The weather has been extraordinary. As such, life in GB has come to a standstill. It’s all about snow and plenty of it. Although it can be lethal, it is beautiful and in my two teenage boys eyes, the stuff of magic. Both Max and Charlie were ecstatic that both their schools were forced to shut for not one, but two days. You have to admit in a Child’s eye that’s pure heaven. Ten inches of snow & no school!
The joy for me soon passed. Yes, I did delight in a long walk with Charlie down at ‘the swamp’ (local brook running for half a mile surrounded by mini woodland, a surprise oasis in North London). And it was sweet to see the boys crashing about in the garden, flinging snowballs at one another and squealing with anguish and delight. But then I got frustrated. We couldn’t get out because the snow turned to ice and I didn’t fancy a trip to A& E. The mail, the refuse collection, the recycling collection, all stopped, I started to go stir crazy. But not my boys. They relished their time at home, being more than happy to ‘chill’ and do absolutely nothing, popping in and out of their own little worlds for food and drink.
Day three arrived and the schools re-opened. Charlie, although reluctant, returned to his school with good grace, Max on the other hand was having none of it. I could tell he was disgusted that his school was open for business, plus I’d heard him muttering in the toilet that perhaps a new arrival of deep snow in the night might do the trick and force his school to remain closed. This had not transpired and as his bus arrived to collect him bang on time, Max left with a face full of thunder.
Just a few hours later we got a call from Max’s school. Max had diarrhoea and would like to come home. A rather graphic conversation then took place; I shan’t go into too much detail here, suffice to say it involved conditions of unflushed toilets and changes of clothing. Max can be highly creative and is pretty savvy when it comes to convincing anyone of his fake ill health. His professional and impressive teachers can end up bearing the brunt of it; even so, it pays to be deeply sceptical to the point of blunt disbelief. That takes quite a bit of determined, perhaps brave grit; Paul and I wobble at the first call of doubt. Neither of us wants to appear to be cold uncaring, almost cruel parents, but Max is a magnificent actor.
We stuck to our guns and arranged to pick him up and take him as normal to his regular pre-arranged literacy lesson with Julia. Unfortunate timing as it was going to prove a challenge to get him back to school. When I picked him up he was cheerful enough, if in an extraordinarily tight pair of trousers. (Max’s XL waist can lead to limited resources when a spare item of clothing is required.) Still, nothing was said and a clean set of clothes was left with his classroom assistant. Thinking on my feet and desperately trying to be one step ahead of my son I welcomed him back to the car after his lesson and presented him with a tricky decision. I suggested that if his stomach pains (putting aside the tight trousers) were still a problem, we should return home, missing afternoon school. But that would mean no lunch, perhaps a dry cracker, but nothing more. Or, if he felt his stomach was in any way better, we could return to school, change his trousers and he could eat his lunch.
Max was not remotely amused. We suffered a silent five minutes. It was all I could do to remain quiet; I literally had hold of my tongue between my teeth. Eventually, with very little grace, Max decided to return to school. He ate his sandwiches while parked outside the school and for an awful moment, after he’d polished them off, I thought he was going to renege on our deal. But, true to his word he finished his lunch, got out the car, and poignantly slammed the door. I got no ‘goodbye’ and he deliberately ignored my wave as he begrudgingly buzzed himself into the school via the electronic gates. He does enjoy school – he’d just rather be at home. In some ways I felt I’d done the right thing. I’d shown him that he couldn’t pull the wool over my eyes and that he had to go to school, everyday. Even if he experienced an explosional bowel movement (his low muscle tone, makes it not uncommon for him). Coming home when he felt like it couldn’t be an option. But I also had a vague uneasiness about the whole thing. Say I was wrong?
Wednesday, 23 December 2009
Friday, 20 November 2009
Cleaning the cars
I asked Charlie if he’d like to clean the inside of both cars for a tenner.
‘Err. No thanks,’ he replied.
I asked Max if he’s like to clean the inside of both cars with me for a fiver.
‘Err. Ok,’ he replied.
It was some days before the timing was right, but eventually Max declared he was,
‘Going to clean the cars now.’
He had just come back from Lords with Paul and Charlie. (Purely for the egg mayonnaise sandwiches) and was head to foot in ‘posh’ gear.
‘Ok lovely, best get changed though’.
‘Oooh, no! Mum!’
I gave it a minute; Max is never good at getting his head around things at speed. His irritation at me suggesting that he change was a perfect example of how he sees clearly that the idea is sound, but can’t be bothered and thinks if he just stalls, something will change. Plus his thought processes are just never immediate, he needs time, sometimes a great deal of it. In fairness to him, given time, he manages to make the leap from where he was, and get up to speed with the correct way of thinking and move on. He soon managed it now.
Five minutes later he arrived in the kitchen dressed to clean.
I decided I’d play a minor role in the cleaning and directed Max to the cleaning cupboard for the cloths, furniture polish and glass cleaner, and to the floor of the pantry for the Hoover. He enthusiastically collected all the items and headed for the front door. I felt my initial sense of trepidation float away, as I searched for the extension lead for the Hoover.
By the time I got outside Max had begun. He was furiously spraying and polishing a side mirror.
‘Inside the car Babe. Remember what I said?’
‘Oh, mum! - Headlights?’
‘Sweetheart just inside today, you need to clean all the mirrors and windows and the plastic bits, inside.’ I gave it a minute.
Max stormed off to get the car keys from inside the house, but emerged with a smile back on his lovely face. He clicked the remote, which he loves to do, and the car beeped open. He then opened the door, threw the keys inside a shut the door again.
‘Can you put the keys in your pocket Max ?’
‘No.’
‘It’s sensible to put the keys in your pocket because if you leave the keys inside the car, it can automatically lock them in.’
‘Oh.’
Max opened the door, reached for the keys and put them in his pocket - a small battle won. (Although I did get a filthy look.)
He really was doing a good job and attacking it with gusto. I thought I’d make a start with the Hoover; I was bound to get shouted at if Max thought I was slacking.
I bent down into the front of the car and was overwhelmed with furniture polish fumes. A great deal of spraying was going on. Max had emptied over half of the can onto the back leather seats and was furiously wiping with his cloth.
‘Excellent Max, not quite so much spray though eh?’
‘Oh, Mum!’
Now was the time for me to realise it was in my best interest to just keep quiet and let him get on with it, his way. And not a bad way too, he chattered to himself as he briskly went over all the seats and plastic and then moved on to the windows and glass. The rear-view mirror was dribbling glass cleaning fluid, but I bit my tongue and went to fetch a big black bag for the rubbish.
When I arrived back, Max was in the boot in fits of giggles.
‘Mum, I got locked in the boot!’
I let him out and he happily trotted around to the front where he finished off his polishing. For some ten minutes we beavered away side-by-side, Max barking out the odd command or complaining that I was in his way, but overall, a harmonious, joint effort. I really felt that Max had accomplished all I had asked of him when he shouted,
‘Mum, I’ve finished!’
‘Brilliant mate, lets lock up this car and move on to Dad’s.’
I thought he was going to throw a wobbly, but no, he looked over at Paul’s car and said,
‘Ok.’
I was impressed. What a little worker, such enthusiasm too. We both moved on to the next car after Max expertly locked my car up and replaced the keys in his pocket. As if by magic the keys to Paul’s car were produced from his other pocket and he unlocked it, raring to go.
Same drill as before and no real slacking either. I made sure I gave him lots of encouragement and kept hinting that we were over half way through the task and really nearly finished now. He plodded on with his polishing and spraying. The furniture can was completely empty by now, which was perhaps a good job, those fumes! Still, he soldiered on with just a very wet cloth and did a magnificent job.
We had it cracked in no time and Max was positively thrilled with himself. Paul was ordered down from his office to survey his sparkly clean car and gave the suitably required praise and appreciation.
I just handed over my fiver.
‘Err. No thanks,’ he replied.
I asked Max if he’s like to clean the inside of both cars with me for a fiver.
‘Err. Ok,’ he replied.
It was some days before the timing was right, but eventually Max declared he was,
‘Going to clean the cars now.’
He had just come back from Lords with Paul and Charlie. (Purely for the egg mayonnaise sandwiches) and was head to foot in ‘posh’ gear.
‘Ok lovely, best get changed though’.
‘Oooh, no! Mum!’
I gave it a minute; Max is never good at getting his head around things at speed. His irritation at me suggesting that he change was a perfect example of how he sees clearly that the idea is sound, but can’t be bothered and thinks if he just stalls, something will change. Plus his thought processes are just never immediate, he needs time, sometimes a great deal of it. In fairness to him, given time, he manages to make the leap from where he was, and get up to speed with the correct way of thinking and move on. He soon managed it now.
Five minutes later he arrived in the kitchen dressed to clean.
I decided I’d play a minor role in the cleaning and directed Max to the cleaning cupboard for the cloths, furniture polish and glass cleaner, and to the floor of the pantry for the Hoover. He enthusiastically collected all the items and headed for the front door. I felt my initial sense of trepidation float away, as I searched for the extension lead for the Hoover.
By the time I got outside Max had begun. He was furiously spraying and polishing a side mirror.
‘Inside the car Babe. Remember what I said?’
‘Oh, mum! - Headlights?’
‘Sweetheart just inside today, you need to clean all the mirrors and windows and the plastic bits, inside.’ I gave it a minute.
Max stormed off to get the car keys from inside the house, but emerged with a smile back on his lovely face. He clicked the remote, which he loves to do, and the car beeped open. He then opened the door, threw the keys inside a shut the door again.
‘Can you put the keys in your pocket Max ?’
‘No.’
‘It’s sensible to put the keys in your pocket because if you leave the keys inside the car, it can automatically lock them in.’
‘Oh.’
Max opened the door, reached for the keys and put them in his pocket - a small battle won. (Although I did get a filthy look.)
He really was doing a good job and attacking it with gusto. I thought I’d make a start with the Hoover; I was bound to get shouted at if Max thought I was slacking.
I bent down into the front of the car and was overwhelmed with furniture polish fumes. A great deal of spraying was going on. Max had emptied over half of the can onto the back leather seats and was furiously wiping with his cloth.
‘Excellent Max, not quite so much spray though eh?’
‘Oh, Mum!’
Now was the time for me to realise it was in my best interest to just keep quiet and let him get on with it, his way. And not a bad way too, he chattered to himself as he briskly went over all the seats and plastic and then moved on to the windows and glass. The rear-view mirror was dribbling glass cleaning fluid, but I bit my tongue and went to fetch a big black bag for the rubbish.
When I arrived back, Max was in the boot in fits of giggles.
‘Mum, I got locked in the boot!’
I let him out and he happily trotted around to the front where he finished off his polishing. For some ten minutes we beavered away side-by-side, Max barking out the odd command or complaining that I was in his way, but overall, a harmonious, joint effort. I really felt that Max had accomplished all I had asked of him when he shouted,
‘Mum, I’ve finished!’
‘Brilliant mate, lets lock up this car and move on to Dad’s.’
I thought he was going to throw a wobbly, but no, he looked over at Paul’s car and said,
‘Ok.’
I was impressed. What a little worker, such enthusiasm too. We both moved on to the next car after Max expertly locked my car up and replaced the keys in his pocket. As if by magic the keys to Paul’s car were produced from his other pocket and he unlocked it, raring to go.
Same drill as before and no real slacking either. I made sure I gave him lots of encouragement and kept hinting that we were over half way through the task and really nearly finished now. He plodded on with his polishing and spraying. The furniture can was completely empty by now, which was perhaps a good job, those fumes! Still, he soldiered on with just a very wet cloth and did a magnificent job.
We had it cracked in no time and Max was positively thrilled with himself. Paul was ordered down from his office to survey his sparkly clean car and gave the suitably required praise and appreciation.
I just handed over my fiver.
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Food & Wrestling
There are two things of great, but equal importance to Max, food and wrestling. Food just tips it. He has even confused the merits of religion, with the merits of food. Not particularly hard to do when you think about it. All religions seem to gather people together with the allure of a feast!
A few weeks ago Max came home from school declaring that he was going to fast the next day because of his religion. To be clear, as a family we are not religious, very welcoming to the beliefs of others, and like Max, rather enjoy all the religious festivals involving food, but are not participants. Paul was born Jewish but has gone off the rails since then – big time, for one thing, he’s married to me. I am not Jewish, but we are surrounded by people we love, who are. Many celebrate the festivals and all the delicious food this entails and Max embraces this marathon of eating wholeheartedly. I applaud such dedication, but I was unaware of any festival coming up on the horizon.
So I was puzzled, as well as astonished that Max proposed to fast. With a little detective work I figured he must be talking about Ramadan. One or two of the boys (there are no girls in Max’s class) could possibly be Muslim, so I pointed out that it was probably a Muslim, not Jewish festival, but Max was having none of it. He was determined to fast for the day and that was that. I can only imagine that there had been a discussion of some great culinary reward.
The following morning I chose to ignore our conversation of the previous evening and I placed Max’s beloved bread and butter in front of him, to be met with his usual gleeful greeting. So I’ll admit I was surprised, but made no comment, when after he’d finished his breakfast Max made a big fuss about replacing the contents of his lunchbox into the fridge, suggesting I was a very silly mum for forgetting that he was fasting for the day.
Carol and Pauline the driver and escort of his bus to school, fell about laughing when Max declared he was fasting for the day. His reputation as a foodie is huge, but he was not amused at their jesting.
Later in the day I arrived at Max’s school to take him to his tutor Julia. I was immediately greeted with,
‘Where’s my lunch?’
‘Oh, Max. I thought you were fasting my love.’
Wicked I know, but I just couldn’t resist it. And Max’s reply was an unimpressed grunt. Still, it was rather amusing and I suppressed a smirk as I handed him his packed lunch. He was soon munching on a favourite egg mayonnaise sandwich. Perhaps the path of dedicated religion is not for Max after all.
Wrestling does come a very close second in importance for Max. He adores the whole drama and festival of the sport. My Grandmother was the same. I still remember her raising her fist at the telly in triumphant adulation as Big Daddy was pummelled into submission. She too loved the drama and took great delight in verbalising her thoughts for all to hear. I just saw old men with rotund tummies wearing big black pants. And that whole counting thing..... What is that?
Max has some wrestling idols. On Saturday he took a computer printout of John Cena (seriously important wrestler) to the barbers and demanded to be able to walk out looking like his hero. Very smart it looked too. I’m a little concerned about the tattoos these beefy giants rejoice in littering on their skin, (although I am attracted to such graffiti in a weird kind of way) but that’s a bridge we will have to cross when we come to it. For now, I’m happy to waive goodbye to Max and Paul as they pop to Brent Cross shopping mall in order to cruise along the isle in Top Man looking for ‘bling’.
It’s a passion he shares with his mate Robbie. Thank goodness neither of them have been drawn to ‘acting out’ any matches. They both prefer to get right up close to the television screen and be drawn into the pantomime. I’ve noticed that a great deal of interest has developed towards the female wrestlers and all their beauty. Suddenly Max and Robbie are keen to watch the girls strut their funky stuff as well as the men. The outfits are astonishing and born from such ingenuity!
They relish the full glamour of WWE, RAW and Smack Down and save up for DVDs and Wii games, proudly wear t-shirts with their idols full frontal and get over excited when something new is due to hit the shops. But they are also just as happy to buy tickets for the local wrestling matches held at the church hall up the road and refereed by the vicar, Father Benjamin.
Whatever Max’s passions are, you can guarantee that he will pursue and enjoy them with gusto. He is completely nonjudgmental, embracing all that life throws at him, very sure of what he wants and determined to get it. Compromise is not a word he is comfortable with, but he soon moves on if it’s made clear to him that something is impossible or not appropriate. He is a joy to watch when he’s having fun. And it’s not because fun passes his way infrequently, on the contrary, but because he demonstrates a joy of life that needs to be rejoiced in all of us – we just need reminding and thankfully, I have Max to do that for me.
A few weeks ago Max came home from school declaring that he was going to fast the next day because of his religion. To be clear, as a family we are not religious, very welcoming to the beliefs of others, and like Max, rather enjoy all the religious festivals involving food, but are not participants. Paul was born Jewish but has gone off the rails since then – big time, for one thing, he’s married to me. I am not Jewish, but we are surrounded by people we love, who are. Many celebrate the festivals and all the delicious food this entails and Max embraces this marathon of eating wholeheartedly. I applaud such dedication, but I was unaware of any festival coming up on the horizon.
So I was puzzled, as well as astonished that Max proposed to fast. With a little detective work I figured he must be talking about Ramadan. One or two of the boys (there are no girls in Max’s class) could possibly be Muslim, so I pointed out that it was probably a Muslim, not Jewish festival, but Max was having none of it. He was determined to fast for the day and that was that. I can only imagine that there had been a discussion of some great culinary reward.
The following morning I chose to ignore our conversation of the previous evening and I placed Max’s beloved bread and butter in front of him, to be met with his usual gleeful greeting. So I’ll admit I was surprised, but made no comment, when after he’d finished his breakfast Max made a big fuss about replacing the contents of his lunchbox into the fridge, suggesting I was a very silly mum for forgetting that he was fasting for the day.
Carol and Pauline the driver and escort of his bus to school, fell about laughing when Max declared he was fasting for the day. His reputation as a foodie is huge, but he was not amused at their jesting.
Later in the day I arrived at Max’s school to take him to his tutor Julia. I was immediately greeted with,
‘Where’s my lunch?’
‘Oh, Max. I thought you were fasting my love.’
