Friday, 10 March 2017

All the things no one told you about becoming a mum (and some things you wished they had)


1-At some point in your parenting career you will accidentally ingest your child's faecal matter. Usually in the process of determining whether it's mashed dribbly biscuit or shit on your trousers.

2-Your hoo-hah will never be the same again. This, dear friends, is truth. No amount of pelvic floor exercises can make up for the fact you have pushed a watermelon sized object out of a much smaller sized orifice. And probably needed stitching up afterwards. That shit ain't so fun.
Of course, if you have a C-sec, this won't apply. In which case, I am very happy for you. Really. Very delighted, in fact, for you and your in-tact vagina.

3-The more you convince yourself you will not be that parent- the one whose kid throws those shit fits-the more likely you are to birth Jodie from the Amityville Horror. Karma's a bitch man.

4-You've not felt pain until you've stepped on a lego brick. You also realise your levels of self control while trying not to shout the C-word at top volume in response to aforementioned bastarding lego brick.

5-Trying to pick a name for your baby suddenly highlights how many people you actually hate.

6-You will undoubtedly have to deal with the look of sheer horror from a stranger as you spray them with human milk, usually in a café context when your baby decides the surrounding environment is far more interesting than feeding, and pulls off right at the crucial moment. Cue fountainous milk squirtage- soaking and sticky-fying everything within a two metre radius. Go go gadget boobs.

7-All toddlers have a death wish. Accept this fact. Keeping them alive is about all you can hope for.

8-A word of warning- encouraging open conversation can have it's downsides. 'Mummy, this is strangling my vagina' is not a particularly socially appropriate phrase when out in public. In fairness, her leggings were too small- and we've all been there, right ladies? But still.

9-You would definitely trade your soul for a night of uninterrupted sleep. You'd consider trading your soul for an hour of uninterrupted sleep.

10-Your child WILL shit in the bath (lovingly referred to in our house as a shituation) and you will instinctively scoop it out bare handed. Who knows why, but you will.

11-If you are one of the unlucky ones, your child will shit in the public swimming pool. You will instinctively swish it to dispel, and run away.

12-Ice creams were made for dropping headfirst on the floor. Gravelly ice cream is perfectly acceptable to hand back to your child, even if you'd never touch it in a million years.

13-Hangovers and school runs are not compatible. Hangovers and soft play even less so. Dragging your hangin' self to a fluorescently-lit environment full of shrieky children will never be a good plan.

14-Once you have a kid, you honestly can't remember what life was like without them. I'm convinced this is nature's way of ensuring we don't abandon or eat our young like so many other species in the animal kingdom.

15-You'll think your kid is the most amazing, beautiful, intelligent, awesome creation on the planet... When they're sleeping. The rest of the time you'll fantasise about selling them on eBay.

Solidarity to all you mums out there, managing to juggle a million balls AND keep their children alive. Kudos and respect.

                                                                   


                                       
                       




Monday, 27 February 2017

Hospital Funzies... said no person ever

It's really something when a potentially enormous life event gets swallowed up in the chronic chaos of the daily. Mainly because life is so full of the life-or-death stuff it becomes the norm. I'm currently sat in Poole hospital, hanging out in the pre-op ward. Not for shits and giggles you understand- I hate hospitals with a passion and would rather walk across hot coals than choose to be here. I even pass all B-hospital-duties over to S, as far as possible. That's not to say I haven't spent my fair share of time here. I have, which is probably why I hate the place so much. While I completely understand the life-saving benefits of a free NHS, and wholly appreciate the settings which provide that care, for me there's too much association with past stuff. Too much time spent visiting parents as a kid, and too much time here myself in various capacities. So yeah, not my forte. 

I'm here because they need to get a growth out and there's a small chance it might be cancerous. Not enough of a chance to be legitimately worried about, but a risk none the less. Due to the micro-chance of malignancy it's all happened fairly quickly; I only had the consultant appointment 2 weeks ago. I am somewhat annoyed at the absolutely appalling timing, what with it being final semester of my final year and all. For the sake of uni work I've had to plan for worst-case scenario, which meant getting my head down and cracking on to get a dissertation draft submitted before my op. The dissertation is the one piece of work in my whole uni career to date that can get feedback prior to marking. And only ONCE. No pressure. Basically, hand in your dissertation as close to complete as possible so as to make the most of your once. Anyway. I managed. Quality wise, I'm not so sure, but at least I got it in right?

