In addition to reversing the car, supermarkets were always a no go area with LB. He would turn into some character from a horror film with blood-curdling screams that penetrated every aisle. My strategy, if I couldn’t avoid the trip, was to grab, squash, snap and sweep*. (Grab (LB), squash (him into the trolley seat), snap (the straps shut) and supermarket sweep).
One thing that seriously naffs me off, is when people talk about parents of disabled children experiencing bereavement. I think it’s careless, pat, unreflective and unhelpful. Some may, of course. Fair enough. But I suspect an awful lot don’t.
I think the everyday rules and sense of order, predictability and certainty disappear when you find out you’ve landed a speshy. These rules/order revolve around ‘mainstream’ lives, not the lives of families with eel children. And I think there is a sadness. A deep sadness, that is made up of all sorts of different things. Anyway, this got me thinking about tears and how much I’ve cried since LB was born.
Sometimes I crave spontaneity when negotiating social life with a crazy dude like Laughing Boy. Sadly, the experience is usually drenched in daft rules and unhelpful bureaucracy, especially when it is to do with health, social care and education.
Take one example. I asked for a referral to an endocrinologist because I wanted to ask some questions about the chromosome disorder LB had been diagnosed with many moons ago.
Now, for the purposes of this post, I’m substituting Laughing boy’s surname (which happens to be an endangered species) for Llama. And, I’m pretending that llama’s are an endangered species. When I told some mates this story on the bus a few weeks ago, I laughed so much I could barely speak. They didn’t. Continue reading
Whoa??? What??? Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek? Did someone really just say that? Have I been teleported into a meeting of the inner circle of the Conservative party? What the fuck is going on?
Crazy, crazy days. This is an unexpectedly sneaky early view of the next instalment of this long, sorry tale because I’ve LOST MY PASSPORT AGAIN. And, I need the number for a passport form I’ve witnessed tonight. After relentlessly looking for the actual passport, I searched for possible electronic records of the number (on old e-tickets, etc). That turned up this email reminding me vividly of the Moroccan weekend away; Continue reading
(… and the Olympia Horse of the Year Show programme)
Every year on his birthday, Laughing boy chooses a treat. This could be a day out, a meal or whatever he wants really. It’s become a bit of a family joke that he only ever wants me to go on this treat. No amount of bribery, coaxing or cajoling shakes his conviction that it’s “Just you and me, Mum”.
Several years ago I travelled by coach to see Rosie sing with her school (and hundreds of other schools) at the Royal Festival Hall in London. We were dropped off a couple of hours before the concert started so I went for a walk round Covent Garden. Bizarrely, I bumped into someone who I’d gone on a random truck trip with across Africa ten years before (long story, inspired by watching Tracy Chapman, on the TV, singing at the Nelson Mandela birthday concert). Continue reading