Wicked I know, but I just couldn’t resist it. And Max’s reply was an unimpressed grunt. Still, it was rather amusing and I suppressed a smirk as I handed him his packed lunch. He was soon munching on a favourite egg mayonnaise sandwich. Perhaps the path of dedicated religion is not for Max after all.
Wrestling does come a very close second in importance for Max. He adores the whole drama and festival of the sport. My Grandmother was the same. I still remember her raising her fist at the telly in triumphant adulation as Big Daddy was pummelled into submission. She too loved the drama and took great delight in verbalising her thoughts for all to hear. I just saw old men with rotund tummies wearing big black pants. And that whole counting thing..... What is that?
Max has some wrestling idols. On Saturday he took a computer printout of John Cena (seriously important wrestler) to the barbers and demanded to be able to walk out looking like his hero. Very smart it looked too. I’m a little concerned about the tattoos these beefy giants rejoice in littering on their skin, (although I am attracted to such graffiti in a weird kind of way) but that’s a bridge we will have to cross when we come to it. For now, I’m happy to waive goodbye to Max and Paul as they pop to Brent Cross shopping mall in order to cruise along the isle in Top Man looking for ‘bling’.
It’s a passion he shares with his mate Robbie. Thank goodness neither of them have been drawn to ‘acting out’ any matches. They both prefer to get right up close to the television screen and be drawn into the pantomime. I’ve noticed that a great deal of interest has developed towards the female wrestlers and all their beauty. Suddenly Max and Robbie are keen to watch the girls strut their funky stuff as well as the men. The outfits are astonishing and born from such ingenuity!
They relish the full glamour of WWE, RAW and Smack Down and save up for DVDs and Wii games, proudly wear t-shirts with their idols full frontal and get over excited when something new is due to hit the shops. But they are also just as happy to buy tickets for the local wrestling matches held at the church hall up the road and refereed by the vicar, Father Benjamin.
Whatever Max’s passions are, you can guarantee that he will pursue and enjoy them with gusto. He is completely nonjudgmental, embracing all that life throws at him, very sure of what he wants and determined to get it. Compromise is not a word he is comfortable with, but he soon moves on if it’s made clear to him that something is impossible or not appropriate. He is a joy to watch when he’s having fun. And it’s not because fun passes his way infrequently, on the contrary, but because he demonstrates a joy of life that needs to be rejoiced in all of us – we just need reminding and thankfully, I have Max to do that for me.
Monday, 26 October 2009
Hormonal teenagers
I am not a victim, I am a survivor, so is my son Max. Even though he has Down’s syndrome. You’d think that would slow him down, somehow sour his life - not a bit of it. His vibrant character has carried him through some challenging stages of his life. Passing through adolescence is one of them.
Being sixteen is a tricky age for any young man although Max welcomes many of the experiences, like growing facial hair “Like my Dad,” which he painstakingly shaves off with his mini electric razor, or the allure of women, particularly blondes. As one of five grandsons, I remember my mother remarking on several occasions that she would doubt Max to be the last of her grandsons to be granted his first kiss. She was right, he’s well on his way to developing an expertise in snogging. He’s also had a fair number of girlfriends, racking up quite a respectable portfolio of beauties. Some he’s been keener on than others, remarking to me,
“Mum, I like Polly, but I’m waiting to find the right girlfriend.”
Rather taken aback, I enquired what he felt the “right” girlfriend to be. His reply was as always, direct and truthful.
“She’s got to have long blonde hair like you mum and she must be funny, love wrestling, music, going to the theatre and be able to sing.” No pressure!
Until Max’s dream woman arrives I have no worries, he’s cut from the same cloth as those who believe “if you’re not with the one you love, honey, love the one you’re with.” Any passing young lady who may wish to brush up on her kissing technique need look no further than Max; he will be a most willing and enthusiastic partner.
But some of Max’s hormonal changes are not particularly welcomed by any of us. Apart from farting in public, purely for his own amusement, he’s taken to being grumpy and massively uncooperative for no good reason – that we, at least, can fathom. Within the four walls of our home, whilst troublesome, such moods can be contained, and are best ignored if I’m honest, but in the outside world, some colourful issues can arise. Also the world outside sometimes comes to visit us and even the protective walls of our home are no help.
Max’s longsuffering brother Charlie can get it in the neck too. He's fourteen now, but carries the weight of the world on far senior shoulders. He’s a terrific brother, but even Charlie cannot resist giving in to the temptation for point scoring and one-up-man-ship, so commonly seen in siblings.
When Max is strutting about the house, ipod clamped to his ears, dancing and singing at the top of his lungs, completely naked, Charlie can be forgiven for muttering under his breath,
“For God’s sake put some clothes on!”
Or Charlie’s parental instincts may kick in, as Max seizes an opportunity to swipe an unauthorized biscuit, knowing he will not be discovered, by remarking,
“You shouldn’t be doing that.”
Perfectly excusable, but such comments push all of Max’s buttons and drive him to forbidden expletives, and the odd, uncharacteristic wallop.
For many years now, we’ve discovered the best way to get any kind of hold on what Max is truly feeling, is to listen to him while he’s on the toilet. Thinking he’s alone and enjoying the privacy, he often chats away to himself. Wrong perhaps to intrude, but valuable information can often be gleaned from what falls from his lips. Just like on Sunday evening,
“I’m fed up with this family. I’m going to get a new family. I’m cross with Dad, he’s always telling me off and it’s that Charlie’s fault. He gets me into trouble. He winds me up! Mum’s horrible too.”
Such truths can often be the valuable bridge we need to pass over turbulent times. I’m clinging to the knowledge that it’s most probably his hormones and that my gorgeous, but sometimes obnoxious teenager will blossom into the handsome, considerate swan I know he is. But if I foolishly relax, naively assuming calmer waters have arrived, I must remind myself, that Max is not unique in his hormonal outbursts and I would do well to steel myself, because he has a younger brother.
Being sixteen is a tricky age for any young man although Max welcomes many of the experiences, like growing facial hair “Like my Dad,” which he painstakingly shaves off with his mini electric razor, or the allure of women, particularly blondes. As one of five grandsons, I remember my mother remarking on several occasions that she would doubt Max to be the last of her grandsons to be granted his first kiss. She was right, he’s well on his way to developing an expertise in snogging. He’s also had a fair number of girlfriends, racking up quite a respectable portfolio of beauties. Some he’s been keener on than others, remarking to me,
“Mum, I like Polly, but I’m waiting to find the right girlfriend.”
Rather taken aback, I enquired what he felt the “right” girlfriend to be. His reply was as always, direct and truthful.
“She’s got to have long blonde hair like you mum and she must be funny, love wrestling, music, going to the theatre and be able to sing.” No pressure!
Until Max’s dream woman arrives I have no worries, he’s cut from the same cloth as those who believe “if you’re not with the one you love, honey, love the one you’re with.” Any passing young lady who may wish to brush up on her kissing technique need look no further than Max; he will be a most willing and enthusiastic partner.
But some of Max’s hormonal changes are not particularly welcomed by any of us. Apart from farting in public, purely for his own amusement, he’s taken to being grumpy and massively uncooperative for no good reason – that we, at least, can fathom. Within the four walls of our home, whilst troublesome, such moods can be contained, and are best ignored if I’m honest, but in the outside world, some colourful issues can arise. Also the world outside sometimes comes to visit us and even the protective walls of our home are no help.
Max’s longsuffering brother Charlie can get it in the neck too. He's fourteen now, but carries the weight of the world on far senior shoulders. He’s a terrific brother, but even Charlie cannot resist giving in to the temptation for point scoring and one-up-man-ship, so commonly seen in siblings.
When Max is strutting about the house, ipod clamped to his ears, dancing and singing at the top of his lungs, completely naked, Charlie can be forgiven for muttering under his breath,
“For God’s sake put some clothes on!”
Or Charlie’s parental instincts may kick in, as Max seizes an opportunity to swipe an unauthorized biscuit, knowing he will not be discovered, by remarking,
“You shouldn’t be doing that.”
Perfectly excusable, but such comments push all of Max’s buttons and drive him to forbidden expletives, and the odd, uncharacteristic wallop.
For many years now, we’ve discovered the best way to get any kind of hold on what Max is truly feeling, is to listen to him while he’s on the toilet. Thinking he’s alone and enjoying the privacy, he often chats away to himself. Wrong perhaps to intrude, but valuable information can often be gleaned from what falls from his lips. Just like on Sunday evening,
“I’m fed up with this family. I’m going to get a new family. I’m cross with Dad, he’s always telling me off and it’s that Charlie’s fault. He gets me into trouble. He winds me up! Mum’s horrible too.”
Such truths can often be the valuable bridge we need to pass over turbulent times. I’m clinging to the knowledge that it’s most probably his hormones and that my gorgeous, but sometimes obnoxious teenager will blossom into the handsome, considerate swan I know he is. But if I foolishly relax, naively assuming calmer waters have arrived, I must remind myself, that Max is not unique in his hormonal outbursts and I would do well to steel myself, because he has a younger brother.
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
Youth Club
If it’s Friday night, then it’s Youth Club night, one of the highlights of Max’s week. Raffy’s mum Christa and I, have organised with a few other like-minded mums, a regular Youth Club for our teenage children with DS. Just a handful of young people, who are keen to get together, happy to share the hosting in each other’s homes. When it comes to your turn, you and your teenager are in charge, you provide the food and your child enjoys the privilege of being top dog and master of entertainment.
Last Friday was our turn at being host. Max is always thrilled to be centre of attention, and so emotions ran high. From the minute I heard him banging on the front door (yes, we do have a bell!) after being dropped home by the driver and escort, (Carol and Pauline) from his Special Needs School Bus, the party had begun.
Max had given me strict orders not to begin any preparations until he had arrived home from school, and then I met the full wrath of his bossy nature. We cleared the lounge, made sandwiches, microwaved popcorn and organised the music.
Max is big on the electric carpet sweeper, and so enthusiastically bashed his way from room to room, taking out various pot plants and terrifying the cats. For all his zest for domestic order, he can get momentarily waylaid after buttering just one bread roll. His concentration will flit from one exciting task to the next, but all he really wants is for his friends to arrive.
He’s been known to get so carried away with the delights of preparation, that he forgets to change out of his school uniform. When realisation strikes home or his oversight is gently pointed out to him, he’s known to shriek,
“Oh my God!” dashing up the stairs to his room, quickly but methodically selecting his clothes, careful to make sure they pass the “cool” test.
Last Friday was no different, by the time the guests had arrived, Max was at fever pitch and it was a joy to bask in his excitement. I watched with pleasure as all the eager faces greeted each other with wide grins and big hugs.
“Hello Max! My lovely friend, hello!”
“Hello Raffy, hello, hello, come in my friends!”
They are such a delight, Raffy, Annalie, Nikita, Melissa and Hannah, like-minded teenagers all with DS. They benefit from chilling out among friends, seeking the perks of adolescence that perhaps others would take for granted. The flirting and the arguing, the falling in and out of love and the incredible joy of knowing you belong.
After the initial rapturous welcome they all sat down and stared at one another, not quite sure what to do next. It’s a tricky time for the host. As parents, we’re all in agreement that the right move is to stay out of the way with minimal involvement. Thus allowing these young people to organise themselves and learn the skills of socialising. But that can be hard. It can take some time before they gather together and focus on an activity. Painfully slow and unsure of how to behave, it’s sometimes agony to just watch.
Charlie, Max’s fourteen year old younger brother, couldn’t resist checking out proceedings, establishing once and for all that he really was not required. I know he’s rather fond of all Max’s friends and couldn’t help but absorb the enthusiastic and cheery atmosphere. Putting sibling rivalry aside, Charlie seemed genuinely pleased for Max and happy for his brother’s shot at teenage socialising. Once he was convinced that they could survive without his help, he slunk off, back up to his room where he knew he would be left undisturbed.
They all bring very different personalities to the table. In fact the only binding trait they do share, is DS. It was a slightly tense time for me as I sat out of the way in the kitchen, pretending to read the paper. But over the few years that the Youth Club has been running, I’ve seen a vast improvement in their skills. Like any other group of people, they’ve taken time to find their feet. There are leaders and there are followers, there are the loud bossy members (Max!) and there are the quiet withdrawn members. All I could hear from the kitchen was the delightful laughter. For me, and I suspect for them, it’s the sound of pure heaven.
Last Friday was our turn at being host. Max is always thrilled to be centre of attention, and so emotions ran high. From the minute I heard him banging on the front door (yes, we do have a bell!) after being dropped home by the driver and escort, (Carol and Pauline) from his Special Needs School Bus, the party had begun.
Max had given me strict orders not to begin any preparations until he had arrived home from school, and then I met the full wrath of his bossy nature. We cleared the lounge, made sandwiches, microwaved popcorn and organised the music.
Max is big on the electric carpet sweeper, and so enthusiastically bashed his way from room to room, taking out various pot plants and terrifying the cats. For all his zest for domestic order, he can get momentarily waylaid after buttering just one bread roll. His concentration will flit from one exciting task to the next, but all he really wants is for his friends to arrive.
He’s been known to get so carried away with the delights of preparation, that he forgets to change out of his school uniform. When realisation strikes home or his oversight is gently pointed out to him, he’s known to shriek,
“Oh my God!” dashing up the stairs to his room, quickly but methodically selecting his clothes, careful to make sure they pass the “cool” test.
Last Friday was no different, by the time the guests had arrived, Max was at fever pitch and it was a joy to bask in his excitement. I watched with pleasure as all the eager faces greeted each other with wide grins and big hugs.
“Hello Max! My lovely friend, hello!”
“Hello Raffy, hello, hello, come in my friends!”
They are such a delight, Raffy, Annalie, Nikita, Melissa and Hannah, like-minded teenagers all with DS. They benefit from chilling out among friends, seeking the perks of adolescence that perhaps others would take for granted. The flirting and the arguing, the falling in and out of love and the incredible joy of knowing you belong.
After the initial rapturous welcome they all sat down and stared at one another, not quite sure what to do next. It’s a tricky time for the host. As parents, we’re all in agreement that the right move is to stay out of the way with minimal involvement. Thus allowing these young people to organise themselves and learn the skills of socialising. But that can be hard. It can take some time before they gather together and focus on an activity. Painfully slow and unsure of how to behave, it’s sometimes agony to just watch.
Charlie, Max’s fourteen year old younger brother, couldn’t resist checking out proceedings, establishing once and for all that he really was not required. I know he’s rather fond of all Max’s friends and couldn’t help but absorb the enthusiastic and cheery atmosphere. Putting sibling rivalry aside, Charlie seemed genuinely pleased for Max and happy for his brother’s shot at teenage socialising. Once he was convinced that they could survive without his help, he slunk off, back up to his room where he knew he would be left undisturbed.
They all bring very different personalities to the table. In fact the only binding trait they do share, is DS. It was a slightly tense time for me as I sat out of the way in the kitchen, pretending to read the paper. But over the few years that the Youth Club has been running, I’ve seen a vast improvement in their skills. Like any other group of people, they’ve taken time to find their feet. There are leaders and there are followers, there are the loud bossy members (Max!) and there are the quiet withdrawn members. All I could hear from the kitchen was the delightful laughter. For me, and I suspect for them, it’s the sound of pure heaven.
Sunday, 27 September 2009
Sylvia's gift
I’ve just returned from my run. It’s so tough to get out on that pavement every morning. The slightest excuse delays me, and not much needs to happen for me to cancel. But as soon as I hit my pace, my thoughts connect and I disappear into another world. My brain is so focused, it’s like I lock into my mainframe. My mind becomes clear, true feelings pop up to greet me, problems become more resolvable and the shackles of stress slightly ease.
There have been times when I just couldn’t face running, the thoughts I had were way too painful. To connect to my mainframe was the last thing I could cope with. A few months ago I lost my mum. She died of cancer of the oesophagus, a long, slow death over a period of a year. It was horribly painful, cruel and savage. She told me she ‘never knew there was so much pain in the world’. On the last day of her life she turned to me and held my gaze saying,
‘My love, get a gun and shoot me’. I knew then that it was over.
For that final year of her life I didn’t pay very much attention to Down’s syndrome. My mum and her impending death was my only thought, my only focus. I had always imagined the shock of having Max and trying to cope with his DS would be the hardest thing I’d ever have to deal with in my life. I was wrong. The agonies regarding Max, I’ve had to face along the way, don’t come close to the profound sadness of losing my mum.
When she first passed away I felt completely numb, and to be honest very relieved. To see someone you adore suffer so much pain is brutal. Then for a while my logical brain kicked in and told me that everyone must die. It’s part of the human condition. I needed to accept it, and get on with my life. Now, I just miss her massively.
My Dad says we now exist in two worlds side by side. The old world which contains my mum, all the memories of her and the life we all led together, and then our new world, the one without her. He say’s that they run parallel, side by side, overlapping on the oddest, surprising occasions. It’s true and for me, this new world has a strong urgency about it. My mum’s death has taught me the fragility of life, that we are mortal, each and every one of us. Time is precious. I’m going to treasure that lesson, consider it her gift to me. It would have been her birthday today. Happy birthday mum.
So my thoughts of DS are back, big time. The Down’s Syndrome Association published the minutes of their AGM this week. Some very disturbing facts have emerged. Of all the calls they receive to their help lines each day, 80% of them are about adults with DS. Not babies and young people as you might imagine. No, the calls are about adults living in miserable isolation ‘within the community’. This obsession to ‘normalise’ everyone, to ‘be as one group,’ whilst politically popular, is not such a great way of thinking for some individuals. This political jargon masks the money saving determination which is swamping our culture. As you read this, valuable and essential, residential facilities are being forced to close, placing vulnerable people in situations they are ill equipment to cope with, leading to the deterioration of their mental health and quality of life. Frightening and bleak, but no surprise.
