The Chronicles of the Dinosaur Roar and the Two-Minute Noodle Tyrant

Yesterday was one of those days where I felt less like a mother and more like a weary documentarian for National Geographic—specifically the episode where the apex predators decide to renegotiate the social hierarchy while I try to remember if I’ve brushed my own teeth.

Raising three kids is always a party. Not the fancy kind with champagne towers, mind you, but the kind where someone has inevitably spilled juice on the carpet, the music is too loud, and you’re secretly checking your watch to see if it’s socially acceptable to leave your own house.

The Great Peace of the Neuro-Frontier

For years, my two eldest, Olivia and Harri, were at constant war. It was a clash of sensory titans. Harri’s ADHD fuels a cheery, high-decibel personality and a penchant for Echolalia—his current "greatest hit" being "Bye, Bye, Bye" by N'Sync, which he refuses to believe was originally released when I was young.

Then there’s Olivia. Olivia is PDA (Pervasive Demand Avoidance), which, for those not in the neuro-know, is a profile of Autism where the brain perceives everyday demands as a threat to autonomy. Olivia’s vibe is generally "nihilistic woe regarding the state of human society," which clutched awkwardly against Harri’s loud optimism.But yesterday? A miracle. These two—who usually treat each other like rival gang leaders—were... civil? Olivia even told Harri he looked nice. For a PDAer, noticing another human exists—let alone what they are wearing—is the equivalent of winning a Nobel Peace Prize. I nearly checked the sky for the Four Horsemen.

Enter: The Princess of Darkness

While the neurodiverse contingent was busy being kind, my eight-year-old, Georgia, decided to pick up the slack. We used to call her "Chucky," and frankly, the name still fits. To the outside world, she is a sweet, academic overachiever. To her siblings, she is the Devil Incarnate.

I was under the weather (judge away, I’m tired), so it was a Two-Minute Noodle night. Harri, being the patient soul, he is, tried to help her. He was met with: "I KNOW when to put the powder in!" (Spoiler: she put the powder in with the cold water).Harri retreated upstairs, telling me with a level of saltiness I truly respected: "I hope it has NO flavor." Georgia is my only neurotypical child, and she clearly resents having to share the limelight with "the others." 

In South Africa, where support systems for neurodiversity are often as patchy as our power grid, I’m constantly balancing the scales. While I’m navigating Harri’s sensory needs and Olivia’s autonomy, Georgia is busy plotting a coup.

"I Do Not Appreciate the Bush"

The evening peaked when Olivia emerged from the bathroom, fresh from a leg-shaving session. Now, Olivia dictates the terms of engagement regarding their physicality, and I respect that. But they walked out and dropped the grenade: "I do NOT appreciate the bush."I nearly passed out. Between the dinosaur roars and the tirade about why women are cursed with body hair, I was wheezing. 

After a brief recovery, I found Olivia in their room, covered in moth-wing dust after a frantic (but successful) catch-and-release mission. Apparently, moths are also on the "do not appreciate" list because of their "whacking-in-the-face" flight patterns.

The Sitcom I Didn’t Audition For

The night ended with Harri announcing he is "looking into sound baths" and Olivia returning to their duties moderating internet servers to save the world from spiraling into darkness.

In a country like ours, where the understanding of PDA is still growing, and ADHD is often over-simplified, my house feels like a living laboratory. It’s a place where "normal" is a setting on the washing machine we don't use.Two neurodiverse kids, one "typical" tyrant, and me—the referee with a penchant for sarcasm. Honestly? I’d watch this sitcom. But I’d definitely need a stronger drink for the season finale.