In the spirit of openness and honesty, for all the people who accidently landed here courtesy of Google, let me just state that at no point in this blog post am I going to be talking about anything that involves my boobs. This isn't that kind of confession. Nor have I found god. Sorry Catholics.
I am the proud mother of a disabled child. But I am also the proud mother of two able-bodied children (or whatever generally accepted pc definition you wish to categorise them as). One is serious and smart and capable of an extraordinary ability to love and an even more extraordinary ability to survive on very little sleep. The other skips and pirouettes through life managing to juggle frivolity with a deep and sensitive understanding of other people’s emotional complexities, and just happens to have the fartiest bottom of anyone I have ever met. These two are the unsung heroes, the forgotten siblings in the special needs world.
Nothing marks the approach of the glorious school-run-free summer holidays than the school sports day where everyone can see equipment like a bowstring. It’s something that has enormous significance for the children, largely due to the practices that start weeks ahead of the event which heightens the anticipation and gives them a taste for the
I hated doing homework the first time round, so why would I suddenly start enjoying it more when it comes to my children’s homework? That’s called homework help. All the drama, tears, eye rolling, procrastination, lying on the floor feigning a death rattle just to avoid sitting at the table and getting on with it,
We had another trip up to Great Ormond Street Hospital yesterday afternoon. It was a situation that proved the necessity of keeping a good working relationship with the doctors there, no matter what the history. Dominic’s knee had starting dislocating randomly just before we left the hospital. Obviously with everything else going on (see here