For a long time I’ve known the only way to safeguard my son Max’s future is to provide it myself. For Max, I know he would like to live within a vibrant community. He would soon fail to function properly if he was hidden away living alone in a flat, with little opportunity of accessing the outside world, or relying heavily on others to bridge the gap and bring the world to him. I dread to think of the consequences, should such a fragile framework erode or breakdown.
That’s why I’m going to set up a charity. The guiding principle of this charity is to create a home for life. A thriving supportive community where everyone finds personal, independent fulfilment. It’s going to take millions. That’s a massive mountain to climb. I gasp at the magnitude of what I’m planning. It wakes me up at 3am in the morning and the figures spin around in my head and I panic. But then my thoughts quickly turn to my mum as they always do, and I remember her gift and I think, can I do it? Yes, I can.
There have been times when I just couldn’t face running, the thoughts I had were way too painful. To connect to my mainframe was the last thing I could cope with. A few months ago I lost my mum. She died of cancer of the oesophagus, a long, slow death over a period of a year. It was horribly painful, cruel and savage. She told me she ‘never knew there was so much pain in the world’. On the last day of her life she turned to me and held my gaze saying,
‘My love, get a gun and shoot me’. I knew then that it was over.
For that final year of her life I didn’t pay very much attention to Down’s syndrome. My mum and her impending death was my only thought, my only focus. I had always imagined the shock of having Max and trying to cope with his DS would be the hardest thing I’d ever have to deal with in my life. I was wrong. The agonies regarding Max, I’ve had to face along the way, don’t come close to the profound sadness of losing my mum.
When she first passed away I felt completely numb, and to be honest very relieved. To see someone you adore suffer so much pain is brutal. Then for a while my logical brain kicked in and told me that everyone must die. It’s part of the human condition. I needed to accept it, and get on with my life. Now, I just miss her massively.
My Dad says we now exist in two worlds side by side. The old world which contains my mum, all the memories of her and the life we all led together, and then our new world, the one without her. He say’s that they run parallel, side by side, overlapping on the oddest, surprising occasions. It’s true and for me, this new world has a strong urgency about it. My mum’s death has taught me the fragility of life, that we are mortal, each and every one of us. Time is precious. I’m going to treasure that lesson, consider it her gift to me. It would have been her birthday today. Happy birthday mum.
So my thoughts of DS are back, big time. The Down’s Syndrome Association published the minutes of their AGM this week. Some very disturbing facts have emerged. Of all the calls they receive to their help lines each day, 80% of them are about adults with DS. Not babies and young people as you might imagine. No, the calls are about adults living in miserable isolation ‘within the community’. This obsession to ‘normalise’ everyone, to ‘be as one group,’ whilst politically popular, is not such a great way of thinking for some individuals. This political jargon masks the money saving determination which is swamping our culture. As you read this, valuable and essential, residential facilities are being forced to close, placing vulnerable people in situations they are ill equipment to cope with, leading to the deterioration of their mental health and quality of life. Frightening and bleak, but no surprise.
For a long time I’ve known the only way to safeguard my son Max’s future is to provide it myself. For Max, I know he would like to live within a vibrant community. He would soon fail to function properly if he was hidden away living alone in a flat, with little opportunity of accessing the outside world, or relying heavily on others to bridge the gap and bring the world to him. I dread to think of the consequences, should such a fragile framework erode or breakdown.
That’s why I’m going to set up a charity. The guiding principle of this charity is to create a home for life. A thriving supportive community where everyone finds personal, independent fulfilment. It’s going to take millions. That’s a massive mountain to climb. I gasp at the magnitude of what I’m planning. It wakes me up at 3am in the morning and the figures spin around in my head and I panic. But then my thoughts quickly turn to my mum as they always do, and I remember her gift and I think, can I do it? Yes, I can.
Sunday, 20 September 2009
Girls, girls, girls
First off, can I say that Max has given me specific permission to write this particular blog. In fact it throws up an interesting issue, one which I wrestle with quite regularly. When and where a line is to be drawn regarding private and personal material? How do you guard yourself from writing about stuff that family members would be uncomfortable, nay, outraged, being made public. I feel there is a very clear line. Living with Max is a book written mainly about Max as a baby and a toddler. He loves me writing about him and I feel there is very little in that book that I regret including. One or two things in hindsight probably crossed the line, but I’d like to think I’m older and wiser now.
So when I put pen to paper, with both my sons being in the throes of teenage angst, I constantly have at the back of my mind a ‘privacy’ conscience. It’s not hard to define. Many, many parts of our daily lives I simply cannot write about, it would be a wholehearted betrayal to my children. Of course, I’m occasionally tempted, some very amusing stories breeze through our household and it’s so very difficult to pass over these nuggets when I put pen to paper.
This tale I could easily classify as private. However Max was only too happy for me to blog about it. It’s harmless, so please fear not. As a parent I would not use such a flimsy excuse as Max’s acquiescence to justify my writer’s lust. I would most certainly always save him from himself! That massive ego requires constant surveillance; it needs to be kept under control and just out of harms reach, even from Max!
Max has a great bedroom and, as he’s matured, I’ve been delighted at the pride he takes in keeping it neat and tidy, creatively changing all the furniture around when the mood strikes. It reminds me of my idyllic childhood, when I would enjoy the same obsession of swapping and changing all my room’s contents at the slightest whim. I must confess failed to be anywhere near as tidy as Max. I follow Charlie in that department. My parents soon gave up on chastising me due to my room’s appallingly messy state; I have not come close to such frustrations with Max.
So one evening when I gently knocked upon his bedroom door to pay him a social visit and see what he was up to, I was aghast at the display of female beauties all lined up on his wall. I marvelled at his ingenuity and he faced me with a twinkle in his eye, not a hint of embarrassment. He'd also demonstrated smart computer skills as he must have google imaged each girl in turn (spelling their name correctly) and printed off a selected photo. Perhaps it’s best if you just take a look below.
Is it me or do they all follow a similar type? All beautiful and, let’s be clear, his standards are savagely high. I would be thrilled if I was anyone of those creatures. To be one of the chosen few is praise indeed. For me to be included would be wrong, indeed a tad weird and uncomfortable, I need to acknowledge what all these babes signify for my son – but I couldn’t stop myself.
‘Can’t I be up on your wall, I’ve got long blonde hair?’
‘Mum! You’re too old’.
‘But Cate Blanchette’s there, she’s the same age as me!’ I wailed.
He just looked at me as if I’d lost it. Bright boy my Max.
So when I put pen to paper, with both my sons being in the throes of teenage angst, I constantly have at the back of my mind a ‘privacy’ conscience. It’s not hard to define. Many, many parts of our daily lives I simply cannot write about, it would be a wholehearted betrayal to my children. Of course, I’m occasionally tempted, some very amusing stories breeze through our household and it’s so very difficult to pass over these nuggets when I put pen to paper.
This tale I could easily classify as private. However Max was only too happy for me to blog about it. It’s harmless, so please fear not. As a parent I would not use such a flimsy excuse as Max’s acquiescence to justify my writer’s lust. I would most certainly always save him from himself! That massive ego requires constant surveillance; it needs to be kept under control and just out of harms reach, even from Max!
Max has a great bedroom and, as he’s matured, I’ve been delighted at the pride he takes in keeping it neat and tidy, creatively changing all the furniture around when the mood strikes. It reminds me of my idyllic childhood, when I would enjoy the same obsession of swapping and changing all my room’s contents at the slightest whim. I must confess failed to be anywhere near as tidy as Max. I follow Charlie in that department. My parents soon gave up on chastising me due to my room’s appallingly messy state; I have not come close to such frustrations with Max.
So one evening when I gently knocked upon his bedroom door to pay him a social visit and see what he was up to, I was aghast at the display of female beauties all lined up on his wall. I marvelled at his ingenuity and he faced me with a twinkle in his eye, not a hint of embarrassment. He'd also demonstrated smart computer skills as he must have google imaged each girl in turn (spelling their name correctly) and printed off a selected photo. Perhaps it’s best if you just take a look below.
MAX LEWIS
GIRLS
Is it me or do they all follow a similar type? All beautiful and, let’s be clear, his standards are savagely high. I would be thrilled if I was anyone of those creatures. To be one of the chosen few is praise indeed. For me to be included would be wrong, indeed a tad weird and uncomfortable, I need to acknowledge what all these babes signify for my son – but I couldn’t stop myself.
‘Can’t I be up on your wall, I’ve got long blonde hair?’
‘Mum! You’re too old’.
‘But Cate Blanchette’s there, she’s the same age as me!’ I wailed.
He just looked at me as if I’d lost it. Bright boy my Max.
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
A Nag
Max thinks I’m a Nag. He just came out with it this morning. Of all the descriptions to label me, I find this one the most annoying, perhaps because I feel it’s unfair. Plus it’s the one thing I strive not to be. Being a ‘Nag’ somehow seems to go with the territory of being a mother. I’d like to treat my children as I would my friends, have a relaxed attitude to the condition of the house, general day-to-day scheduling and organisation. Not worry about such minor details as their general attire, completion of homework, body and hair hygiene and teeth cleaning, but that would undoubtedly result in total carnage. No washing, no sleeping, filthy plates and mugs left to rot everywhere. Total chaos.
General mayhem appears attractive to a teenager in theory. In practice, any ‘fall out’ would be my fault and I would be expected to fork out the cost, be it financial or domestic, to remedy the situation, pronto. So boring, so unfair. I feel it best to provide the odd reminder now and then. I’m wise when to pick my battles and do let a huge amount slide, turning a blind eye on so many occasions I feel I’m positively carefree and relaxed.
Max was talking to Paul about getting ready to go out to East Barnet and get some new shoes. He knows full well that such an outing would be classified as a bonafide trip. Exit out of the house, travelling in the car to a destination of merit, involving other people. That means no wearing of scuzzy trousers. We have this agreement he & I. Max has some distinctly awful trousers which he mistakenly thinks he looks really cool in. He doesn’t. They are a worn out pair of denim leggings in a size 22. They are very comfortable I have no doubt, and there was a time when he was slightly younger and thinner when he looked reasonably ok in them. It was at a time when I struggled to find him any clothes to fit and before I found a great web-site called Premier man which caters for the out of the ordinary male figure like Max.
He mistakenly thinks he looks dashing and cool in them. I understand that they are comfortable and can go along with his misconception to a certain degree, but it’s got to the stage where it’s obscene to let him out of the house in them. Max and I have discussed it and I’ve explained the matter to him in the gentlest way I know how. He gets it. So he can wear them around the house as much as he’d like, but the minute he passes over the threshold of the front door, he has to change into another pair of his many, more suitable trousers.
This morning, once again Max chose to forget this little agreement. I suspect he sometimes gets away with it with Paul. For an easier life I can imagine Paul turning a blind eye and letting the fact that Max looks like an overweight middle aged woman with shocking taste in clothes, pass by. Paul only sees his adorable son; Max has him nicely wrapped around his little finger. Whatever the deal, Max tries it on every time. I keep calm and remain patient with him, but sometimes it’s a struggle. ‘Let him out, however he’s dressed! I hear you cry. What’s the big deal?’ You obviously haven’t seen him.
So I reminded him, much to his disgust, that he needed to change, and that’s when Paul stepped in to defend me. The retort from Max which I found so hard to stomach was,
‘Mum’s such a Nag!’
‘Charming!’ I cried.
‘Right, that’s it. I’m going on strike. You can all take a running jump. No more washing and cleaning, no more digging about trying to discover where all the rubbish you lot can’t find is buried, no more lamb curries, spaghetti bolognaise or macaroni cheese.’
There were cries of indignation from Charlie who hadn’t been involved in our verbal tussle and was clearly worried about the finding thing. Max just laughed,
‘Just kidding Mum!’ Little charmer.
We think he’s flailing behind us sometimes, it’s clear that he struggles to keep up with conversations; his sentence construction is short and limited, his articulation weak. He continually forgets to explain anything he’s talking about by way of an introduction or just a brief pinpoint of the topic, he just plunges straight in. Some of his speech comes out squashed up, like one big word, unpronounced and totally incomprehensible. But occasionally, more often than you’d think, he does impress and surprise us.
Paul and Max eventually said their goodbyes as they made their way to the car, Max looking smart in his denim trousers. Paul said.
‘You gonna drive then Max?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous dad! I haven’t got my driving licence!’
General mayhem appears attractive to a teenager in theory. In practice, any ‘fall out’ would be my fault and I would be expected to fork out the cost, be it financial or domestic, to remedy the situation, pronto. So boring, so unfair. I feel it best to provide the odd reminder now and then. I’m wise when to pick my battles and do let a huge amount slide, turning a blind eye on so many occasions I feel I’m positively carefree and relaxed.
Max was talking to Paul about getting ready to go out to East Barnet and get some new shoes. He knows full well that such an outing would be classified as a bonafide trip. Exit out of the house, travelling in the car to a destination of merit, involving other people. That means no wearing of scuzzy trousers. We have this agreement he & I. Max has some distinctly awful trousers which he mistakenly thinks he looks really cool in. He doesn’t. They are a worn out pair of denim leggings in a size 22. They are very comfortable I have no doubt, and there was a time when he was slightly younger and thinner when he looked reasonably ok in them. It was at a time when I struggled to find him any clothes to fit and before I found a great web-site called Premier man which caters for the out of the ordinary male figure like Max.
He mistakenly thinks he looks dashing and cool in them. I understand that they are comfortable and can go along with his misconception to a certain degree, but it’s got to the stage where it’s obscene to let him out of the house in them. Max and I have discussed it and I’ve explained the matter to him in the gentlest way I know how. He gets it. So he can wear them around the house as much as he’d like, but the minute he passes over the threshold of the front door, he has to change into another pair of his many, more suitable trousers.
This morning, once again Max chose to forget this little agreement. I suspect he sometimes gets away with it with Paul. For an easier life I can imagine Paul turning a blind eye and letting the fact that Max looks like an overweight middle aged woman with shocking taste in clothes, pass by. Paul only sees his adorable son; Max has him nicely wrapped around his little finger. Whatever the deal, Max tries it on every time. I keep calm and remain patient with him, but sometimes it’s a struggle. ‘Let him out, however he’s dressed! I hear you cry. What’s the big deal?’ You obviously haven’t seen him.
So I reminded him, much to his disgust, that he needed to change, and that’s when Paul stepped in to defend me. The retort from Max which I found so hard to stomach was,
‘Mum’s such a Nag!’
‘Charming!’ I cried.
‘Right, that’s it. I’m going on strike. You can all take a running jump. No more washing and cleaning, no more digging about trying to discover where all the rubbish you lot can’t find is buried, no more lamb curries, spaghetti bolognaise or macaroni cheese.’
There were cries of indignation from Charlie who hadn’t been involved in our verbal tussle and was clearly worried about the finding thing. Max just laughed,
‘Just kidding Mum!’ Little charmer.
We think he’s flailing behind us sometimes, it’s clear that he struggles to keep up with conversations; his sentence construction is short and limited, his articulation weak. He continually forgets to explain anything he’s talking about by way of an introduction or just a brief pinpoint of the topic, he just plunges straight in. Some of his speech comes out squashed up, like one big word, unpronounced and totally incomprehensible. But occasionally, more often than you’d think, he does impress and surprise us.
Paul and Max eventually said their goodbyes as they made their way to the car, Max looking smart in his denim trousers. Paul said.
‘You gonna drive then Max?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous dad! I haven’t got my driving licence!’
Monday, 14 September 2009
Relative Values
Two big contenders for my 'Bucket list' were to be on Radio Fours Women's Hour, and to appear in The Sunday Times, Relative Values. I am a happy girl, my work is done. Max and I were thrilled to be in Sunday 13th September Relative Values, beautifully written by Beverly D'Silva. Beverly captured Max brilliantly, food, food and food and girls!
In case you missed it , check it out below!
http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/families/article6829601.ece
In case you missed it , check it out below!
http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/families/article6829601.ece
Saturday, 5 September 2009
Matthew came for tea.
It’s a delightful moment when my son Max, can be seen bursting with excitement. Yesterday made him particularly so. His friend Matthew came to Tea. At the age of sixteen, having friends over to play should be a regular occurrence. Charlie, Max’s fourteeen year old brother, is constantly plotting with his mates, to meet up and have fun. But for Max and Matthew, these delightful liaisons are rare. They have visited each other’s house, perhaps a handful of times in the time that they have been in the same class at their Special Needs School. That gives you an indication of how thrilled Max was about the visit and how potentially stressful it may be for me.
Just arriving home together on the same school bus was almost too much excitement for them both to bear. They gleefully scrambled off the bus, arm in arm, rather like two Labrador puppies. It’s a scene that made my heart leap – for both of them, and me. Matthew does not have DS; he faces the huge challenge of limited sight, as well as Learning Difficulties, not that you’d ever guess. As the two of them crashed into the house, Matthew promptly tripped over my ill-placed coffee table, but completely unperturbed, made a dash for the kitchen, as Max ran at full pelt into the conservatory, giggling and shouting. They managed to lose each other before they’d even begun and I gently guided Matthew to join Max, reuniting them in their playful delight.
