If we ask LB to get the phone, he usually shouts at it “Whatdoyouwant???” until it stops ringing. Tonight was progress. With a big fat P.
“LB! Get the phone!”
“Who me Mum?”
“Yes, quick!”
“Do I have to Mum?”
“Yes, quick before it stops ringing.”
“BLOODY PHONE. I hate it.”
“Just do it.”
“HELLO! HELLO! WHAT.DO.YOU.WANT??”
“Who is it?”
“WHATEVER!”
“Who was it LB?”
“Recorded message Mum.”
This week, LB shifted his attention to scrap metal. A break from Irish lorries but with worse sound effects on youtube. He also came back from his dad’s with a toolkit containing a hammer and screwdriver.
Last night, there was a terrible crashing noise upstairs. He’d put his die cast models (some limited edition) in a pile and was hammering the screwdriver into them.
“Whoa! Stoppit LB! What are you doing?????”
“Making scrap metal Mum.”
“Well you gotta stoppit matey. Now!”
“Why Mum?”
“Because I said so! You’ll ruin them!”
“Blimey,” I said to Rich, sitting back downstairs, “Model enthusiasts would be weeping if they saw that…”
Then I started wondering why he should stop bashing them.
“Hey, you going to the coffee morning again tomorrow LB?”
“Yes Mum.”
“Where’s it held?”
“In the church Mum.”
“Wow. Do you meet people there?”
“Yes Mum.”
“Who do you meet there?”
“Old people Mum.”
“Oh. Do you know any of their names?”
“Barbara Mum. And the other old people.”
“That’s nice. Do you talk to them?”
“Yes Mum.”
“What do you talk about?”
“Old people stuff Mum.”
“What’s old people stuff? Tell me something you talk about?”
“Getting older Mum.”
I randomly decided to pick LB up an hour and a half early from after school club yesterday. And found him sitting patiently on a chair in the foyer. Alone.
“WHADDAYADOINGSITTINGHERE LB???“
“Waiting Mum.”
“Waiting?!! WHY AREN”T YOU IN KIDS CLUB?”
“Dunno Mum.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“You Mum.”
I rang the kids club staff on the internal phone (you have to ring and speak to staff).
“Er, I have LB here. In the foyer on his own.”
“Ah, is he there? We’ll come down and get him.”
“GET HIM? I’ve got him! What’s he doing in the foyer on his own?!!!”
“We’ve been waiting for him to come from football. Usually he’s brought up to the hall after football by school staff…”
After this exchange on the phone (???) we left and the service provider running the kids club texted me disclaiming any responsibility ending with “..we are not at fault”. It was the school’s responsibility. Lovely.
This morning, the school liaison officer (SLO) rang, hugely apologetic. It will never happen again. LB had told a staff member that he wasn’t going to kids club that afternoon, I was picking him up. He had to wait in the foyer. Whoa. Cheeky monkey or what? (He doesn’t like after school club and was pretty fixated on getting Eddie Stobart Series 3 in the post).
Or, as the SLO suggested, was the dude a bit psychic?
I asked LB what he thought about what had happened, at bedtime last night.
“I hate the foyer Mum.”
LB has become adept at answering most questions “Yes“, “No“, “Don’t know” or “All of them” in typical teenager fashion. We’ve been pushing him on this recently (not least because it’s pretty boring).
This morning (as with so, so many mornings);
“Mum? I love lorries Mum.”
“I know.”
“Mum? I love lorries Mum…”
Usually at this point I say “I know LB. Do you know how I know?”
And he answers “Because I’ve told you 25,000 times, Mum.”
This morning I mixed it up a bit;
“Mum? I love lorries Mum.”
“I know.”
“Mum? I love lorries Mum…”
“Why do you love them?”
“Dunno Mum.”
“No, think of why you love them.”
“Dunno Mum.”
“C’mon LB. Try to explain to me why you love lorries.”
“Because. Because…… Because of me, Mum.”
Love him.