I also have the irritation of being completely out of action for a few days, regardless of the cancer/no-cancer outcome. Without a decent practical support network and a B, this shit is not a luxury we can afford. I was actually meant to have an elective op after coming off my bike and obliterating my ACL, but the recovery was four weeks. As much as that would be great, four weeks?! No chance. We're down to a skeleton carer team and no overnight respite right now. This ebbs and flows depending on a few things, but generally people working in the care sector a-don't get paid enough and b-can't keep up the intensity that is working with kids like B over a long period. We're acutely aware of this as employers, and try our utmost to make sure we don't give people too many hours, and that those hours are not too condensed. It's like juggling knives while walking a tightrope- utter piece of cake. 

I'm needle phobic. Like properly needle phobic. It sucks balls. I pride myself on being able to handle most things without a big fuss or bitchy whining- my pain threshold is pretty high, and my stubbornness isn't easily beaten down. But that teeny tiny bit of scratchy metal has me over a barrel. There is a context to this though, every time I had to go in as a kid- every time- a blood test would take at least three attempts. Bad veins apparently- slip all over the place the little fuckers. Every time I needed bloods I told them to use a butterfly (the tiny needles for people with shit veins), and every time I seemed to land up with the arrogant arse of a nurse who assured me their skill did not necessitate a butterfly. Multiple attempts coupled with a weird blood clotting issue meant beautiful rainbow shade bruises and consolidation of my initial needle phobia. Catch 22. 

Today, same thing. I needed a cannula put in to administer various exciting pre-op drugs to guard against excessive bleeding on the operating table due to the haemophilia stuff. I know what you're thinking- and I concur. I'm just plain greedy when it comes to anomalous and rare life experiences. Sorry about that. I should really consider others when snaffling up all the exciting stuff.

Anyway, I gave the guy the shit veins spiel, and he predictably cracked on with gay abandon. Attempt one: busted vein right hand. Attempt two: busted vein left hand. At which point the adrenaline had kicked in and I politely informed him if he didn't nail it on attempt number three it would end up with the unfortunate punching of his nice face, or me vomming all over the floor. I don't usually mince my words, but throw some adrenaline in there and yeah. I could be considered rude. Poor guy obviously performs better under pressure- attempt three was a winner. I whispered a loud 'thank fuck' as he told me not to move, speak or breathe while he finished getting that bad boy in. Yes, yes, I know... so many innuendos. Moving swiftly on....He told me he'd just said the exact same thing in his head, but was maintaining professionalism by keeping it there. 

So here I am, hooked up to a drug infusion tube, and feeling a bit like I imagine B to feel every mealtime when we hook him up to his feed pump. What a bloody pain in the arse. 45 minutes a time, 3 times a day. It's restrictive and sucky, and for a kid with limited understanding probably damn irritating. 

But hey, bright side living yes? Always shiny bits to suck the marrow out of? I went to the loo in the most fetching of outfits- the hospital gown. That coupled with the stripy socks and all stars and I am right up there for designer of the year. I sashayed my way down the corridor catwalk style, only to realise the world and his dog were privvy to an excellent view of my Granny-knickered arse since the tabs had come undone on the gown. Not one for introversion, this wouldn't usually have bothered me, but I'm not sure the very nice slightly handsome surgeon following in my wake cared for such a view. And then. Then I peed on aforementioned undone tab. And it all went wrong. 





See you on the other side. 


Friday, 24 February 2017

Radio Human

I'm a science girl. Unashamedly, I might add. Statistics. Evidence. All that good shit. That's not to say I don't also hold some entirely irrational and non-theory grounded opinions. I do. 

- I ALWAYS look left to right when I'm crossing the train track in Poole High Street. (Yes, Poole High Street has an actual train track running straight through the middle of it.) If you think about this it's entirely ridiculous. I've yet to see the invention of an invisible silent train that doesn't trigger the barriers, and I'm pretty sure that won't happen in my lifetime. 