Max had a detailed game-plan meticulously mapped out, which he had guided me through, in a very determined manner, earlier in the day.
“First Matthew and me are going upstairs to my bedroom to play SSX Tricky (snow boarding), Pro-evolution soccer and Smack Down VS Raw wrestling on the playstation, and then my friend Matthew and me, we’ll come downstairs for Tea and watch my new wrestling DVD.”
They both share a passion for this large underpants and high drama sport, but thankfully have never allowed it to spill over into real life.
All such plans appeared to momentarily evaporate as they chased one another around the house and I waited for the first crack of bone, or spillage of fraught tears. Gentle persuasion was required once again, as I reminded Max of his game plan.
Charlie is perceptive enough to realise when to stay in the shadows and leave things well alone, but he couldn’t resist trotting down the stairs to take a quick overview of proceedings. He rather likes Matthew who is an adorable boy and I think a small part of Charlie enjoyed watching his brother have fun with a good mate. After establishing that his presence really was not required, he soon slunk off back to his bedroom, with the knowledge that he would not be disturbed, his room being strictly out of bounds.
Max had previously enquired whether he and Matthew could borrow Charlie’s game control so that they might play a dual playstation game. Charlie thoroughly enjoyed the power and with a small show of hammed up magnanimous generosity agreed. Brownie points notched up for later.
It was a joy to watch them gallop up the stairs and I was then able to prepare Tea. Chocolate spread sandwiches for Matthew and mozzarella cheese and garlic sausage sandwiches for Max. I’d been given strict orders by Max on what should be served and I knew better than to deviate. You may baulk at the thought of such poor standards of nutrition, but let me introduce to you the world of Special Needs. Sometimes it is necessary for steadfast rules and comfortable parameters of acceptable behaviour to be flung out the window. At the age of fourteen, I can assure you that Matthew’s mum Monique has spent many sleepless nights, mulling over his diet. Matthew is the youngest of Monique’s four children, so she’s no novice to the game of nutrition. Like me, instead of festering over the inadequacies and the absent of anything green, Monique understands the merits of an eccentric, but acceptable diet, however limited.
The afternoon visit was not bereft of some anxiety, whilst both boys were eager to aspire to the interaction best mates enjoy, their ability to access this, is painfully limited. They need full-time supervision, tactfully handled. I had mixed feelings when a few hours later, Arthur, Matthew’s father, arrived to pick him up. Part of me was relived that the visit had gone smoothly and that we could all breathe a sigh of relief that the event had ended on a high, but part of me was heart broken to watch my son, as the front door slammed and he frowned with disappointment at the departure of a friend.
Just arriving home together on the same school bus was almost too much excitement for them both to bear. They gleefully scrambled off the bus, arm in arm, rather like two Labrador puppies. It’s a scene that made my heart leap – for both of them, and me. Matthew does not have DS; he faces the huge challenge of limited sight, as well as Learning Difficulties, not that you’d ever guess. As the two of them crashed into the house, Matthew promptly tripped over my ill-placed coffee table, but completely unperturbed, made a dash for the kitchen, as Max ran at full pelt into the conservatory, giggling and shouting. They managed to lose each other before they’d even begun and I gently guided Matthew to join Max, reuniting them in their playful delight.
Max had a detailed game-plan meticulously mapped out, which he had guided me through, in a very determined manner, earlier in the day.
“First Matthew and me are going upstairs to my bedroom to play SSX Tricky (snow boarding), Pro-evolution soccer and Smack Down VS Raw wrestling on the playstation, and then my friend Matthew and me, we’ll come downstairs for Tea and watch my new wrestling DVD.”
They both share a passion for this large underpants and high drama sport, but thankfully have never allowed it to spill over into real life.
All such plans appeared to momentarily evaporate as they chased one another around the house and I waited for the first crack of bone, or spillage of fraught tears. Gentle persuasion was required once again, as I reminded Max of his game plan.
Charlie is perceptive enough to realise when to stay in the shadows and leave things well alone, but he couldn’t resist trotting down the stairs to take a quick overview of proceedings. He rather likes Matthew who is an adorable boy and I think a small part of Charlie enjoyed watching his brother have fun with a good mate. After establishing that his presence really was not required, he soon slunk off back to his bedroom, with the knowledge that he would not be disturbed, his room being strictly out of bounds.
Max had previously enquired whether he and Matthew could borrow Charlie’s game control so that they might play a dual playstation game. Charlie thoroughly enjoyed the power and with a small show of hammed up magnanimous generosity agreed. Brownie points notched up for later.
It was a joy to watch them gallop up the stairs and I was then able to prepare Tea. Chocolate spread sandwiches for Matthew and mozzarella cheese and garlic sausage sandwiches for Max. I’d been given strict orders by Max on what should be served and I knew better than to deviate. You may baulk at the thought of such poor standards of nutrition, but let me introduce to you the world of Special Needs. Sometimes it is necessary for steadfast rules and comfortable parameters of acceptable behaviour to be flung out the window. At the age of fourteen, I can assure you that Matthew’s mum Monique has spent many sleepless nights, mulling over his diet. Matthew is the youngest of Monique’s four children, so she’s no novice to the game of nutrition. Like me, instead of festering over the inadequacies and the absent of anything green, Monique understands the merits of an eccentric, but acceptable diet, however limited.
The afternoon visit was not bereft of some anxiety, whilst both boys were eager to aspire to the interaction best mates enjoy, their ability to access this, is painfully limited. They need full-time supervision, tactfully handled. I had mixed feelings when a few hours later, Arthur, Matthew’s father, arrived to pick him up. Part of me was relived that the visit had gone smoothly and that we could all breathe a sigh of relief that the event had ended on a high, but part of me was heart broken to watch my son, as the front door slammed and he frowned with disappointment at the departure of a friend.
Saturday, 29 August 2009
Grandma Estelle
The role of grandparent comes with many privileges and high expectations. No one takes their role in this capacity more seriously than Max’s grandmother, Estelle. She has risen to the challenge in a charming way, sharing with Max her patience, humour and wisdom. The attention and understanding she gives so generously has deep importance far beyond the blood bond. M
ax is a fourteen-year-old, hormonal teenager; he also has Down’s syndrome. The two of them cut a cute, endearing picture, appearing like an old married couple, rather than grandmother and grandson with sixty years between them.
Their similar height is not the only characteristic they share. Both personalities are drawn to theatre, be it singing, dancing, high dramas on or off the stage. They embark on their regular outings together with almost identical exuberance and delight. Grandma Estelle invariably picks up Max from home, arriving in her immaculate burgundy Nissan Micra. Max will be fluttering up and down the depth and breadth of the lounge window, eagerly awaiting her arrival and his cheers of excitement,
“Grandma Estelle’s here, she’s here!”
Can be heard a good five minutes before the door bell goes. It takes her that long to park.
Grandma Estelle is a neat, trim lady who arrives equipped for all uncertainties of weather. Their mutual adoration is self-evident and Max suffers no dilly-dallying as he loads his carefully packed baskets full of “show stuff” into her car, now neatly resting in our driveway. He attempts to take everything but the kitchen sink.
“Oh Max! There’ll be no room for us”, giggles his grandma.
Videos of himself at his own precious birthday parties, costume outfits and props for his “shows”, large pool cue, substituting for Caracticus Potts’s stick in “Old Bamboo” from that Chitty Chitty Bang Bang favourite, biker leather jacket, and Danny Zuko sunglasses. Once the car has been loaded Max is keen to get going, ordering us out of the way.
Their first stop is usually the cinema, preceded by a visit to a Pizza restaurant nearby where Max shamelessly fleeces his Grandmother for as much ice cream as he can manage. But before they set off there is the delicate matter of manoeuvring out of the driveway. This is a joy to watch. Appearing like Mr and Mrs “We expect the world to stop still, before we attempt to cross the road”. They both take time to settle in, double checking and rechecking each other is locked and loaded. Once the engine ignites things really start to kick off as the car slowly inches forward out from the driveway and stops. Repeated nervous glances from them both examine the passing traffic on the perilous road before them. Doubt is in the air.
They pause, reflecting on the danger, and exchange a moment of disbelief and hesitancy. Steeling courage the Nissan Micra edges forward once again only to be rocked in a gale of turbulence as a car speeds past. Momentarily aghast, the pair are thwarted and paralyzed with panic. Time is a great healer and soon, once again they bravely attempt to swing out from the driveway. With a little prayer and perhaps a small shove from on high, they finally make it. We wave goodbye, relief on our faces as we peek out from behind the open front door where we have all been hidden. The car slowly chugs off down the road, and a considerable time later manages to disappear from sight.
After their lunch and a film it’s back to Grandma Estelle’s house for the big “show” and egg mayonnaise sandwiches. The drive will be so slow it’s a wonder they arrive before nightfall. Both would prefer to be the only vehicle on the road, but they bravely make the best of it, suffering the North London traffic. Max loves routine, Grandma Estelle loves routine, their love is a match made in heaven.
Max is never amused when I arrive to pick him up, often throwing himself headfirst onto the sofa, bottom protruding high into the air, heeding no suggestion that he might be behaving like an utter plonker. He delays departure expertly, putting socks and shoes on at a snail’s pace, as well as blatantly refusing to budge. They both look exhausted, Max, because he will have put his life and soul into each and every one of his performances he’s gleefully perfected just for Grandma Estelle. And Grandma Estelle, because she will have watched and listened to every performance with daisy-fresh enthusiasm.
Max will have dragged her from the cinema, chatted incessantly throughout the drive home, forced her to watch his “shows”, bossed her into providing his favourite tea, and Grandma Estelle, loving and cherishing him, will have willingly suffered in good grace, with the delicious incentive of a small dry sherry with her name on it.
ax is a fourteen-year-old, hormonal teenager; he also has Down’s syndrome. The two of them cut a cute, endearing picture, appearing like an old married couple, rather than grandmother and grandson with sixty years between them.
Their similar height is not the only characteristic they share. Both personalities are drawn to theatre, be it singing, dancing, high dramas on or off the stage. They embark on their regular outings together with almost identical exuberance and delight. Grandma Estelle invariably picks up Max from home, arriving in her immaculate burgundy Nissan Micra. Max will be fluttering up and down the depth and breadth of the lounge window, eagerly awaiting her arrival and his cheers of excitement,
“Grandma Estelle’s here, she’s here!”
Can be heard a good five minutes before the door bell goes. It takes her that long to park.
Grandma Estelle is a neat, trim lady who arrives equipped for all uncertainties of weather. Their mutual adoration is self-evident and Max suffers no dilly-dallying as he loads his carefully packed baskets full of “show stuff” into her car, now neatly resting in our driveway. He attempts to take everything but the kitchen sink.
“Oh Max! There’ll be no room for us”, giggles his grandma.
Videos of himself at his own precious birthday parties, costume outfits and props for his “shows”, large pool cue, substituting for Caracticus Potts’s stick in “Old Bamboo” from that Chitty Chitty Bang Bang favourite, biker leather jacket, and Danny Zuko sunglasses. Once the car has been loaded Max is keen to get going, ordering us out of the way.
Their first stop is usually the cinema, preceded by a visit to a Pizza restaurant nearby where Max shamelessly fleeces his Grandmother for as much ice cream as he can manage. But before they set off there is the delicate matter of manoeuvring out of the driveway. This is a joy to watch. Appearing like Mr and Mrs “We expect the world to stop still, before we attempt to cross the road”. They both take time to settle in, double checking and rechecking each other is locked and loaded. Once the engine ignites things really start to kick off as the car slowly inches forward out from the driveway and stops. Repeated nervous glances from them both examine the passing traffic on the perilous road before them. Doubt is in the air.
They pause, reflecting on the danger, and exchange a moment of disbelief and hesitancy. Steeling courage the Nissan Micra edges forward once again only to be rocked in a gale of turbulence as a car speeds past. Momentarily aghast, the pair are thwarted and paralyzed with panic. Time is a great healer and soon, once again they bravely attempt to swing out from the driveway. With a little prayer and perhaps a small shove from on high, they finally make it. We wave goodbye, relief on our faces as we peek out from behind the open front door where we have all been hidden. The car slowly chugs off down the road, and a considerable time later manages to disappear from sight.
After their lunch and a film it’s back to Grandma Estelle’s house for the big “show” and egg mayonnaise sandwiches. The drive will be so slow it’s a wonder they arrive before nightfall. Both would prefer to be the only vehicle on the road, but they bravely make the best of it, suffering the North London traffic. Max loves routine, Grandma Estelle loves routine, their love is a match made in heaven.
Max is never amused when I arrive to pick him up, often throwing himself headfirst onto the sofa, bottom protruding high into the air, heeding no suggestion that he might be behaving like an utter plonker. He delays departure expertly, putting socks and shoes on at a snail’s pace, as well as blatantly refusing to budge. They both look exhausted, Max, because he will have put his life and soul into each and every one of his performances he’s gleefully perfected just for Grandma Estelle. And Grandma Estelle, because she will have watched and listened to every performance with daisy-fresh enthusiasm.
Max will have dragged her from the cinema, chatted incessantly throughout the drive home, forced her to watch his “shows”, bossed her into providing his favourite tea, and Grandma Estelle, loving and cherishing him, will have willingly suffered in good grace, with the delicious incentive of a small dry sherry with her name on it.
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
What a treat
Max and I have been invited to Lloyds of Kew’s summer party - me as a guest author! We’re thrilled. They’ve asked me to do a reading from my book, Living with Max . We are all going en famille, and everyone is most welcome to join us, particularly those who fancy a pleasant afternoon on the Bank Holiday (August 31st) sniffing out curious and exotic second-handbooks – and meeting me and Max!
LOVE to see you there! (Best to aim for 3.30-4.30pm to catch us)
http://www.lloydsofkew.co.uk/
Lloyds of Kew
9 Mortlake Terrace
Kew Green
Richmond
TW9 3DT
LOVE to see you there! (Best to aim for 3.30-4.30pm to catch us)
http://www.lloydsofkew.co.uk/
Lloyds of Kew
9 Mortlake Terrace
Kew Green
Richmond
TW9 3DT
Sunday, 16 August 2009
A mother's love
The role of motherhood is plagued with such unfairness, and you just have to get in the real world and toughen up; nevertheless unexpected blows can hit you hard when they strike.
I’m sure I shall look back on the many moments of acute embarrassment, my son Max mercilessly inflicts on me, with nostalgia and affection. But last night as we were driving through Muswell Hill Broadway on the way to Dance, such positive emotions could not have been further from my mind.
We had cause to stop at the lights on a pedestrian crossing and as the beeping subsided and the little green man turned to red, an alarming number of pedestrians glanced our way. They were drawn to the rhythmic boom boom and pulsating sound waves blasting out from the car. The stereo as always, was cranked up to maximum and Take That were in full throttle with ‘Shine’. This is one of Max’s favourite pop songs, and although it might not be to the taste of all Londoners, they were sure to hear it loud and clear throughout Muswell Hill Broadway and beyond. If they were surprised that the car wasn’t a small red or black Ford Fiesta with tinted dark windows, or that I was not a young man in his early twenties, they didn’t show it. I found huge interest in the road ahead and forged my way through the stares with mock indifference. Max was too busy belting out the melody at the top of his lungs to spot or bother about anybody staring at us, and I loved him for it.
Max was not amused when I picked him up from School today. I was to drive him to his literacy teacher Julia, just around the corner from the school. I explained to him that the car battery was on the blink (very nervous times for me as I become highly stressed in an unreliable car). In all honesty, I’m not too fussed at what type of car I drive and I could settle for any colour given time, but my car must be able to get me from A to B without conking out. It’s up there with some of life’s essentials, along with daily clean underwear and drawing the line at eating left over curry take away for breakfast.
Because of the low battery and odd whirring sound on ignition, all electrical appliances in the car were off limits and that included the CD player. I carefully explained to Max that the CD player would have to remain silent on our short journey to Julia’s. I attempted to compare it to the life and habits of his ipod battery, which he is familiar with and very good at remembering to re-charge. However he couldn’t quite grasp the concept, although I fear it was more through blind irritation that we were unable to have his favourite songs pumping out at full volume, rather than any intellectual gap. He was quite furious with me, (not an irregular occurrence) which I always feel is unjustly cruel. However he did have a point when he grumpily suggested,
“You could have gone to Kwick Fit and got a new battery before you picked me up Mum.”
But very occasionally in life, a daisy will pop up in a barren field and surprise you. A box of Author copies of Living with Max were delivered this week. Such an incredible experience, mildly surreal, to look at a book and realise I’ve actually written it; it feels like it’s happening to somebody else. The very top of all the delights this book has given, has to be the significant elevation of my street cred’ in my children’s eyes. I’m basking in the glow of an accolade never before received. They’ve both looked past the Mum who delivers clean laundry and an interesting supper every day and seen a real person. It’s wonderful. I’m thrilled and a little shaken to see them both trot off to school armed with their own dedicated copy, happy to gush with pride about their Mum. They must be having a good time of it because both copies have made repeated trips.
Max has asked me to read Living with Max to him. He’s poured over every inch of the cover, running his fingers over the gold lettering, and tried his best to read all the words. He’s thumbed through all the pages, but I know to him the neat endless print looks like a misty sea. He hides his frustration well. I say I know, when in fact I don’t. I have no real idea how he must feel. To look at a book, desperate to be able to access its pages and join in all the fuss and commotion they’ve caused. But he remains trapped on the periphery. He pretends well, holds it together and ‘wings’ it when we all talk about it, but I’ll never really know how he genuinely feels. As his mother, that breaks my heart. I shall gladly read him every page, but I suspect it is going to be hard, in more ways than one.
