experiences on them that you yourself look back on fondly from when you were a child... not knowing the fear, the overwhelm it might induce. And with every rejected suggestion, their world becomes a little bit smaller.

A dab of yellow here, a wash of green there.

I’m hanging onto every stroke of the paintbrush, every dot from the sponge. I want to cry - oh god, please don’t. Hold it together. If he can do this, so can you.

We’re over halfway now. If he doesn’t manage to see it through, he has still done incredibly well. Christ, even sitting in her chair was a momentous win. Especially when I was convinced he wouldn’t even last the length of the queue.

Yet here we are.

His fingers are gripping the arm of the chair. He is fighting a battle no one else can see. And, my god, he is bringing it.

I steal another glance into the hustling crowd, searching the stalls and the rides for his father, his siblings. Someone who would appreciate the enormity of the moment.

My attention snaps back to him as she asks if he would like glitter.

I flinch. He nods.

Pride swells in my chest.

Not that he wants glitter, of course, but because I am honoured to witness him face his fears. If I could fight this battle for him, I would. It is a curse every parent feels the ever-present shackles of, as it holds us back. Always the advisor, never the soldier.

The sunlight catches on the tiny fragments as she gingerly applies them across his cheeks.

She’s nearly finished.

A bead of sweat trickles from his forehead, caressing his cheek, smearing the paint slightly, but he doesn’t flinch.

She picks up a mirror.

The world around me falls away. My own heartbeat is all I can hear.

He opens his eyes.

A smile more glorious than words can muster spread across his little face.

The awe, the triumph, the relief.

The happiness.

He begins to contort his face, trying out different expressions. Relishing the feel of how the thick, colourful paint feels moving across his skin.

He smiles up at her shyly and tells her he loves it.

I let out a long, slow breath as something that transpires pride swells inside me- victory.

He hops off the chair and pats himself down, taking stock of himself, making sure he has all his pieces still intact.

Our eye contact speaks a thousand words no one else can hear as we grin stupidly like Cheshire cats.

The next child is already in the chair as his mother pushes through, muttering something under her breath, but neither of us notices.

We revel in his win as I take his hand and lead him to a nearby ice-cream van.

The food of champions.