The Hat

Ferretfinger has lost his sun hat.

This is a tragedy.

He went out with Emil, his support worker, on Friday and left the hat in a shop;  Emil has offered to go and ask about it when he’s next passing.

There was a dramatic crying and moaning of “I’ve lost my hat” as soon as they got home. I reassured him it didn’t matter to us and, besides which, we have a bag of spare hats (the aunties used to give them to Fester as birthday gifts and they were put away until needed). I fetched the bag of hats and we selected one and put it in his backpack for his next trip out.

He seemed mollified.

The hat was one of a matching pair we bought on holiday in Wales when the boys were of a size, age and attitude to be put in matching things.  It is white cotton with a Welsh dragon flag in a patch/pocket at the front.  I used to take one on Tyne Bridge Morris dance bookings to keep the sun out of my eyes.

One of the difficulties of having a child, now a young adult, with autism is that their sense of proportion and reaction to things is entirely different to your own. Grandparents, family members and pets can pass away with no tear being shed.  When he broke his ankle, and during most of the recovery, he made hardly any audible complaint; and he must have been in agony. 

But the loss of an old, familiar hat …

Roughly every two hours since Friday afternoon we have had a despondent cry of “I’ve lost my Welsh hat” followed by heaving sobs.

I go to him and say “It’s ok, you’ve got another one in your back pack”

and sometimes (foolishly) “We can buy you another one next time we go down to Wales.”

He heaves a dramatically relieved sigh and says “Oh yes, there’s another one in my bag.”

I’m writing this on Sunday morning, wondering when the storms will subside.