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.
Tuesday, 5 May 2009
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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