-As far as possible, I avoid stepping on these at all costs:


In my overactive imagination, each manhole (square?) is a trapdoor-style portal into the underworld, waiting to suck unsuspecting passers-by into a parallel dimension. The only basis I have for this is Red Dwarf. Hardly the height of empiricism. 

- I smack the TV if it's fuzzy. No reasoning. None. I am well aware it's likely to make the issue worse. But still. I. Can't. Not. Thump. The. Box. 

So yeah, there are occasions when my science brain takes leave, but for the most part I'd like to think I make the most rational decisions based on the info available at the time. Excepting Facebook. I'm an avid facebooker despite 90% of the shit I scroll-by irking me 99% of the time. As an (almost) social scientist, pop psych bullshit from dodgy sources really pisses me off. I reserve a special level of rage for the supposed fix-your-life crap on inspirational sunset backgrounds. I mean fucksake guys, at least reference that bollocks so I can direct my internal fury at an actual person. Sorry if that offends anyone, I'm all for the whatever-works-for-you approach, but for me personally life requires way more effort than telling myself I'm awesome every morning. 

Plus I knew that anyway. 😆 

I came across this the other day, which hit a particular nerve. Don't get me wrong, I love a good pie... chart as much as the next person. But as the parent of a child with additional needs, this gave me the rage. And paradoxically got me thinking hard about people's perceptions of non-verbal kiddos. 


According to this very smart-looking pie chart with impressive stats and big words, 38% of communication happens through voice tones, 55% through physiology, and only 7% through verbal language. There is no reference to show from whence this magical fount of knowledge spurted forth. There is also nothing to tell me what exactly the chart creators meant by 'physiology' or 'voice tones'. Shouting at someone with your boobs out communicates more than regular clothed speaking? Well, duh. 

Overall, I guess it's (badly) labouring the point that communication is so much more than verbal speech. And while well intended pop-psych bullshit pisses me off, I absolutely agree with this basic premise. Let me expand. 

The last couple of days B has refused to get on the bus to school. Although he has no words to use, we can accurately infer from flailing limbs, accidental punches to the face (ours not his), and arms full of scratches that being on the bus is not a yes thing right then. 

We're not privvy to the why's. Could be the nasty stale-arse smell of the bus. Could be the screechy noises of the other kids. Could be the barely-contained simmering response of the bus driver to the car that just got thrown at his head. Could be his peg is sore. Or he's hungry. Or he feels sick. Or he's seizing. Or he had really bad seizures last night and is now brain-fogged. Or he's just frankly pissed off with life. Due to his non-verbal-ness we have no idea. Your guess is literally as good as ours....at least that's what it feels like. 

Our house happens to be on a main road. This main road happens to form part of the main route to the local primary school. The bus happens to arrive outside our main-road house just as every man and his dog stroll past on their blissful walk to school every morning. And to all and sundry walking past, how B communicates his bus aversion looks very much like a mammoth scale toddler tantrum. And it got me to wondering about perceptions of meltdowns and non-verbal behaviour from the outside. 

Because it looks like a tantrum, people assume it is a tantrum. And what do you do with tantrumming toddlers? Reasoning with a squawking two year old is akin to negotiating with Trump- pretty damn impossible. So, for their own safety, you scoop them up and physically manhandle them to the place you need them to be until they calm the fuck down. But here's the deal-applying that same principle to an older child with complex and additional needs is seriously dodgy. A lack of language does not mean zero understanding, and when a person's only method of communication is their behaviour, treating the stuff we as society deem 'inappropriate' with ignorant broad stroke toddler tactics is at best, hugely disrespectful, and at worst, hugely damaging. 

Essentially, it all boils down (again) to tolerance and understanding. When my typical children verbalise a choice or decision, I do not force compliance (physically or otherwise) if that choice does not match my own. Equally, I need to listen to my non verbal child as he's flailing in distress and refusing to walk out to the bus in the morning, not bundle him on as though his voice doesn't matter. 

