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.
(… 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”.
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
Laughing boy (3/5 kids, pictured on the right, next to 5/5) was off school sick when he was about 9. Being not quite of this world (some people would say he is autistic with learning difficulties) I was a bit stuck when I needed some milk. He was comfy watching endless episodes of Barney, so I decided to risk a quick trip to the Co-op (50 metres away).
I read the riot act – don’t move, don’t stop watching the tv, do not get off the settee, do not leave the living room, DO NOT go near the front door. Do you hear me? NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS!! He seemed totally on board. I went out of the house, shut the door, then realised no door key. Hilarious. Continue reading
mydaftlife 