When I met for the first time with everyone at Vermilion (Random House) a perceptive Editor asked me how I felt about writing such personal details regarding my son. At the time I brushed the question off with ease; I genuinely had no concerns about my work. I was predominantly writing about a baby and toddler. I may be wrong, but I didn’t see my work as a betrayal of Max. Times have changed. Max is now a teenager and I’ve found I can no longer write about him with quite the same freedom. It was fine to reveal such intimacies about a young child, but it’s become quite another matter as a young teenager, flirting with adulthood. The line will always be fine and grey, and although Max is the first to rejoice when I write about him, some moments should remain private. In hindsight, it makes Living with Max even more of a treasure.
I’m sure I shall look back on the many moments of acute embarrassment, my son Max mercilessly inflicts on me, with nostalgia and affection. But last night as we were driving through Muswell Hill Broadway on the way to Dance, such positive emotions could not have been further from my mind.
We had cause to stop at the lights on a pedestrian crossing and as the beeping subsided and the little green man turned to red, an alarming number of pedestrians glanced our way. They were drawn to the rhythmic boom boom and pulsating sound waves blasting out from the car. The stereo as always, was cranked up to maximum and Take That were in full throttle with ‘Shine’. This is one of Max’s favourite pop songs, and although it might not be to the taste of all Londoners, they were sure to hear it loud and clear throughout Muswell Hill Broadway and beyond. If they were surprised that the car wasn’t a small red or black Ford Fiesta with tinted dark windows, or that I was not a young man in his early twenties, they didn’t show it. I found huge interest in the road ahead and forged my way through the stares with mock indifference. Max was too busy belting out the melody at the top of his lungs to spot or bother about anybody staring at us, and I loved him for it.
Max was not amused when I picked him up from School today. I was to drive him to his literacy teacher Julia, just around the corner from the school. I explained to him that the car battery was on the blink (very nervous times for me as I become highly stressed in an unreliable car). In all honesty, I’m not too fussed at what type of car I drive and I could settle for any colour given time, but my car must be able to get me from A to B without conking out. It’s up there with some of life’s essentials, along with daily clean underwear and drawing the line at eating left over curry take away for breakfast.
Because of the low battery and odd whirring sound on ignition, all electrical appliances in the car were off limits and that included the CD player. I carefully explained to Max that the CD player would have to remain silent on our short journey to Julia’s. I attempted to compare it to the life and habits of his ipod battery, which he is familiar with and very good at remembering to re-charge. However he couldn’t quite grasp the concept, although I fear it was more through blind irritation that we were unable to have his favourite songs pumping out at full volume, rather than any intellectual gap. He was quite furious with me, (not an irregular occurrence) which I always feel is unjustly cruel. However he did have a point when he grumpily suggested,
“You could have gone to Kwick Fit and got a new battery before you picked me up Mum.”
But very occasionally in life, a daisy will pop up in a barren field and surprise you. A box of Author copies of Living with Max were delivered this week. Such an incredible experience, mildly surreal, to look at a book and realise I’ve actually written it; it feels like it’s happening to somebody else. The very top of all the delights this book has given, has to be the significant elevation of my street cred’ in my children’s eyes. I’m basking in the glow of an accolade never before received. They’ve both looked past the Mum who delivers clean laundry and an interesting supper every day and seen a real person. It’s wonderful. I’m thrilled and a little shaken to see them both trot off to school armed with their own dedicated copy, happy to gush with pride about their Mum. They must be having a good time of it because both copies have made repeated trips.
Max has asked me to read Living with Max to him. He’s poured over every inch of the cover, running his fingers over the gold lettering, and tried his best to read all the words. He’s thumbed through all the pages, but I know to him the neat endless print looks like a misty sea. He hides his frustration well. I say I know, when in fact I don’t. I have no real idea how he must feel. To look at a book, desperate to be able to access its pages and join in all the fuss and commotion they’ve caused. But he remains trapped on the periphery. He pretends well, holds it together and ‘wings’ it when we all talk about it, but I’ll never really know how he genuinely feels. As his mother, that breaks my heart. I shall gladly read him every page, but I suspect it is going to be hard, in more ways than one.
When I met for the first time with everyone at Vermilion (Random House) a perceptive Editor asked me how I felt about writing such personal details regarding my son. At the time I brushed the question off with ease; I genuinely had no concerns about my work. I was predominantly writing about a baby and toddler. I may be wrong, but I didn’t see my work as a betrayal of Max. Times have changed. Max is now a teenager and I’ve found I can no longer write about him with quite the same freedom. It was fine to reveal such intimacies about a young child, but it’s become quite another matter as a young teenager, flirting with adulthood. The line will always be fine and grey, and although Max is the first to rejoice when I write about him, some moments should remain private. In hindsight, it makes Living with Max even more of a treasure.
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
Lycra pants at the local church hall
It’s not every day you attend church in order to see a wrestling match. But on Saturday night Paul, Max and I headed up to All Saints Church in Whetstone for exactly that. We met up with our friends Brett, Rebecca, their sons Robbie (Max’s mate) and Sam, and another little boy called Thomas. Quite a party. The queue was around the block when we arrived and there was a slight skirmish in order to get the best pew, but all in a good spirit.
Father William was on the door, in charge of admissions and standby referee. I fancy I caught a quick peek of Lycra under his cassock, perhaps we were in for some vicar-on-vicar wrestling, but I couldn’t be sure. All rather thrilling. We settled down with our bottles of beer and diet coke, preparing to ‘boo’ and ‘hiss’ in unison, momentarily regretting our failure to invest in the giant foam finger hands, everyone else seemed to be brandishing about with vigour. Frankly, we felt left out. The atmosphere was set, the room dim and moody, if a little smelly. Suddenly they cranked up the music, and you just knew the evening had begun.
First up was Elvis himself. (I say that in the broadest sense.) His off white all-in-one crimpelene suit with matching gold cape could have done with an iron; it was a bit on the baggy side too if I have to be picky. But he excelled himself with the hair gel and sunglasses and hammed it up beautifully as the baddie, presenting a dynamic personality and proving to be a nifty little mover. Max and Robbie were up out of their seats like a shot, hurling retorts to his pretend mischief making.
Then along came nice bottomed B-ray, I know this because his name was blazoned across his pert behind, neatly tucked into some apple green Lycra shorts. He had a generous glug of baby oil in his hair and a good deal more smeared on his chest which I have to suspect had recently gone through a waxing routine, if not a hasty Immac. Still, I did like his boots. These two gladiators messed about in the ring for quarter of an hour or so and performed some wonderful hamming up of punches, locks and holds. A few flips and a good deal of groaning. The boys loved it. So did lots of us mums.
We went through a fair few similar acts, with lots of big muscular bottoms and Lycra pants. Waxing seemed a precursor and the odd belt or hat as a prop also added to the show. Pretend violence like you wouldn’t believe and a good deal of fake injury. Almost like the football! It was bizarre, not your average Saturday night, but brilliant family entertainment. The place was packed with mums and dads and their wild and unruly children. A perfect venue for the kids to exorcise all that excess energy and have a great time screaming blue murder at the bad guys while their parents sipped on a beer or two.
Talking of beer, by the end of the brief intermission Rebecca had put away a few bottles and was enjoying herself. Not a woman to mince her words or fear the slightest retribution, she gleefully let rip at our pantomime wrestlers much to all our delight.
‘In your own time then, preferably this evening!’ she hollered.
They gave it back in equal measures.
‘Shut up you old cow!’
‘Yeah, come over here and say that, call yourself fit.’ The tussle of words got slightly riper, but I couldn’t possibly elaborate here.
Robbie and Max required little encouragement and were cheerfully belting out insults to echo Rebecca, which I have to admit made me ever-so-slightly uncomfortable. We were beginning to be ‘the trouble corner’ and I feared significant retribution. I had nothing to fear though, as Robbie and Max were now out of their seats and down the front itching to get in the ring and have a go themselves. It was funny, dreadful, cringing, and delightful stuff, made all the more entertaining by our gobby Rebecca and accompanying boys.
I’m so British, quiet and timid, where my boy Max came from I’ll never know, but I envied him his vigour. Eyes sparkling as he goaded the baddies. I was forced to redress his language a couple of times, but it was just because he got carried away with the whole panto production. I can’t say it was my natural environment, but it was a good giggle and all the wrestlers seemed genuinely lovely blokes, making sure they involved all the children, knowing where to be careful and not to cross a line.
My only complaint was the smell. The farting at yoga is bad enough; here with half a dozen wrestlers it was just awful. That, and good old fashioned sweat. By the time we piled out at ten o’clock we were gasping. Fresh air had never been so welcome. We said out goodbyes to Father William and promised to attend the next event. Gosh, I must remember my giant foam finger hand.
Father William was on the door, in charge of admissions and standby referee. I fancy I caught a quick peek of Lycra under his cassock, perhaps we were in for some vicar-on-vicar wrestling, but I couldn’t be sure. All rather thrilling. We settled down with our bottles of beer and diet coke, preparing to ‘boo’ and ‘hiss’ in unison, momentarily regretting our failure to invest in the giant foam finger hands, everyone else seemed to be brandishing about with vigour. Frankly, we felt left out. The atmosphere was set, the room dim and moody, if a little smelly. Suddenly they cranked up the music, and you just knew the evening had begun.
First up was Elvis himself. (I say that in the broadest sense.) His off white all-in-one crimpelene suit with matching gold cape could have done with an iron; it was a bit on the baggy side too if I have to be picky. But he excelled himself with the hair gel and sunglasses and hammed it up beautifully as the baddie, presenting a dynamic personality and proving to be a nifty little mover. Max and Robbie were up out of their seats like a shot, hurling retorts to his pretend mischief making.
Then along came nice bottomed B-ray, I know this because his name was blazoned across his pert behind, neatly tucked into some apple green Lycra shorts. He had a generous glug of baby oil in his hair and a good deal more smeared on his chest which I have to suspect had recently gone through a waxing routine, if not a hasty Immac. Still, I did like his boots. These two gladiators messed about in the ring for quarter of an hour or so and performed some wonderful hamming up of punches, locks and holds. A few flips and a good deal of groaning. The boys loved it. So did lots of us mums.
We went through a fair few similar acts, with lots of big muscular bottoms and Lycra pants. Waxing seemed a precursor and the odd belt or hat as a prop also added to the show. Pretend violence like you wouldn’t believe and a good deal of fake injury. Almost like the football! It was bizarre, not your average Saturday night, but brilliant family entertainment. The place was packed with mums and dads and their wild and unruly children. A perfect venue for the kids to exorcise all that excess energy and have a great time screaming blue murder at the bad guys while their parents sipped on a beer or two.
Talking of beer, by the end of the brief intermission Rebecca had put away a few bottles and was enjoying herself. Not a woman to mince her words or fear the slightest retribution, she gleefully let rip at our pantomime wrestlers much to all our delight.
‘In your own time then, preferably this evening!’ she hollered.
They gave it back in equal measures.
‘Shut up you old cow!’
‘Yeah, come over here and say that, call yourself fit.’ The tussle of words got slightly riper, but I couldn’t possibly elaborate here.
Robbie and Max required little encouragement and were cheerfully belting out insults to echo Rebecca, which I have to admit made me ever-so-slightly uncomfortable. We were beginning to be ‘the trouble corner’ and I feared significant retribution. I had nothing to fear though, as Robbie and Max were now out of their seats and down the front itching to get in the ring and have a go themselves. It was funny, dreadful, cringing, and delightful stuff, made all the more entertaining by our gobby Rebecca and accompanying boys.
I’m so British, quiet and timid, where my boy Max came from I’ll never know, but I envied him his vigour. Eyes sparkling as he goaded the baddies. I was forced to redress his language a couple of times, but it was just because he got carried away with the whole panto production. I can’t say it was my natural environment, but it was a good giggle and all the wrestlers seemed genuinely lovely blokes, making sure they involved all the children, knowing where to be careful and not to cross a line.
My only complaint was the smell. The farting at yoga is bad enough; here with half a dozen wrestlers it was just awful. That, and good old fashioned sweat. By the time we piled out at ten o’clock we were gasping. Fresh air had never been so welcome. We said out goodbyes to Father William and promised to attend the next event. Gosh, I must remember my giant foam finger hand.
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
A little sunshine
Max never ceases to surprise me; he has done all his life. I can’t explain why, it’s not that I have unrealistically low expectations of him, quite the contrary, he just has a habit of bringing something out of the bag that you’d least expect.
I’ve not been that well lately, plagued by the curse of migraines. Today I just couldn’t make it out of bed. It was just Max and me a home this morning, Max is more than capable of amusing himself, so we were both happy doing our own thing. At twelve noon on the dot, the thump, thump of my eldest son’s footsteps could be heard slowly making his way up the three flights of stairs to our attic bedroom.
Such exertion is quite a big deal for Max, he’d never consider making such a trip if it wasn’t of the utmost importance, and for a moment there I did start to fret. So you can imagine my surprise and delight when he appeared in my bedroom gripping on tightly to a plate of food and a yogurt pot.
‘Hi Mum, I didn’t want you to starve, so I’ve brought you some lunch.’
‘Oh Max! Thank you my love, how kind of you’ I beamed.
Beautifully presented on a white china plate was a couple of dollops of taramasalata and some wafer thin melba toast fanned out all posh. Alongside was a vanilla low fat yogurt and accompanying spoon.
That boy is a poppet.
I’ve not been that well lately, plagued by the curse of migraines. Today I just couldn’t make it out of bed. It was just Max and me a home this morning, Max is more than capable of amusing himself, so we were both happy doing our own thing. At twelve noon on the dot, the thump, thump of my eldest son’s footsteps could be heard slowly making his way up the three flights of stairs to our attic bedroom.
Such exertion is quite a big deal for Max, he’d never consider making such a trip if it wasn’t of the utmost importance, and for a moment there I did start to fret. So you can imagine my surprise and delight when he appeared in my bedroom gripping on tightly to a plate of food and a yogurt pot.
‘Hi Mum, I didn’t want you to starve, so I’ve brought you some lunch.’
‘Oh Max! Thank you my love, how kind of you’ I beamed.
Beautifully presented on a white china plate was a couple of dollops of taramasalata and some wafer thin melba toast fanned out all posh. Alongside was a vanilla low fat yogurt and accompanying spoon.
That boy is a poppet.
Saturday, 20 June 2009
I can be your hero Baby
It seems a long time since we’ve had Youth Club at our house. With each individual taking a turn to open the doors of their home to all their mates, and with the numbers slowly increasing, it can be a fair few weeks before our turn comes around. Hosting such an event has lost none of its thrill for Max; in fact the wait has made it more so. He was bouncing with high spirits and anticipation on his return home from school. He couldn’t wait to wave off Carol, the driver of his school bus, in order to get busy with the food and preparation.
Max and I did discuss him having a shower and freshening up, but that was a leap too far. The sweaty complexion would have to be endured; a quick change into funky cool clothes was all Max could manage. That took very little time indeed and, with astonishing speed, Max presented himself to me at the kitchen door, hands washed and ready to ‘boss’.
It’s the same food every time. Change and variety is not required in the world of DS. Repetition and routine is just the ticket. This can be handy sometimes as well as a pain in the butt at others. My regular supply of croissants, crisps, raisins and Jaffa cakes, along with mini cartons of apple juice, were dug out from the pantry, as well as popcorn and filled pitta bread (egg mayo, tuna, and just butter for Nikita).
The bounty of food was arranged on the table and bang on 5.30pm the guests arrived. It’s a two hour slot, so no time for any fashionable lateness. Max’s joy is a treat to watch, but the drama soon began. Teenage angst, hormonal intoxication and some healthy rivalry, it all goes on. There’s nothing pretty about teenagers en mass. The flirting and dating, the dumping and the making up. It’s all so terribly stressful and exhausting – and that’s just for me!
The women can be minxes, the boys can be..... well boys. These young people are no different to your average teenager and hopefully they get to experience similar situations of friendship and dating. I overheard Max chatting to one of the girls; she had lured him to a private corner by the bottom of the stairs.
‘Max,’ she said.
‘What’s an affair?’
‘An affair?’ he gulped.
‘Yes, I don’t know what that is. Do you?’
Max had no specific idea either, but he wasn’t going to admit it.
‘Yes, an affair is when you have sex with someone.’
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘Thank you for telling me I never knew that. Are you learning about condoms at school?’
‘Yes! We are! Are you?’
‘Yes!’
‘We are learning all about that stuff. Where not to touch, you know, private bits.’
‘Yes us too. Thanks Max.’
Off they went. A good deal of whispering in secret huddles in the corridor went on between one or other of the group. They just love it, it lets them tap into a world they sometimes feel they are just on the periphery of, bystanders only allowed to view yet desperate to get stuck in and enjoy the dance just like everyone else. It’s very educational to over-hear too.
By indulging in all the drama and fuss they learn appropriate boundaries and suitable forms of behaviour. Most of it is by trial and error just like your world and mine. They don’t get it entirely right all of the time, but near enough for it to count. Their development relies on it and it’s a healthy safe environment for them to spread their wings.
At one point Charlie bravely came out from the sanctuary of his bedroom and while coming down the stairs was spotted by Annalie.
‘Don’t worry about all the fuss Charlie,’ she called up to him.
‘It’s only girls stuff.’
