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.
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
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.
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