The Emergency Contact

There are rules in this house.

Not the ones I grew up with. Not the ones you find in parenting books or stitched on wholesome little Etsy signs.

But rules, nonetheless.

Born from chaos. Etched in meltdown. Fine-tuned by survival.

Like, for example: pajamas are allowed after 4pm.

Earlier if the day’s already falling apart.

I used to resist that one, thinking it meant we’d “given up.”

Now I consider it emotional temperature regulation. Fabric-based mood control.

If the little one’s in her pumpkin PJs by 3:42pm, you’ll hear no argument from me.

Another essential law of the land: do not - I repeat, do not - ask anyone a question while they’re stimming.

Mid-hand-flap? Mid-rock? Mid-toy-spinning with the focus of a laser surgeon?

Don’t even try. You’ll get nothing but a blank stare and maybe a screech if you push it.

There’s a rhythm to it, a pulse. Interrupting is like cutting off someone’s song mid-chorus.

We don’t do homework.

Not because I’m anti-education, but because frankly, if they’ve survived six hours in a sensory-overloaded, socially exhausting environment, I’m not about to sabotage that hard-earned regulation with a worksheet about fronted adverbials. Whatever those are anyway.

It’s not that deep. They’re learning just by existing.

Oh, and sneezes?

You better thank that blessing.

With the appropriate volume, tone and timing - anything less is social heresy.

If the little one says “Bleshoe” and doesn’t hear “Thank you” within three seconds, prepare for a full emotional tribunal.

I’m not kidding. I’ve seen whole days unravel over an unblessed sneeze.

Same goes for music.

No random playlists. No background Spotify while we “vibe.”

If you want music on, you announce it. You state how long it’ll last. You give warnings before it ends.

God help you if the song keeps going after the agreed time.

Music is lovely. Music is dangerous. Handle accordingly.

Bodily functions are… complicated.

Coughing, burping, farting, all technically natural, yes.

But in this house? Unholy.

A single cough can derail an entire meal. A surprise burp can trigger a spiral.

I once sneezed and the little one looked at me like I’d personally betrayed her sense of universal order.

And this next one might sound simple, but it’s non-negotiable:

Only one activity per day.

That’s it.

If we went to the supermarket, don’t talk to me about the park.

If it’s therapy day, we’re not stopping for petrol and posting a letter.

Try it and you’ll witness a full-body shutdown in the post office queue while someone behind us sighs and I fantasise about disappearing into the floor.

We don’t do “pop in” visits.

We don’t do “might go later.”

We do Plans. With capitals. With warning. With visual prep and snack alignment. With a map whenever possible.

And if you dare change the plan, even slightly?

You might as well throw the day in the bin.

If it was going to be toast, and you suggest waffles, congratulations - you’ve declared war.

They’d mentally committed to toast. They built an identity around it. You cannot pivot now.

When one child is overwhelmed, the rest of us enter safe-mode.

No sudden moves. No overlapping sounds.

I’ve perfected the art of emotional triage.

Hold one, ground the other, try not to cry on the toddler while they both scream for opposite reasons.

Also, anything you leave lying around is fair game.

That’s not a rule, it’s just fact.

If it mattered to you, you should’ve taken it to the toilet with you like a responsible person.

That goes for snacks, socks, your phone, and once, unfortunately, my debit card.

The toddler, in her pointy glory, communicates almost entirely through gestures.

If she points with intensity, you listen.

She may not have many words yet, but she has opinions and she’s built like a warning sign in motion.

Stimming is sacred.

But touching someone else’s stim toy without permission?

Treason. Theft. A federal offence.

Blankets are safe zones.

If someone is under one, leave them be. They are in active repair mode.

It’s not laziness, it’s sensory rebooting.

Come back when the blanket lowers and the eyes reappear.

These aren’t cute little quirks.

They’re scaffolding.

The invisible supports that let us function without cracking.

They look strange from the outside.

They are strange, honestly.

But they work.

Because here’s the truth: our lives aren’t built for mass appeal.

They’re built for us.

No gold stars. No perfect days. Definitely no reward chart.

Just our own weird, functional, overstimulated rhythm.

And honestly?

It’s better than any rulebook I could’ve made.