As host, Max gets to organise the event and choose the music. Within no time he’s serenading all the ladies with ‘I can be your hero baby’ by the lovely Enrique Iglesias. All the facial gestures and hand movements spot on, those hours of practice in front of the mirror paying off handsomely now. Personally I think Max is a dead ringer, I can guarantee he agrees!
Max and I did discuss him having a shower and freshening up, but that was a leap too far. The sweaty complexion would have to be endured; a quick change into funky cool clothes was all Max could manage. That took very little time indeed and, with astonishing speed, Max presented himself to me at the kitchen door, hands washed and ready to ‘boss’.
It’s the same food every time. Change and variety is not required in the world of DS. Repetition and routine is just the ticket. This can be handy sometimes as well as a pain in the butt at others. My regular supply of croissants, crisps, raisins and Jaffa cakes, along with mini cartons of apple juice, were dug out from the pantry, as well as popcorn and filled pitta bread (egg mayo, tuna, and just butter for Nikita).
The bounty of food was arranged on the table and bang on 5.30pm the guests arrived. It’s a two hour slot, so no time for any fashionable lateness. Max’s joy is a treat to watch, but the drama soon began. Teenage angst, hormonal intoxication and some healthy rivalry, it all goes on. There’s nothing pretty about teenagers en mass. The flirting and dating, the dumping and the making up. It’s all so terribly stressful and exhausting – and that’s just for me!
The women can be minxes, the boys can be..... well boys. These young people are no different to your average teenager and hopefully they get to experience similar situations of friendship and dating. I overheard Max chatting to one of the girls; she had lured him to a private corner by the bottom of the stairs.
‘Max,’ she said.
‘What’s an affair?’
‘An affair?’ he gulped.
‘Yes, I don’t know what that is. Do you?’
Max had no specific idea either, but he wasn’t going to admit it.
‘Yes, an affair is when you have sex with someone.’
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘Thank you for telling me I never knew that. Are you learning about condoms at school?’
‘Yes! We are! Are you?’
‘Yes!’
‘We are learning all about that stuff. Where not to touch, you know, private bits.’
‘Yes us too. Thanks Max.’
Off they went. A good deal of whispering in secret huddles in the corridor went on between one or other of the group. They just love it, it lets them tap into a world they sometimes feel they are just on the periphery of, bystanders only allowed to view yet desperate to get stuck in and enjoy the dance just like everyone else. It’s very educational to over-hear too.
By indulging in all the drama and fuss they learn appropriate boundaries and suitable forms of behaviour. Most of it is by trial and error just like your world and mine. They don’t get it entirely right all of the time, but near enough for it to count. Their development relies on it and it’s a healthy safe environment for them to spread their wings.
At one point Charlie bravely came out from the sanctuary of his bedroom and while coming down the stairs was spotted by Annalie.
‘Don’t worry about all the fuss Charlie,’ she called up to him.
‘It’s only girls stuff.’
As host, Max gets to organise the event and choose the music. Within no time he’s serenading all the ladies with ‘I can be your hero baby’ by the lovely Enrique Iglesias. All the facial gestures and hand movements spot on, those hours of practice in front of the mirror paying off handsomely now. Personally I think Max is a dead ringer, I can guarantee he agrees!
Thursday, 4 June 2009
Tummy Trouble
I’d just tipped my feet out of bed and was adjusting my thoughts through my morning fog; mainly consumed it has to be said, by what to make for supper, when Paul ran up the stairs to our attic bedroom.
‘I think we have a problem.’
‘How come?’
‘Max is sat on the loo and complaining of tummy trouble.’
‘Ah.’
‘I don’t think he’s the slightest bit ill. I just think he’s setting things up for a day off from school.’
‘Oh goodie, that old routine.’
‘I’ve had a word, but I’m just giving you a heads up.’
The time was ripe for no messing. I knew that in order to beat my son at this little cycle of behaviour I was going to have to get tough. I dragged on my slippers and plodded downstairs to the toilet. Max was sat looking suitably glum with just a hint of perplexion – the perfect pitch to pull off fooling mum. I was having none of it.
‘Hi Max! Got a problem with your tummy sweetheart?’
‘Yes. I’m not well.’ He pulled an impressive pained expression.
‘Well love, you still have to go to school. I know it must be hard to go back to your class after trying out the Sixth Form for a week, but it has to be done, and let me make it very clear Max, you are going to school.’
‘Don’t say that! Leave me alone!’
‘Ok. Well, Get a wiggle on and I’ll get breakfast.’
‘That mum, she’s so mean!’
I set myself onto autopilot for the next half an hour. I made Max’s sandwiches, produced breakfast, shooshed my boys along in their preparations for school, determined not to waiver and lose heart. I thought I’d drop Max’s teacher Miss Cseko, an email just to be on the safe side.
Dear Miss Cseko,
Good morning!
I thought I’d alert you to Max’s cunning plan today. I do think we’ve nipped it in the bud, but it won’t hurt to give you a heads up. Max started off this morning by complaining about his tummy. He did have sweet potato last night which may make his bowels a little loose perhaps, but not the runs and certainly not cramps etc.
I came down hard and made strong noises about there being absolutely no chance of getting off from school .(I think he did particularly enjoy himself in the Sixth Form last week & has perhaps found returning to ‘normal class’ quite difficult) Thankfully he grasped the strength of my feelings and had his shower & breakfast etc. However a runny nose has developed.
I’m not sure if anything needs to be said by you, but as we have discussed, I think it will be handy for you to know!
Have a good day
Very best wishes
Sandy
Remarkably Max got ready for school with very little trouble, but just as his bus pulled up outside our house he threw a hissy fit about biscuits.
Dramatic tears, hands over his face, the whole performance.
‘I need a packet of biscuits for the bus! Pauline will be cross with me.’
‘Max there is no way Pauline will be cross with you and you know it. I don’t have any biscuits, you only took a packet recently, I’ll get some more, but I just don’t have any right now.’
Max sat, tears running down his face pulling off a hand-crafted drama rather well.
I ran out to the bus to let Carol and Pauline (driver & escort) know the dilemma we were facing. The fact that I was still in my pink Polka dot winceyette pyjamas was of no consequence to me. I’ve been known to dash out in all weathers, lashing rain, freezing cold, hair slimy and wet with conditioner piled high in a scrunchy, bare feet, I’m well past caring.
Thankfully Pauline came back into our house with me and enticed Max out to the bus. I felt I had won the battle, but I had my doubts about the war. The anticipation of a telephone call from Oak Lodge, Max’s school, was in the back of my mind all day.
Max arrived home with his usual bounce and I was delighted. Not long after I got a telephone call from Miss Cseko.
‘Hi Mrs Lewis, Miss Cseko speaking.’
‘Hi Miss Cseko!’ Such a lovely lady.
Miss Cseko explained to me that Max had been fine all day and she had not been required to talk with him. She did mention that she had been forced to tell him off the day before because he had been messing around when he should have been listening. Max hates to be told off, even when he deserves it. She also said that Max was more than ready for the Sixth Form. He was losing concentration in her class and becoming disruptive.
For once I was delighted. Miss Cseko’s phone call was similar to many phone calls to parents up and down the country. I felt ridiculously normal. For a fleeting moment I was happy to enjoy Max’s rebellious spirit just like any other sixteen year old.
‘I think we have a problem.’
‘How come?’
‘Max is sat on the loo and complaining of tummy trouble.’
‘Ah.’
‘I don’t think he’s the slightest bit ill. I just think he’s setting things up for a day off from school.’
‘Oh goodie, that old routine.’
‘I’ve had a word, but I’m just giving you a heads up.’
The time was ripe for no messing. I knew that in order to beat my son at this little cycle of behaviour I was going to have to get tough. I dragged on my slippers and plodded downstairs to the toilet. Max was sat looking suitably glum with just a hint of perplexion – the perfect pitch to pull off fooling mum. I was having none of it.
‘Hi Max! Got a problem with your tummy sweetheart?’
‘Yes. I’m not well.’ He pulled an impressive pained expression.
‘Well love, you still have to go to school. I know it must be hard to go back to your class after trying out the Sixth Form for a week, but it has to be done, and let me make it very clear Max, you are going to school.’
‘Don’t say that! Leave me alone!’
‘Ok. Well, Get a wiggle on and I’ll get breakfast.’
‘That mum, she’s so mean!’
I set myself onto autopilot for the next half an hour. I made Max’s sandwiches, produced breakfast, shooshed my boys along in their preparations for school, determined not to waiver and lose heart. I thought I’d drop Max’s teacher Miss Cseko, an email just to be on the safe side.
Dear Miss Cseko,
Good morning!
I thought I’d alert you to Max’s cunning plan today. I do think we’ve nipped it in the bud, but it won’t hurt to give you a heads up. Max started off this morning by complaining about his tummy. He did have sweet potato last night which may make his bowels a little loose perhaps, but not the runs and certainly not cramps etc.
I came down hard and made strong noises about there being absolutely no chance of getting off from school .(I think he did particularly enjoy himself in the Sixth Form last week & has perhaps found returning to ‘normal class’ quite difficult) Thankfully he grasped the strength of my feelings and had his shower & breakfast etc. However a runny nose has developed.
I’m not sure if anything needs to be said by you, but as we have discussed, I think it will be handy for you to know!
Have a good day
Very best wishes
Sandy
Remarkably Max got ready for school with very little trouble, but just as his bus pulled up outside our house he threw a hissy fit about biscuits.
Dramatic tears, hands over his face, the whole performance.
‘I need a packet of biscuits for the bus! Pauline will be cross with me.’
‘Max there is no way Pauline will be cross with you and you know it. I don’t have any biscuits, you only took a packet recently, I’ll get some more, but I just don’t have any right now.’
Max sat, tears running down his face pulling off a hand-crafted drama rather well.
I ran out to the bus to let Carol and Pauline (driver & escort) know the dilemma we were facing. The fact that I was still in my pink Polka dot winceyette pyjamas was of no consequence to me. I’ve been known to dash out in all weathers, lashing rain, freezing cold, hair slimy and wet with conditioner piled high in a scrunchy, bare feet, I’m well past caring.
Thankfully Pauline came back into our house with me and enticed Max out to the bus. I felt I had won the battle, but I had my doubts about the war. The anticipation of a telephone call from Oak Lodge, Max’s school, was in the back of my mind all day.
Max arrived home with his usual bounce and I was delighted. Not long after I got a telephone call from Miss Cseko.
‘Hi Mrs Lewis, Miss Cseko speaking.’
‘Hi Miss Cseko!’ Such a lovely lady.
Miss Cseko explained to me that Max had been fine all day and she had not been required to talk with him. She did mention that she had been forced to tell him off the day before because he had been messing around when he should have been listening. Max hates to be told off, even when he deserves it. She also said that Max was more than ready for the Sixth Form. He was losing concentration in her class and becoming disruptive.
For once I was delighted. Miss Cseko’s phone call was similar to many phone calls to parents up and down the country. I felt ridiculously normal. For a fleeting moment I was happy to enjoy Max’s rebellious spirit just like any other sixteen year old.
Tuesday, 5 May 2009
Soho House
It was a Saturday night, Paul and I were off to Nick’s (a good mate of Paul’s) fortieth birthday party at Soho House, I’ve met him once. It’s a rare event us going out, such a great deal of organisation involved, babysitters, food preparation and extra energy, so we make the most of it.
Soho House, no messing then, serious attention to outfit and general appearance. I’m a little over weight so naturally I did indulge in some lengthy wardrobe research and presentation. Best bra, best knickers (well nothing from a pack of five anyway), clean hair, serious attention to make up. Outfit examined and re-examined with obscene scrutiny for any hint of unpleasantness.
We arrived and were greeted by Nick,
‘Hi Sandy, can I get you a drink?’
‘Thanks Nick, Happy Birthday! A cranberry juice on ice would be great.’
‘What, you’re not drinking? Surely you’ll have vodka in that?’
‘No thanks, just cranberry would be fine.’
‘Well, I just can’t get my head around that, why would you not drink Sandy? Are you driving?’
‘No Nick, I just fancy a cranberry juice.’
‘But not drinking, I mean how is that? Oh! (Points at me) cystitis?’
The room is full of people talking, so I don’t quite catch the last bit.
‘Pardon?’
‘CYSTITIS! You’ve got CYSTISTIS?’
‘NO! I just want a cranberry juice!’
Nick returned with the drink and Paul disappeared to the loo, so I went and sat at the bar, as far away from Nick as possible. Paul soon returned and I’d finished my drink, so he ordered me another. The bar was very full now with that squashed shouty atmosphere, people talking just a pitch above the norm.
I picked up my new drink and began to take a sip; the glass broke in my hand, and all the contents were tipped straight onto my lap. I gasped as the freezing cold, cranberry juice spilled all over me. I was mortified and wet through to my shoes and those best knickers.
Well, everyone was looking at me now. A new drink appeared with a thoughtful napkin. Paul marched off to see the manager, as I felt the night couldn’t get any worse.
As he disappeared out of sight, the woman sitting next to me said,
‘And when is your little baby due?’
‘I’M NOT PREGNANT!’ I wailed.
‘Oh no, I’m so sorry will you ever forgive me? How silly of me, are you sure? What, you’re not having me on; you’re really not pregnant?’ The verbal diarrhoea eventually stopped; perhaps she was worried that she’d see my fist up close. And I calmly replied,
‘NO.’
‘But you know, you look stunning.’
‘OH FUCK OFF!’ Is what I said in my head, but nice polite middle class me said,
‘Don’t worry.’
I had begun to have an out of body experience, looking down on myself and the ridiculous drama. I held the strong hope that the earth would swallow me up. For no good reason, I put the napkin I was holding over my head, and began to laugh. I’d suddenly realised how unimportant my precious night out really was, even though I was embarrassed, soaking wet and wishing I was tucked up in bed at home, I knew I had far more important things to worry about. After over a decade of dealing with the bleak realities of DS, some trivial knocks that life can throw my way, fall easily into their proper place.
Paul returned to say that Soho House would pay for a cab home. I caught the slight glint of fear in his eye as he saw me with a strange napkin accessory and he suggested that immediately might be a good time to leave. We did, and I must say it took a very brave man to ride home with me the cab.
Soho House, no messing then, serious attention to outfit and general appearance. I’m a little over weight so naturally I did indulge in some lengthy wardrobe research and presentation. Best bra, best knickers (well nothing from a pack of five anyway), clean hair, serious attention to make up. Outfit examined and re-examined with obscene scrutiny for any hint of unpleasantness.
We arrived and were greeted by Nick,
‘Hi Sandy, can I get you a drink?’
‘Thanks Nick, Happy Birthday! A cranberry juice on ice would be great.’
‘What, you’re not drinking? Surely you’ll have vodka in that?’
‘No thanks, just cranberry would be fine.’
‘Well, I just can’t get my head around that, why would you not drink Sandy? Are you driving?’
‘No Nick, I just fancy a cranberry juice.’
‘But not drinking, I mean how is that? Oh! (Points at me) cystitis?’
The room is full of people talking, so I don’t quite catch the last bit.
‘Pardon?’
‘CYSTITIS! You’ve got CYSTISTIS?’
‘NO! I just want a cranberry juice!’
Nick returned with the drink and Paul disappeared to the loo, so I went and sat at the bar, as far away from Nick as possible. Paul soon returned and I’d finished my drink, so he ordered me another. The bar was very full now with that squashed shouty atmosphere, people talking just a pitch above the norm.
I picked up my new drink and began to take a sip; the glass broke in my hand, and all the contents were tipped straight onto my lap. I gasped as the freezing cold, cranberry juice spilled all over me. I was mortified and wet through to my shoes and those best knickers.
Well, everyone was looking at me now. A new drink appeared with a thoughtful napkin. Paul marched off to see the manager, as I felt the night couldn’t get any worse.
As he disappeared out of sight, the woman sitting next to me said,
‘And when is your little baby due?’
‘I’M NOT PREGNANT!’ I wailed.
‘Oh no, I’m so sorry will you ever forgive me? How silly of me, are you sure? What, you’re not having me on; you’re really not pregnant?’ The verbal diarrhoea eventually stopped; perhaps she was worried that she’d see my fist up close. And I calmly replied,
‘NO.’
‘But you know, you look stunning.’
‘OH FUCK OFF!’ Is what I said in my head, but nice polite middle class me said,
‘Don’t worry.’
I had begun to have an out of body experience, looking down on myself and the ridiculous drama. I held the strong hope that the earth would swallow me up. For no good reason, I put the napkin I was holding over my head, and began to laugh. I’d suddenly realised how unimportant my precious night out really was, even though I was embarrassed, soaking wet and wishing I was tucked up in bed at home, I knew I had far more important things to worry about. After over a decade of dealing with the bleak realities of DS, some trivial knocks that life can throw my way, fall easily into their proper place.
Paul returned to say that Soho House would pay for a cab home. I caught the slight glint of fear in his eye as he saw me with a strange napkin accessory and he suggested that immediately might be a good time to leave. We did, and I must say it took a very brave man to ride home with me the cab.
Thursday, 16 April 2009
Robbie & Max and a brush with Tesco
Robbie came over for lunch today. Robbie is a very dear friend of Max. They’ve know each other since they were young. Rebecca, Robbie’s mum and I hit it off immediately and she’s been a priceless close friend ever since. Robbie and Max have a slow growing relationship which has picked up pace in the last few years to the point where they get on very well indeed and adore each other. They are united by West Ham, Wrestling and toilet talk. They make a great team and resemble Laurel & Hardy, Max being dark haired, relatively short and dumpy and Robbie being blond, tall and thin. Robbie has DS too.
