I got to thinking tonight about LB’s agency. I suppose this is because the work I’m doing at the moment is looking at the inclusion of people with learning difficulties in research. As usual, the research doesn’t bear an awful lot of resemblance to the experiences of people I know (including LB).
“Mum?”
“Yes?”
“Mum?”
“Yes?”
“Mum?”
“Yes?”
“Mum?”
“Yes?”
“Mum?”
“YEEEESSSS?”
“Mum?
…
“Mum?”
“STOP SAYING MUM ALL THE TIME. Whaddayawant LB????”
“Mum…Do you like Irish lorries, Mum?”
“No.”
“OK, Mum.”
I’ve been a right old weepy wreck since the A-level results and confirmation that Rosie’s off to university this weekend. I dunno. What a schmaltz-hound. Richy and the other kids have been very patient and supportive as I’ve blubbed walking around the supermarket, passing old favourites like bourbon biscuits, hot chocolate and tuna, seeing a box set of Desperate Housewives in HMV, walking past her old primary school at chucking out time.
Tom was telling us at breakfast about how, in a science class, there was a description of a blubbery, hairy animal and someone shouted “That’s yer mum Tom”.
“Oh,” said Richy, “that’s not very nice”.
“It’s a yer mum joke”, said Rosie and Owen in unison, chuckling into their pancakes.
Richy and I sat there with blank faces.
Tom’s tooth fell out yesterday.
“I’d better put it under my pillow”, he said. “But I hope there isn’t any more tooth fairy rubbishness…”
“Wha? What do you mean Tomo?”
“You know. There was that time she didn’t come. Then about two nights later she came, left a pound and the tooth. And then there was the time she took the tooth and didn’t leave a pound…”
“And there’s the tooth she left in the bathroom on the travel plug for about three months…” chipped in Richy Rich.
“Oh,” I said, “I hadn’t noticed that”.
Rosie “I’m not going to spend my entire life reading your blog, Mum” got her A-level results this morning. 3A*’s.
I am so fucking proud of her. Only LB and I were home when she went off to school to collect them. I dragged him away from youtube for 20 seconds to say good luck to her.
After she called with the results, I had a little weep, called Richy and then told LB how well his sister had done.
“Mum,” he replied, through gritted teeth, “I am telling you I am not stressed and the psychologist did not ban me from using youtube. He is criminally insane.”
Well this ain’t about you LB. It’s about Rosie. Good for you, girl. You deserve it.
This cartoon made me laugh my socks off because it brings back so many memories. All those early pitfalls and unanticipated problems that spiralled from the tiniest bit of communication bijiggery*.
Like when Richy Rich took LB camping for a long weekend with some of the other kids. He was about five. Richy called from the beach on the Friday evening; all eating fish and chips, everyone having a fab time. So, so cool. First thing in the morning LB got up and said “Home”. He’d camped. Job done. Continue reading
LB loves music. One kind at a time. He started with Peter and the Wolf as a pup. Moved briefly to Gary Gilmour’s eyes, the Beatles and then to Keane. Keane were a keeper. We had a good three years with a constant Keane backdrop. It will be many years before I can hear a Keane track without sobbing. Thinking about the opening bars of Walnut Tree brings me out in a cold sweat.
But then it was over for Keane. Dropped overnight and replaced by drum and bass. Constant tinnitus. Relentless, tiny, teeny, tuneless noise. All the time. All.the.fucking.time.
Sticking my toe back in the holiday thread. So many memories. Sigh.
Richy Rich regularly took a selection of the kids camping. One time he had three of ’em, aged 6, 4 and 1.5. On the Sunday, he took them to the beach at Highcliffe, near Bournemouth. They walked down the cliff path to the beach, dumped their stuff and ran into the sea. Instantly a big wave knocked Richy’s glasses off and swept them away.
Now Richy is like Vincent van Gopher without his glasses. He can’t see squit-diddly. This is not a good situation to be in with teeny tiny kids in the sea.
Holidays. Shudder. Even the word makes me feel queasy. Going on holiday was like taking a bunch of pups off to some new park, full of smells, the hint of the odd rabbit and plenty of trees to piss against.
Plus, of course, the real hounds who delivered their own brand of disruption effectively most trips. (Little aside here to mention the infamous time that Stan decided to have a wee on Petey’s designer sweatshirt on the beach in Pembrokeshire. Sigh).
So a gentle, informative, visual start to this new thread…
1. Find space.
That’s it.
mydaftlife 