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).
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?
(… 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”.
Laughing boy has been called LB for many years now because he is very funny, without any sniff of trying to be funny. It’s a mystery, but very, very entertaining. Continue reading
These posts aren’t in a chronological order, so this probably won’t have the resonance it should. But random is good (sometimes). Laughing Boy came into the kitchen tonight and said “Thank you mum for phewddryfhddndfhrrhsssvvbnrtt”.
Whoa!!! Wha?? LB initiating a conversation? Unprompted? That isn’t about a need (toilet, internet access, maintenance of routine…) This is amazing. A “thank you” opening??? What are you saying LB???? Continue reading
Just a warning for all you humour lovers; this isn’t a funny post (or a Moroccan disaster post), more a reflective one. You can switch off now if you want… Continue reading
Richy and his mate, Petey*, a renowned professor in politics, were chatting in the hall. LB wandered past, looked carefully at Petey’s shirt and said “Do you work in a petrol station, Petey?”
* Pseudonym
A freshly hatched post for once. Laughing boy had a mobile EEG unit fitted this morning. The neuro person, Noreen, was very chilled as she carefully superglued the electrodes to his scalp. Once LB had gone through his usual questions – “What’s your name?”, “Where were you born?” “How old are you?” “Have you got a boyfriend?” “How old is he?” “What does he do?” – he went back to chuntering about other stuff. I realised he was getting naffed off with the lengthy process when he started going on about asylums, straitjackets and an evil attendant called Noreen. Continue reading
I got a copy of LB’s medical records at the end of last year. It’s a mixture of letters, reports, results and comments and is peculiar reading. The number of different diagnoses he had, over the years, is a bit of a surprise, and the earlier use of language is a bit shocking. The ‘Chinese whispers’ effect is also interesting; the story shifts with different professionals. That is a bit disappointing considering a major bugbear for most parents I know, is the constant repetition of the basic background details. I wonder at what point, in the doctor patient communication, those details go awry. Continue reading
One thing that doesn’t happen so much now that Laughing Boy is sixteen, is endless (often meaningless) appointments with professionals. Countless hours have been spent travelling, waiting and meeting a range of different people in different settings. One series of appointments, four years ago, was with a psychologist geezer (Psych Sid*) about LB’s ‘challenging’ behaviour. These appointments seemed particularly pointless as Psych didn’t want LB present. Continue reading
mydaftlife 