I don't know how you do it - from a mum of autistic and neurotypical kids

"I don't know how you do it." It's a phrase I've heard so many times.

Often it's preceded by "with respect". It's hard to know whether it's a compliment or a criticism. Do I look such a mess that it seems I'm only just coping? Or are people suggesting that they wouldn't want my kids?

The last time I heard this comment I was sat on my son's hospital bed. I was sharing stories with another parent whose disabled child was in for a similar procedure as ours. The parent was commenting on their recent school experience and their realisation that their child would not be going to a normal school. Inevitably with having two autistic boys in different settings, there was a discussion about coping with all the kids as we'd already established I also had a two year old daughter. "I don't know how you do it, with them all," they said.

I really don't see what I do as being any different to what any other mum would do if they were me. It's a struggle for all parents and the extra responsibilities or challenges that comes with helping an autistic child grow up is, yes a joy, but also sometimes a lot of hard work. Maybe it's just about what you are used to.

I've never had a child in hospital before. We'd been allowed to visit the unit before our visit and there was a great playroom should David want to play. David had no real clue what hospital was or why he as here.  We had attempted to explain using pictures, but to him it was just another building.

When it was David's turn to be taken into theatre, I picked him up and walked him to the prep room where they would put him under a general anaesthetic.  We all knew David would not understand what was happening and it would be too traumatic to try and give him anaesthetic by injection so the staff worked with us and planned to put him under with gas and then give him the injection after I left the room.

I knew he would struggle.

I sat on the gurney clamping my boy like a baby. It took three of us to hold him while he fought against the mask on his face. He still had his dummy in when the mask went on but I could hear him scream through it.

He struggled and the tears poured down his cheeks.

I guess he was a good fighter and took a bit longer to start to go out as they had started to check the machine when his eyes finally started to roll a little and his fists started to relax.

And as I saw my gorgeous little boy go all floppy and out I could barely hold myself together.

If I hadn't had the focus of getting a coffee as I had planned, I would have just wondered down the hall and burst into tears. The NHS staff were brilliant and very reassuring.

I had just about recovered when I was called to hold my wailing child as he slowly came out of the anaesthetic. He had no idea what had happened or why where he was.  Recovery took a little while. He cried and was obviously in pain from the procedure, bruised, uncomfortable and confused.

Eventually my brave boy started to pay more attention to Toy Story on the TV and a new toy but continued to feel drowsy and sore for a while.

I found it hard. It's something I've never had to do before.  But for David it was something else.  Yet he managed to get through the day and try and get through the next one.  It was hard to know what he was thinking.  Was he worried this might happen again?

The truth is we each cope as best we can and that will be the same for David as he grows.  And I'll be there beside him.  But I'm much better at coping with his regular autism related challenges than I was taking my child to hospital.

So to the parents, like my mum, whose children have to go to hospital and routinely have operations "I don't know how you do it." Maybe it's like I said, it's about what you are used to.

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