The long awaited Carer Assessment form turned up recently. Regular blog readers will know that I’ve been a bit confused about this assessment, and wasn’t really sure if I’d had one or not. Given that LB is 17 and it was introduced over five years ago, I thought I probably had really [must have surely…?], but I hadn’t.
So. A Carer Assessment turns out to be an A4 piece of paper with statements and prompts on both sides. No instruction, no guidance, just a piece of paper. Not sure I need to say much really. It kind of speaks for itself. I’ll just flag up the bottom of the page (pictured) ‘Any financial problems‘ section, which has got no space to write anything other than ‘yes’ or ‘no’ but includes the helpful prompt; ‘Are you receiving the right state benefits for example?‘ Er, you tell me matey, And mention my favourite prompt under the ‘How you feel about continuing to care’ section on page 2; ‘What would happen if you couldn’t care any longer?‘ Er, you tell me matey.
Not sure which dozy bunch came up with this ‘assessment’ but if I was marking it as a student assignment, it would get a big, fat fail.
Yesterday we had a day out at Chessington. We’ve had mixed experiences of days out at various places in the past, so the bar is set fairly low. Chessington scored high early on, for us, yesterday with their sensible arrangements for families with disabled children.
Once you’ve provided paper proof that your child is disabled (yes really) alongside the child, you get given a card which allows you to go to the exit of each ride. A staff member lets you straight on the ride after writing down what time you can next use the card for a big ride (adding the equivalent of the queue time you’ve jumped).
This works well as you don’t have to walk past the glares and stares of the main queue, who have you pegged as liggers as your child “don’t look disabled”, and the time delay between being able to access big rides is fair enough. A good example of reasonable adjustment really, removing the difficult bit (queuing) for dudes like LB.
We started with the Rattlesnake. My first ever roller coaster. Tom and Rich in front, waving their arms in the air. Me and LB behind. I kept my eyes scrunched shut, gripping the handlebars and quietly whimpering. LB sat quiet, composed and distant, seemingly oblivious to height, speed, excitement or terror.
“Fuck that,” he said to himself when we got off 90 seconds later.
“Who did you share a room with LB?”
“Nicky.”
“Ah. Did you get on with him?”
“No Mum.”
“Why not?”
“He was very loud Mum. He scared me.”
“What do you mean? How did he scare you?”
“He told me to stop talking Mum.”
“Ah. Was this at night time?”
“Yes Mum.”
“Well you know you can’t chatter on all night when you’re sharing a room, don’t you?”
“He shoved me Mum.”
“Shoved you? Whaddaya mean?!”
“SHUNNED ME Mum, HE.SHUNNED.ME.”
“Wow. Why’d he do that?”
“Dunno Mum.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yes Mum.”
“What did you say to him?”
“‘Do you like lorries?’ Mum.”
“Ah. What did he say?”
“No Mum.”
As usual, in this excavation of my hoarded treasures, what can I say really? Some pages from my ‘holiday notebook August 4-18, 1979’; first holiday without parents at Watermouth Holiday Villas, near Ilfracombe, with big sis Tracey and her mate, and my mate Mandy. I remember having a great time, and (conveniently) don’t remember detailing aspects of the holiday so obsessively thoroughly.
My spending list, across the two weeks, was so thorough I even detailed a ‘jelly welly’ (2p) and ‘bits and pieces’ (5p). (‘Omega Factor’ was the book based on a tv show, I barely remember). Nice to see my still favourite Double Decker there at a much lower price of course. Food, well that is a consistent theme in my diaries, so I ain’t surprised to see a meal list. I don’t remember a peach instant whip and I’m not sure what a ‘sweetheart’ is, but otherwise, standard holiday nosh. I am surprised, and a little bit shocked, about my daily weather diagrams. I was a laugh riot. Clearly.
“Hey, boys, what’s it like having a room to yourselves?”
“Tom’s soooooo irritating…”
“No I’m not!”
“You are. You talk through everything you’re doing. As you do it! You even woke me up this morning to tell me you were going to the toilet.”
“That’s cos I didn’t want you to wake up and find me gone. You might have thought I’d been attacked or something.”
“Attacked? By what?”
“A rabid bear.”
mydaftlife 