Writer Saffron Bentley, 40, lives in Surrey with her husband, Neil, and their son, Tate, 11.

This page contains affiliate links, which means we may earn a small amount of money if a reader clicks through and makes a purchase. All our articles and reviews are written independently by the Netmums editorial team.

My 11-year-old son, Tate, is funny, loving and kind; he’s also severely autistic. When we go out, people laugh at him.

One of the hardest things to swallow is when other children start taking the Mickey out of him. I can’t be angry at them; they’re just kids. But it would be nice if their parents didn’t just ignore it.

Teach them to live in a world where we are all equal, beautiful and special in our own ways.

Talk to them about it.

Better still, let them come and talk to me about it.

There are so many amazing things to learn from how differently my son sees the world – come and take a look.

Of course, I’d like to say the teasing and laughing was just kids, but unfortunately fully grown ‘should know better’ adults do it, too.

People tut at the weird or loud noises Tate makes out in public; some have even shushed him.

I try to laugh it off but usually end up losing my cool and saying something.

Fortunately, he isn’t bothered by other people’s opinions.

The very beginning

I remember lying in the post-labour ward, my head turned to my newborn son in his see-through cot; I’d just endured 53 hours of labour (ending in an emergency c-section), was drugged up the eyeballs and absolutely overwhelmed.

My baby wasn’t feeding properly, his jaw moved incessantly like he was hungry but he kept being sick whenever I fed him.

Now I know this was a sensory problem, a lot of his stimming (repetitive physical actions, common in autism) revolves around his mouth. But at the time I just thought I was doing everything wrong.

My instincts were firing from the bottom of my gut to the end of my fingers: why couldn’t I comfort him? What was I doing wrong?

As the weeks passed he had me confused: I marvelled at how easily he smiled, but he was also unhappy most of the time. He cried from 7am until 7pm, hunching his little body up tight and hardly sleeping.

I didn’t understand why my friends’ babies were sleeping so much; my son woke at least six times a night and I was lucky if he napped for 10 minutes in the day.

Both of us were exhausted.

Red flag

But the biggest red flag came around six months. I’d got used to him not really caring about who I was. He didn’t look for me, anyone could hold him; he’d cry either way.

Then my friends’ babies started to do stuff: waving, pointing, clapping and dancing were the big changes. My son was doing none of these.

Instead, he just liked to be scared! That would make him laugh, he enjoyed the loud noises. At around eight months, after much Googling, I suspected it was the A word and tried to get him diagnosed.

Everyone disagreed with me, including professionals, but my instincts kept telling me something was not right at all. We had no language at one year, not even a ‘mama’ or ‘papa’, not even babble.

There were just long silences or times where I desperately prattled on at him, trying to reach his world. He was only half here and it was torture.

Diagnosis

It wasn’t till he was three that the doctor finally said it… autism .

We went to the local pub after the appointment and I walked around on auto pilot.

Then suddenly the world started spinning, I sat down and it felt like I was at the bottom of a dark cave.

I later found out this was called a traumatic depressive episode. My mind had collapsed after being told the thing I’d been dreading.

I wasn’t surprised when the doctor prescribed anti-depressants and crisis counselling. I was diagnosed with severe depression. I’d been there before and recognised the signs. But it felt different to the last bouts I’d suffered.

This time I was utterly hopeless; I genuinely thought my family would be better off without me. I thought I’d be useless to my son and his needs.

I seriously contemplated suicide in the most matter-of-fact, practical way. I’d detached from all sense in my grief over my son’s autism.

Slowly, with regular chats with my GP and, being on the right anti-depressants, I started to focus on what was the best for my child. It may have been a distracting technique but it took my mind off all the horrible thoughts.

Eventually I started to feel quite liberated; my son was still my son and I adored him.

I would put all my energy into helping him in any way he needed. He was also finally getting a block of sleep each night so his concentration levels (and my sanity) improved.

The hard truth

After the initial diagnosis, I prayed every night that my son would be only slightly affected. I’d heard that there was a spectrum and maybe his condition would be mild.

But, as the years passed, slowly I came to realise that he was severely autistic and that the mainstream nursery he attended couldn’t cope with his needs.

He head-butted his key worker and made her nose bleed. She was lovely and laughed it off.

I remember mentioning my mainstream school choices to his speech therapist one afternoon, she just shook her head until we were both nearly crying.

My husband and I chose not to have any more children; we were afraid of having another baby with special needs, plus our son hardly slept.

This was a hard pill to swallow; I’d always dreamt of being a grandma, baking with my grandchildren and being surrounded by the family of my creating. I won’t ever be that person now and have had to come up with a new future for myself.

The positive stuff

Though this sounds sad, there are positives.

I cannot explain the thrill I get from watching my boy achieving even the tiniest progress. I helped him shape his mouth into a ‘M’ with my fingers and eventually, after two weeks, aged three, he started to say ‘mmmmm’ for the word ‘more’.

I’d always said I’d get a tattoo of his first word so I now have ‘more’ etched forever on my bum cheek.

There were some surprises too; because he loves routine, he was completely potty-trained in 48 hours. The perks, eh?!

It took until he was eight for him to call me ‘Mummy’ and until nine to want to give cuddles. When he does it now, it’s like five lottery wins all at once because I didn’t think even a small thing like a cuddle would ever happen.

Tate is almost 11 now and we’re doing better than ever. He goes to a fantastic autism-specific school and in our safe little bubble life we do just fine.

He has the most wonderful sense of humour and, although we can’t have a conversation, he shows me I’m important to him. We laugh together, a lot.

A changed person

Having my son has changed everything. I’ve been to the darkest places in my mind and I don’t think you can come back from that the same.

My heart was broken but it has been built back together even stronger.

I’m a more grounded and well-adjusted person for having my son, because I see through an all-round-better person’s eyes now.

Because of my journey with autism, I’ve stopped caring about all the little annoying, bad stuff that happens. This is the gift my son has given me… and it is priceless.

If you're struggling or need help or support with your child, visit our Drop-In Clinic where our Parent Supporters are ready to help.

Read Saffron's blog, here .

To talk to other parents of children with autism, connect with them in the Netmums Forum.

Related stories

Netmums Voices – Seetal Savla: Why it’s time we bust the myth that IVF is just for middle-class white people

CHAT: Are you raising a child with autism? Can you relate to Saffron's story?

Netmums Voices – Jo Middleton: Why I’m reclaiming ‘single parent’ as a badge of honour