They don’t go to the same school, but meet each week at their favourite dance class and get together when possible. Max has even been to a sleep-over at Robbie’s which he loved and I suspect, on his return home, he would have cheerfully packed his bags and turned back around to move in with The Cahill family. Sadly we haven’t achieved a return sleep-over as Robbie is terrified of cats – we have three.
After Robbie had unceremoniously got rid of his mum (no chance for a quick cuppa) the two lads quickly fell into a comfortable rhythm, going through all of Max’s Wii games selecting their favourites and generally organising themselves. I was told to ‘push off’ out of the front room which I share with Max (we both have ‘work desks’ in there!) It was a delight to hear them chatter together, chuckling and giggling over things that they both found highly amusing. They are both on a very similar wave length and just get on really well. I bless the angels for that. We all crave a mate in this world and to find such a pal when you have the added complication of DS is a challenge. Rebecca and I have never pushed them together; they’ve just discovered each other over time, the best way.
I was impressed that it wasn’t until one o’clock that Robbie and Max appeared at the kitchen door asking about lunch. Nothing normally gets in the way of Max and his food. He struggles with telling the time, but bang on twelve noon you can guarantee that he’ll be striding towards the fridge with an egg mayonnaise sandwich in mind. I let them dig about in the fridge to see what we had. Max predictably couldn’t be persuaded away from the egg mayo, even though Robbie introduced a new idea of bacon & ketchup. With a bit of help both boys were soon sat in the conservatory with their lunch, happily chatting about big bottoms and dogs.
Before they were settled, an alarming topic came up. While they were discussing what they’d like for pudding they both said they'd like to go over to Tesco (we live over the road from a store) to get some ice cream BY THEMSELVES! I thought I disguised clutching my chest and inhaling deeply rather well, and quickly rallied back with a sharp little reply of
‘Well, let’s see how you feel later.’
They had so much food that I was confident that they would not need the ice cream and therefore wouldn’t think about the visit. I had no idea what Rebecca would think about the situation and had no desire to rush her into a decision she may be uncomfortable with. But I did think it was something to consider. Imagine how chuffed both boys would be with themselves if they managed to get to Tesco, buy a tub of ice cream and return home? Robbie is extremely capable and Max has done the two minute walk so often he really does know where to go. He also spends a good deal of time in Tesco, so some staff would recognise him. Finding the ice-cream freezer may prove tricky and paying would be a challenge, but I know Max has done it with the school. Obviously doing it with the school is one thing and doing it alone with your mate, both having DS is quite another, but still.....
I know where this has come from, apart from a natural path of growing up and wanting to be independent, Max sees his brother Charlie beginning to do these small acts of bravery. Not alone, he’s not there yet (13) but when a mate comes over they pop to Tesco for unhealthy snacks or even get on the bus and go up to North Finchley to one of the coffee shops. That must be tough for Max to see and must get him thinking.
I would like nothing more than to let Max go over to the supermarket and enjoy some independence, I actually think he’s quite capable of it, it’s just everyone else that worries me. That’s not to say that I don’t think most people would be kind and respectful to him, it’s just that unknown one in a million that concerns me. Perhaps with a mate is the answer.
I haven’t talked to Rebecca about it yet and she understandably may feel it’s inappropriate right now. But one day I guess we both are going to have to take the plunge.
I can see it now; both in disguise, dressed in black from head to foot, perhaps even sunglasses. Connected by walkie talkies, stalking our teenagers, keeping a close watch Jack Bauer, 24 style. Rebecca could cover fruit and veg' and cold meats, I could cover non-perishables and household cleaning.
‘Come in breaker one, do you read me?’
‘Copy that breaker two. All clear.’
I think I may have a little chat with Rebecca at dance on Monday.
They don’t go to the same school, but meet each week at their favourite dance class and get together when possible. Max has even been to a sleep-over at Robbie’s which he loved and I suspect, on his return home, he would have cheerfully packed his bags and turned back around to move in with The Cahill family. Sadly we haven’t achieved a return sleep-over as Robbie is terrified of cats – we have three.
After Robbie had unceremoniously got rid of his mum (no chance for a quick cuppa) the two lads quickly fell into a comfortable rhythm, going through all of Max’s Wii games selecting their favourites and generally organising themselves. I was told to ‘push off’ out of the front room which I share with Max (we both have ‘work desks’ in there!) It was a delight to hear them chatter together, chuckling and giggling over things that they both found highly amusing. They are both on a very similar wave length and just get on really well. I bless the angels for that. We all crave a mate in this world and to find such a pal when you have the added complication of DS is a challenge. Rebecca and I have never pushed them together; they’ve just discovered each other over time, the best way.
I was impressed that it wasn’t until one o’clock that Robbie and Max appeared at the kitchen door asking about lunch. Nothing normally gets in the way of Max and his food. He struggles with telling the time, but bang on twelve noon you can guarantee that he’ll be striding towards the fridge with an egg mayonnaise sandwich in mind. I let them dig about in the fridge to see what we had. Max predictably couldn’t be persuaded away from the egg mayo, even though Robbie introduced a new idea of bacon & ketchup. With a bit of help both boys were soon sat in the conservatory with their lunch, happily chatting about big bottoms and dogs.
Before they were settled, an alarming topic came up. While they were discussing what they’d like for pudding they both said they'd like to go over to Tesco (we live over the road from a store) to get some ice cream BY THEMSELVES! I thought I disguised clutching my chest and inhaling deeply rather well, and quickly rallied back with a sharp little reply of
‘Well, let’s see how you feel later.’
They had so much food that I was confident that they would not need the ice cream and therefore wouldn’t think about the visit. I had no idea what Rebecca would think about the situation and had no desire to rush her into a decision she may be uncomfortable with. But I did think it was something to consider. Imagine how chuffed both boys would be with themselves if they managed to get to Tesco, buy a tub of ice cream and return home? Robbie is extremely capable and Max has done the two minute walk so often he really does know where to go. He also spends a good deal of time in Tesco, so some staff would recognise him. Finding the ice-cream freezer may prove tricky and paying would be a challenge, but I know Max has done it with the school. Obviously doing it with the school is one thing and doing it alone with your mate, both having DS is quite another, but still.....
I know where this has come from, apart from a natural path of growing up and wanting to be independent, Max sees his brother Charlie beginning to do these small acts of bravery. Not alone, he’s not there yet (13) but when a mate comes over they pop to Tesco for unhealthy snacks or even get on the bus and go up to North Finchley to one of the coffee shops. That must be tough for Max to see and must get him thinking.
I would like nothing more than to let Max go over to the supermarket and enjoy some independence, I actually think he’s quite capable of it, it’s just everyone else that worries me. That’s not to say that I don’t think most people would be kind and respectful to him, it’s just that unknown one in a million that concerns me. Perhaps with a mate is the answer.
I haven’t talked to Rebecca about it yet and she understandably may feel it’s inappropriate right now. But one day I guess we both are going to have to take the plunge.
I can see it now; both in disguise, dressed in black from head to foot, perhaps even sunglasses. Connected by walkie talkies, stalking our teenagers, keeping a close watch Jack Bauer, 24 style. Rebecca could cover fruit and veg' and cold meats, I could cover non-perishables and household cleaning.
‘Come in breaker one, do you read me?’
‘Copy that breaker two. All clear.’
I think I may have a little chat with Rebecca at dance on Monday.
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
Camping
Max and I had a priceless chat in the car last night. We were killing time before his Chickenshed workshop. Mondays are a bit of a squeeze what with dance first. No time to go home, so we get to Chickenshed and stay in the car for twenty minutes or so and have a chat. Some of our conversations are wonderful. Last night I introduced the concept of camping. Max has never been camping in his life. We are a family who enjoy our creature comforts, never choosing to share a toilet with strangers and relish in the luxury of boiling a kettle with our own Assam tea bags at the ready whenever the mood takes us.
So I had a bit of explaining to do before we got on to exchanging opinions. My romantic notions took over momentarily as I remembered wonderful camping holidays as a child. My dad was in the R.A.F and whilst stationed at R.A.F Wildenrath in Germany, we cherished our four birth Sprite Musketeer caravan with accompanying awning, handmade by my dad, who happened to be Squadron Leader of the parachute packing department. He had an industrial sewing machine to hand and has always been highly creative. We spent every school holiday cruising along the autobahns stopping off wherever we pleased, passing through Italy, Luxemburg, Austria and France, guided by our free spirit and enthusiasm. The camping sites were very clean and pleasant spots, sometimes in a deep lush forest, sometimes by the side of a tranquil lake. Such fond memories, like riding on the back of my dad’s bike with an empty plastic two litre ice cream container which we filled with chips at the local shop, squealing with delight, clutching on to our treasure as he peddled as fast as he could back to the caravan for tea.
That was over thirty five years ago and I’d forgotten the disgusting chemical toilet and the tinned ravioli followed by tinned fruit salad. I just remember being so happy, snug as a bug with the two people I adored most in the world. My sister would sometimes be around if it was a big holiday and she was home from boarding school. That meant me having to go up in the bunk bed, (Amanda was older and therefore laid claim to the best bed) which has got to be one of the more uncomfortable experiences of my childhood. Nylon wrapped over a pole and brought up taught to form a bed. Entry in and out was always hazardous and highly irritating if once you’d got settled, you realised you needed the loo.
Such exotic times too, like when all four of us went to St Tropez and my sister, my mum and me all wore long swishy skirts beautifully made by my Mum and the height of fashion. We would cruise along the market stalls of an evening after a long day of sun on the beach. After having gorged all day on the honey coated nuts from the flirtatious beach sellers, we then finished off the evening with a crêpe Suzette, thinking we were ever so European.
With these mixed messages rattling around in my head I tried to give Max my best take on camping.
‘Well, Robbie’s Mum, Rebecca has a big tent that we could borrow. It’s got three very little rooms in it for us all to sleep. One for you, one for Charlie and one for me and Dad. We could drive somewhere very beautiful in the car and sleep under the stars in the tent. It would be great fun.’
‘Would we eat?’
‘We could take some food and buy some food once we got there, maybe go to cafes and stuff, maybe fish and chips (I knew that would be a clincher).’
‘We could take some pillows! But we’d need something for the ground, my bottom would get achy!’
‘Great thinking Max, yes a mattress, it would have to be quite thin though, as we need to fit everything into the car.’
I ran with it a bit and asked Max what he thought we’d need to go camping and if he could think of any problems that sprang to mind.
‘Going to the toilet?’
Yes, that’s one of my worries, especially in the night. Camp sites do have toilets, but we wouldn’t have one of our own, we’d have to share.’
The look Max threw at me was such a picture. The concept of not having your own family toilet was just too much for him to take onboard. I suggested the same would apply for washing, and that communal showers would be available. He seemed totally unfazed by this and I suspect he’d already decided that he just wouldn’t wash. I suggested that the only thing I would really miss was being able to boil a kettle and make a cup of tea, which I felt sure a camping shop would provide a solution to.
We chatted for some time about all the things we could do together as a family and although it would be very unusual and not what we were used to, if we could sort out the basic things that we would need for our stay, it could be fun.
Later when Paul went to pick Max up he jumped in the car, full of talk about camping, clearly it must have been on his mind for the duration of his workshop and he’d been giving it a great deal of thought.
‘I know Dad!’ Max enthused.
‘Let’s go camping in the garden!’
So I had a bit of explaining to do before we got on to exchanging opinions. My romantic notions took over momentarily as I remembered wonderful camping holidays as a child. My dad was in the R.A.F and whilst stationed at R.A.F Wildenrath in Germany, we cherished our four birth Sprite Musketeer caravan with accompanying awning, handmade by my dad, who happened to be Squadron Leader of the parachute packing department. He had an industrial sewing machine to hand and has always been highly creative. We spent every school holiday cruising along the autobahns stopping off wherever we pleased, passing through Italy, Luxemburg, Austria and France, guided by our free spirit and enthusiasm. The camping sites were very clean and pleasant spots, sometimes in a deep lush forest, sometimes by the side of a tranquil lake. Such fond memories, like riding on the back of my dad’s bike with an empty plastic two litre ice cream container which we filled with chips at the local shop, squealing with delight, clutching on to our treasure as he peddled as fast as he could back to the caravan for tea.
That was over thirty five years ago and I’d forgotten the disgusting chemical toilet and the tinned ravioli followed by tinned fruit salad. I just remember being so happy, snug as a bug with the two people I adored most in the world. My sister would sometimes be around if it was a big holiday and she was home from boarding school. That meant me having to go up in the bunk bed, (Amanda was older and therefore laid claim to the best bed) which has got to be one of the more uncomfortable experiences of my childhood. Nylon wrapped over a pole and brought up taught to form a bed. Entry in and out was always hazardous and highly irritating if once you’d got settled, you realised you needed the loo.
Such exotic times too, like when all four of us went to St Tropez and my sister, my mum and me all wore long swishy skirts beautifully made by my Mum and the height of fashion. We would cruise along the market stalls of an evening after a long day of sun on the beach. After having gorged all day on the honey coated nuts from the flirtatious beach sellers, we then finished off the evening with a crêpe Suzette, thinking we were ever so European.
With these mixed messages rattling around in my head I tried to give Max my best take on camping.
‘Well, Robbie’s Mum, Rebecca has a big tent that we could borrow. It’s got three very little rooms in it for us all to sleep. One for you, one for Charlie and one for me and Dad. We could drive somewhere very beautiful in the car and sleep under the stars in the tent. It would be great fun.’
‘Would we eat?’
‘We could take some food and buy some food once we got there, maybe go to cafes and stuff, maybe fish and chips (I knew that would be a clincher).’
‘We could take some pillows! But we’d need something for the ground, my bottom would get achy!’
‘Great thinking Max, yes a mattress, it would have to be quite thin though, as we need to fit everything into the car.’
I ran with it a bit and asked Max what he thought we’d need to go camping and if he could think of any problems that sprang to mind.
‘Going to the toilet?’
Yes, that’s one of my worries, especially in the night. Camp sites do have toilets, but we wouldn’t have one of our own, we’d have to share.’
The look Max threw at me was such a picture. The concept of not having your own family toilet was just too much for him to take onboard. I suggested the same would apply for washing, and that communal showers would be available. He seemed totally unfazed by this and I suspect he’d already decided that he just wouldn’t wash. I suggested that the only thing I would really miss was being able to boil a kettle and make a cup of tea, which I felt sure a camping shop would provide a solution to.
We chatted for some time about all the things we could do together as a family and although it would be very unusual and not what we were used to, if we could sort out the basic things that we would need for our stay, it could be fun.
Later when Paul went to pick Max up he jumped in the car, full of talk about camping, clearly it must have been on his mind for the duration of his workshop and he’d been giving it a great deal of thought.
‘I know Dad!’ Max enthused.
‘Let’s go camping in the garden!’
Thursday, 19 March 2009
Forget the word depression
We all love to discuss details of our health. After all, it’s what keeps us alive. We greet each other with an instant reference to it.
‘Hi there. How are you?’
Most of the time the reply would be,
‘Fine thanks and you?’ Occasionally it can be,
‘I’m just getting over a bout of the flu, terrible; I was off work for two weeks, still coughing like a drain but I’m off the antibiotics now.’
Or,
‘Just had the plaster removed from my broken leg. It’s healed beautifully; I’m so delighted, it was itching like crazy. I shall think twice about skiing again.’
But I can guarantee that you will never, ever hear someone say,
‘I’m in the midst of a dreadful bout of depression. I’m considering medication, but I’m so ill I just can’t think straight.’
Why is that? What makes ‘depression’ so socially abhorrent? Perhaps this giant word, over used as a blanket for everything, should be split into more comprehensible words, because depression is bespoke.
But just because you suffer from depression does not mean you are barking mad. Frankly I can call to mind a number of people who are barking mad, indeed I would not trust them to bake a fruit cake, never mind look after my child – and they do NOT suffer from depression. Try to substitute the word depression and consider (in order of severity),
1: BLUE - sad & lethargic.
2: DOWNTURN – heaviness of heart, unable to feel joy.
3: GLOOM – bleak melancholia, which fails to lift.
4: PARALYSIS OF SPIRIT – total hopelessness.
Society can cope with an illness such as diabetes it feels ‘comfortable’ with the condition and can discuss openly with the individual involved without wild assumptions or embarrassment. It’s a condition where part of the body (the pancreas) fails to make an essential chemical (insulin) .You’d never dream of telling a diabetic to ‘pull themselves together’ or make haste to get over their diabetes. Depression is the same. It’s a condition where part of the body (the brain) fails to make an essential chemical (serotonin).
I’m a great believer in not making judgements of a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes. Depression is very, very different from ‘getting up on the wrong side of the bed’ and feeling a bit grumpy. You lose control, not of what you do, but of how you feel. There is no choice involved. However just like diabetes, you can take steps to help yourself. In diabetes you can follow strict guidelines in keeping healthy, which will contribute to your good health. The same can be said for depression. My top three tips would be:-
· Stop drinking alcohol (yep, I’m afraid so).
· Exercise every day (e.g. half an hour walk).
· Write down your thoughts. (No idea why, but writing down your thoughts can go a long way to exorcising your demons).
This silent misery has its final triumph with its victim. Such hosts become the master of disguise, slapping on that extra layer of make-up, breaking into that forced smile that never quite reaches a beam, because they want to hide their shameful, dirty little secret. We’ve along way to go before ‘depression’ loses its unhelpful taboo. Rumour has it that there is an epidemic in the over forties. Perhaps it’s time we spoke out; expose this disease for what it is. A human condition, apparently very common and treatable.
