Nowie

 A treat for you today: a guest post from my sister Jess about her little boy Nowie, who you may remember from this blog. 

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I didn't know what I was missing. So I never actually missed anything.

I mean, he's perfect. He was born perfect, born in a perfect manner, at the perfect time on a perfect day, and he looked perfect. The first six months, when we had nothing to do except spend long hot days together, in a relaxed cycle of feeding and changing and cuddling, were the happiest time of my life. I didn't notice that he didn't react to toys, didn't interact with my face, didn't lock eyes with me while he was feeding and didn't care when I was gone. That's just my boy.

It's only now, now his baby sister is here, having hysterics at my face and visibly enjoying me talking to her and doing her best already to talk back to me, that I've noticed the difference.

And that feels beautiful to me - that I had them this way round, that we never felt any lack of anything.

Obviously it's got more noticeable as he's got older how delayed he is. He's said a handful of words, then he's stopped saying them. He's learned to play with toys, but the toys I bought him two years ago. I don't care - I love to see him finally getting to grips with them, enjoying the buttons and lights and noises. He makes a lot of noise himself, and it's no longer indistinguishable from baby babble. He has public meltdowns, when all I can do is crouch between him and the traffic and wait for him to calm down and get up again.

We communicate in our own way. I do everything I know how to encourage his speech, but sometimes it's nice to just know what he wants and to give it without making him wail in frustration first. I like that I understand him.

He wraps his arms tight around me and he's started using his legs to hang on now as well. He makes me feel like the best mum in the world.

He likes helping me change the baby. He passes me her nappy, then her vest, then her babygrow. He knows the order they go on.

He climbs up to the window and waits for his daddy to come home and pick him up and spin him around and make him laugh hysterically. Sometimes he sees the neighbours get in their cars and leave, and he cries and cries - I know how he feels.

He likes collecting things: a set of books, or two handfuls of plastic balls, or a bunch of plastic cutlery. He carries them to his window, and lines them up, runs them through his hands, explores their shapes and colours. He always looks at books the right way round. I hope he'll be a great reader.

I can't pretend I wouldn't love it if he started chatting, but otherwise, I wouldn't change a single thing about him.

He has been officially diagnosed with autism today. I'm so relieved, so happy that we'll get some help. I'm autistic myself (undiagnosed), and I struggled mightily with school, and with making friends.

He'll always know vast wellsprings of love at home. I'm so glad to think he might feel safe and looked after and loved at school, too.