‘Hi there. How are you?’
Most of the time the reply would be,
‘Fine thanks and you?’ Occasionally it can be,
‘I’m just getting over a bout of the flu, terrible; I was off work for two weeks, still coughing like a drain but I’m off the antibiotics now.’
Or,
‘Just had the plaster removed from my broken leg. It’s healed beautifully; I’m so delighted, it was itching like crazy. I shall think twice about skiing again.’
But I can guarantee that you will never, ever hear someone say,
‘I’m in the midst of a dreadful bout of depression. I’m considering medication, but I’m so ill I just can’t think straight.’
Why is that? What makes ‘depression’ so socially abhorrent? Perhaps this giant word, over used as a blanket for everything, should be split into more comprehensible words, because depression is bespoke.
But just because you suffer from depression does not mean you are barking mad. Frankly I can call to mind a number of people who are barking mad, indeed I would not trust them to bake a fruit cake, never mind look after my child – and they do NOT suffer from depression. Try to substitute the word depression and consider (in order of severity),
1: BLUE - sad & lethargic.
2: DOWNTURN – heaviness of heart, unable to feel joy.
3: GLOOM – bleak melancholia, which fails to lift.
4: PARALYSIS OF SPIRIT – total hopelessness.
Society can cope with an illness such as diabetes it feels ‘comfortable’ with the condition and can discuss openly with the individual involved without wild assumptions or embarrassment. It’s a condition where part of the body (the pancreas) fails to make an essential chemical (insulin) .You’d never dream of telling a diabetic to ‘pull themselves together’ or make haste to get over their diabetes. Depression is the same. It’s a condition where part of the body (the brain) fails to make an essential chemical (serotonin).
I’m a great believer in not making judgements of a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes. Depression is very, very different from ‘getting up on the wrong side of the bed’ and feeling a bit grumpy. You lose control, not of what you do, but of how you feel. There is no choice involved. However just like diabetes, you can take steps to help yourself. In diabetes you can follow strict guidelines in keeping healthy, which will contribute to your good health. The same can be said for depression. My top three tips would be:-
· Stop drinking alcohol (yep, I’m afraid so).
· Exercise every day (e.g. half an hour walk).
· Write down your thoughts. (No idea why, but writing down your thoughts can go a long way to exorcising your demons).
This silent misery has its final triumph with its victim. Such hosts become the master of disguise, slapping on that extra layer of make-up, breaking into that forced smile that never quite reaches a beam, because they want to hide their shameful, dirty little secret. We’ve along way to go before ‘depression’ loses its unhelpful taboo. Rumour has it that there is an epidemic in the over forties. Perhaps it’s time we spoke out; expose this disease for what it is. A human condition, apparently very common and treatable.
Thursday, 26 February 2009
It never said that in the brochure!
As I peered over the top of my Sunday paper and snuck a quick glance at my two teenage sons, I marvelled at how on earth I had got here. Married, middle aged with two teenage sons. For many of you, I’m sure adulthood has arrived and you’ve keenly grasped the mantle with both hands, super confident that you know where you are going, having nailed your life expectations. That has never been the case for me. I’m forty five this year and still haven’t quite decided what I’m going to do when I leave school. The fact that I have two teenage sons is quite disconcerting.
And another thing, when you realise that you are expecting a child, (Never mind thinking about special needs, after all everyone wishes for a healthy child and rightly so.) your mind can only make a small leap to visualise perhaps the baby stage, maybe a cute toddler. That giant leap some fourteen years hence forth is not quite within the boundaries of your imagination. Well, not in mine anyway. Plus it seemed such a long way off. Thank goodness, because I think you might stop right then & there and run for the hills.
Some great stuff is being written about the teenage brain and how to try and understand it. Apparently none of the grumpy moods, relentless arguments and monosyllabic grunting are any of their fault, a detail Charlie my thirteen year old delights in informing me. From thirteen to twenty the brain undergoes a monumental development stage, allowing teenagers magnificent leaps in creativity, logic and the ability to retain lots of information at the front of the brain. (Which we, the over forties, (i.e. old people) would struggle to achieve).
So why’s it all my fault? Mum gets it in the neck for everything. When Max or Charlie can’t find a missing wallet, book, coat, pair of shoes, it’s apparently all because of me. The great ‘steal everything’ fairy deliberately goes around the house messing up all their stuff and hiding it, just to be annoying – me, obviously. Plus they can’t find a piece of cheese in a fridge.
‘Mum, have we any cheese?’
‘Try the fridge sweetheart.’
‘I know, but what shelf?’
‘Try the third shelf love.’
‘No, you’re wrong, we haven’t got any. Mum?’
‘What’s that then?’
‘Oh, you never said it was behind the butter!’
They take all good things like clean sheets and good food totally for granted and have to be reminded to say ‘please and thank you’ on a very disheartening regularity, oh, and they smell.
My saving grace is a chat and mug of tea with my mate Caroline. With her I can moan and wail, truthfully recounting my woes. The ‘perfect mother’ image can be discarded at the door as we consol one another. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I love the fact that her three girls are as bad as my two boys. Caroline’s daughters are beautiful, charming and delightful. How encouraging to be told that they turn, like a pint of dodgy milk, into insolent, sullen and uncooperative wenches, completely on a par with my sons. It gives me such comfort to know that I’m not alone; other people (especially people who I rather like & admire) are having a rough time of it too.
The mum’s at school look so together and efficient decked out in stylish Boden and killer heels, with large expensive handbags. This morning I still had deep conditioner in my hair, so forced a flat cap over the soggy lot and covered my flannelette pink & brown spotted pyjamas with my large full length overcoat(if it had been summer I would have added a giant bug-like pair of sunglasses). I looked fine.
‘Mum! You can’t take me to school like that! Say we have a crash and you have to get out?’ (And I know what he’s really thinking is, ‘say one of my friends sees you.’)
‘Fancy getting the bus Darling?’
‘Can you tuck your trousers into your Uggs? And drop me by the roundabout, NOT in front of the bus stop at the school gates.’
Max came out with a classic yesterday.
‘Mum, where’s my mobile phone?’
‘No idea darling, can you remember who you last rang? Perhaps it’s on your desk?’
‘Ah, yes, here it is. Oh Mum! The batteries dead! You forgot to charge it!’
What a relief to discuss our inner fears of how awful we are as mothers and what a terribly hard, thankless and exhausting job it is.
And another thing, when you realise that you are expecting a child, (Never mind thinking about special needs, after all everyone wishes for a healthy child and rightly so.) your mind can only make a small leap to visualise perhaps the baby stage, maybe a cute toddler. That giant leap some fourteen years hence forth is not quite within the boundaries of your imagination. Well, not in mine anyway. Plus it seemed such a long way off. Thank goodness, because I think you might stop right then & there and run for the hills.
Some great stuff is being written about the teenage brain and how to try and understand it. Apparently none of the grumpy moods, relentless arguments and monosyllabic grunting are any of their fault, a detail Charlie my thirteen year old delights in informing me. From thirteen to twenty the brain undergoes a monumental development stage, allowing teenagers magnificent leaps in creativity, logic and the ability to retain lots of information at the front of the brain. (Which we, the over forties, (i.e. old people) would struggle to achieve).
So why’s it all my fault? Mum gets it in the neck for everything. When Max or Charlie can’t find a missing wallet, book, coat, pair of shoes, it’s apparently all because of me. The great ‘steal everything’ fairy deliberately goes around the house messing up all their stuff and hiding it, just to be annoying – me, obviously. Plus they can’t find a piece of cheese in a fridge.
‘Mum, have we any cheese?’
‘Try the fridge sweetheart.’
‘I know, but what shelf?’
‘Try the third shelf love.’
‘No, you’re wrong, we haven’t got any. Mum?’
‘What’s that then?’
‘Oh, you never said it was behind the butter!’
They take all good things like clean sheets and good food totally for granted and have to be reminded to say ‘please and thank you’ on a very disheartening regularity, oh, and they smell.
My saving grace is a chat and mug of tea with my mate Caroline. With her I can moan and wail, truthfully recounting my woes. The ‘perfect mother’ image can be discarded at the door as we consol one another. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I love the fact that her three girls are as bad as my two boys. Caroline’s daughters are beautiful, charming and delightful. How encouraging to be told that they turn, like a pint of dodgy milk, into insolent, sullen and uncooperative wenches, completely on a par with my sons. It gives me such comfort to know that I’m not alone; other people (especially people who I rather like & admire) are having a rough time of it too.
The mum’s at school look so together and efficient decked out in stylish Boden and killer heels, with large expensive handbags. This morning I still had deep conditioner in my hair, so forced a flat cap over the soggy lot and covered my flannelette pink & brown spotted pyjamas with my large full length overcoat(if it had been summer I would have added a giant bug-like pair of sunglasses). I looked fine.
‘Mum! You can’t take me to school like that! Say we have a crash and you have to get out?’ (And I know what he’s really thinking is, ‘say one of my friends sees you.’)
‘Fancy getting the bus Darling?’
‘Can you tuck your trousers into your Uggs? And drop me by the roundabout, NOT in front of the bus stop at the school gates.’
Max came out with a classic yesterday.
‘Mum, where’s my mobile phone?’
‘No idea darling, can you remember who you last rang? Perhaps it’s on your desk?’
‘Ah, yes, here it is. Oh Mum! The batteries dead! You forgot to charge it!’
What a relief to discuss our inner fears of how awful we are as mothers and what a terribly hard, thankless and exhausting job it is.
Thursday, 19 February 2009
Toilet Talk
Max has a long day on a Monday. That means I do too! After school and a quick bite to eat, we drive over to Muswell Hill and Max has an hour of dance (along side nine or so other teenagers with DS). He’s been going since he was very little, he was just seven years old when he started, and it’s his favourite pass-time in the whole wide world. Run by a wonderful lady called Sarah, who is beautiful inside & out. Then it’s on to Chickenshed, another passion and why we go to both in one evening rather than having to choose one over the other and miss out. Bit of a trek and a tad tiring, but well worth it.
That’s how I came to be in my pyjamas, sat at the bottom of the stairs waiting for Max. It was late, we were all ready for bed and he was in the toilet. My head was leaned against the wall as I patiently waited for him to appear. I know my place and was all set to jump to attention and supervise him brushing his teeth. I so wanted to crawl into my own bed and welcome the sleep I craved. But Max was sat on the toilet for what seemed like forever and in full ‘chat mode’. Such priceless gems of information can be gleaned from Max talking to himself. He does this all the time, but particularly while sat upon the toilet.
‘I hate it when they say I’m fat. I hate being fat. It’s all from that wrap I had for tea. I’m not really fat, it’s just my tummy. I wish I could fold it up. There, if I do that, it folds up out the way and then I’m not so fat.’
I wanted to weep. I sat on the stairs visualising the cruel playground at school, the mean remarks and the blunt jibes. I wanted to sweep my son up into my arms and make it all go away, make it better – and make him thin. Truth is, he is rather tubby. He carries a very large waist and being short and having the added burden of a low functioning thyroid, he is stands little chance of getting to grips with his excess weight. Max loves his food, but I make sure he eats healthily, Max thinks pudding is fruit.
But things slip in. Sausage rolls at parties, pizzas at a lunch out, Birthday cake, the odd treat, a sunny day ice cream, a biscuit here, a sweetie there. They all add up.
‘Why can’t I just poo it all out? Why does it have to stay? I’m not that fat, just my tummy.’
Similar thoughts I have had about my own weight! I catch myself in the mirror sometimes, shocked at the person looking. It’s not me. Max finally appears from the toilet and shoots me a grin on the way to the bathroom to wash his hands and clean his teeth. He’s completely naked, not in the slightest bit embarrassed and holds no issue with his body image – a least we got that right!
That’s how I came to be in my pyjamas, sat at the bottom of the stairs waiting for Max. It was late, we were all ready for bed and he was in the toilet. My head was leaned against the wall as I patiently waited for him to appear. I know my place and was all set to jump to attention and supervise him brushing his teeth. I so wanted to crawl into my own bed and welcome the sleep I craved. But Max was sat on the toilet for what seemed like forever and in full ‘chat mode’. Such priceless gems of information can be gleaned from Max talking to himself. He does this all the time, but particularly while sat upon the toilet.
‘I hate it when they say I’m fat. I hate being fat. It’s all from that wrap I had for tea. I’m not really fat, it’s just my tummy. I wish I could fold it up. There, if I do that, it folds up out the way and then I’m not so fat.’
I wanted to weep. I sat on the stairs visualising the cruel playground at school, the mean remarks and the blunt jibes. I wanted to sweep my son up into my arms and make it all go away, make it better – and make him thin. Truth is, he is rather tubby. He carries a very large waist and being short and having the added burden of a low functioning thyroid, he is stands little chance of getting to grips with his excess weight. Max loves his food, but I make sure he eats healthily, Max thinks pudding is fruit.
But things slip in. Sausage rolls at parties, pizzas at a lunch out, Birthday cake, the odd treat, a sunny day ice cream, a biscuit here, a sweetie there. They all add up.
‘Why can’t I just poo it all out? Why does it have to stay? I’m not that fat, just my tummy.’
Similar thoughts I have had about my own weight! I catch myself in the mirror sometimes, shocked at the person looking. It’s not me. Max finally appears from the toilet and shoots me a grin on the way to the bathroom to wash his hands and clean his teeth. He’s completely naked, not in the slightest bit embarrassed and holds no issue with his body image – a least we got that right!
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
POCKET MONEY CHORES
Domestic chores are my least favourite occupation. Cleaning is a necessity I appreciate, but for me, if it’s clean enough to not be a health hazard, then I’m happy. I think it’s the repetitiveness of it all I find dull, plus I can always find many more exciting things to do. I can gain a huge amount of satisfaction from a deep spring clean and love rearranging the furniture, but every day? Forget it. Max and Charlie are now massive contributors to the daily carnage in our home, grubby shoes, dirty clothes, teenage magazines everywhere, soggy towels, not to mention the squalor of their bedrooms. I decided it was about time they made a contribution to the clear up. About time! I hear you shout.
I gave a summoning yell to the pair of them (which always makes them slightly nervous) and suggested they sat on the sofa while I delivered my ‘helping me with the cleaning speech’. Up till now Max and Charlie have been happily sticking out their little hands for cash every Saturday. A nice little earner with no strings attached known as ‘pocket money’. A generous sum I’ve always felt and for no real effort on their part. I gave it to them succinctly.
1. All dishes to be taken to the kitchen and placed on top of the dishwasher (can you imagine the mess if they dumped them inside?)
2. Beds to be made every day.
3. Every Friday night, bedrooms must be tidy. No dirty laundry, no mess.
4. All dirty clothes to be placed in the laundry basket in hallway by washing machine – NOT dumped outside Charlie’s bedroom on landing. (It’s become a bit of a habit.)
5. I reserved two other chore options to be delivered later. (Thought I’d keep a couple back, always good to have the upper hand.)
I finished it off with a ‘I expect them both to be generally supportive and tidy, blah, blah, blah’, which in hindsight was waffly and weak. That small indiscretion is going to come back and bite me big time.
Max was the first to respond with a snappy retort.
‘You want me to carry all my plates out to the kitchen after every meal?’
‘Yes Max, it’s something you do very well already, so just keep it up and you’ll be fine.’
‘So, if I eat more food and carry more plates out to the kitchen, I get more pocket money?’
‘Nice try – but no.’
Charlie had been silent for too long and his negotiations predictably arrived.
‘How many reminders can I have?’
‘No reminders Charlie. (I figured go in hard to show you mean business and then slacken off.) Step up to the mark, or forgo the cash.’
They both looked quite bemused. Although I have to say things are going well, but then, it’s only day three.
I gave a summoning yell to the pair of them (which always makes them slightly nervous) and suggested they sat on the sofa while I delivered my ‘helping me with the cleaning speech’. Up till now Max and Charlie have been happily sticking out their little hands for cash every Saturday. A nice little earner with no strings attached known as ‘pocket money’. A generous sum I’ve always felt and for no real effort on their part. I gave it to them succinctly.
1. All dishes to be taken to the kitchen and placed on top of the dishwasher (can you imagine the mess if they dumped them inside?)
2. Beds to be made every day.
3. Every Friday night, bedrooms must be tidy. No dirty laundry, no mess.
4. All dirty clothes to be placed in the laundry basket in hallway by washing machine – NOT dumped outside Charlie’s bedroom on landing. (It’s become a bit of a habit.)
5. I reserved two other chore options to be delivered later. (Thought I’d keep a couple back, always good to have the upper hand.)
I finished it off with a ‘I expect them both to be generally supportive and tidy, blah, blah, blah’, which in hindsight was waffly and weak. That small indiscretion is going to come back and bite me big time.
Max was the first to respond with a snappy retort.
‘You want me to carry all my plates out to the kitchen after every meal?’
‘Yes Max, it’s something you do very well already, so just keep it up and you’ll be fine.’
‘So, if I eat more food and carry more plates out to the kitchen, I get more pocket money?’
‘Nice try – but no.’
Charlie had been silent for too long and his negotiations predictably arrived.
‘How many reminders can I have?’
‘No reminders Charlie. (I figured go in hard to show you mean business and then slacken off.) Step up to the mark, or forgo the cash.’
They both looked quite bemused. Although I have to say things are going well, but then, it’s only day three.
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