I think a lot of this also boils down to embarrassment on the behalf of parents like me. Embarrassment which is consolidated rather than dispelled by society's attitudes. Trust me, we know our kids are weird. We're acutely aware it's not usual to drop to your knees and face plant a puddle at the park. We're fully feeling the not-love when our kids accidentally backhand yours in the face from over excited flapping and zero spatial awareness. We get the grossness of our kid dribbling all over the softplay stuff. And those times when we're waiting in the supermarket queue and our kid is kicking you in the back of the legs and screaming the fucking place down? We want a conveniently placed square manhole to suck us into an alternate universe. 

All parents are under constant social pressure to raise kids who conform and get on in society, it just ramps up a level when your kid doesn't follow the typical development trend. The punk anarchist in me would quite like to rewrite the unwritten society bullshit. It pisses me off that convention so often dictates our thinking towards people. Our kids break the social rules. They're not being brats (at least most of the time)- trust me that would be a hell of a lot easier to contend with. And the world is a horribly harsh place to be if that mould-breaking behaviour is our kids' only voice. 

So applying small-person behaviour tactics and ignoring the 'bad' shit while praising the 'good' doesn't work. My kid- my incredibly vulnerable kid- learns that I listen when he's happy but have no time for him when he's sad. What kind of ass-backward message is that? More than anyone, B needs to know I am his safe person. That I will always listen, even when no one else can hear him. I refuse to condition my child into 'social appropriateness' if it means losing the one link I have to communicate with him. Quite frankly, fuck that shite. 

So this would help us. And our kids. Instead of assuming, how about society learns to listen? To tune in to the wide bandwidth of frequencies on Radio Human, not just those that feel ok

*And yes, you have my full permission to whack that on a sunset background and improve your life. You can even Insta it. As long as you reference me, obvs. 







Monday, 13 February 2017

Dear Mrs May

Half term sucks. It is not a yay-we-get-to-lie-in-and-laze-about scenario. Not when you have a B, who, from the moment he wakes up to the moment he goes to sleep, needs line of sight supervision. His favourite activity at the moment is posting. All the shit, in all the places. I am done with fishing tiny random lego pieces out from behind the radiator, un-wedging books from the miniscule gap between the DVD player and the unit, and risking my actual life by blindly groping around for toy cars amidst the wires behind the TV. The most annoying thing? The posting of random items IN the bedside lamps. Why? Sweet Lord, why? I have no idea what runs through that boy's head. All I know is such obsessive chaos does not a chilled half term make. 

One thing that often escapes the radar of typical families is the complete lack of childcare for kids with additional needs. As in, regular childcare that we can ring up and book onto does not exist. I'll just let that sink in for a minute, in all its discriminatory glory. The array of options for typical kiddos is vast, and despite BH putting on a massive whinge fest at the thought of Supercamps, or the local leisure centre's Nerf Wars Day (I know-I'm petitioning them to run an adult version..), she does actually enjoy it. And more to the point, it exists. Parents who don't have the luxury of taking the school holidays off can rest easy that their little darlings have a range of fun filled activities to choose from while they work. For families of special needs children, this just isn't the deal. I get it. I do. The high cost of providing a trained one-to-one worker compared to that same one worker being legally able to herd ten kids is obviously inefficient. But here's the thing. On paper, there's legislation preventing such archaic discrimination. As children with additional needs, our kids' rights to equal opportunities and inclusion in 'mainstream' activities (like childcare and clubs) are enshrined in the fuck off massive Disability Bible, otherwise known as the SEN Code of Practice. As parents and carers of children with additional needs, our rights to access education and employment are legally protected in the Carer's Act. Those things go hand in hand. 

So what are we meant to do Mrs May? On the one hand, you're pulling financial benefits to make work worth it. With the other hand, you offer no support for the families like ours who do not have the luxury of surviving on one income, but who also do not have the luxury of working to bring home the bacon because there's no childcare provision. For me, this is where it gets personal. I have a strong work ethic. I apply myself 150% to whatever I happen to be doing at any given time. I gave up a decade to raise kids. TEN WHOLE YEARS of shitty arses, snotty noses, screamy meltdowns, and unsuccessfully attempting to re-dress Barbie after her clothes got pulled off in some kinky teddy bear's picnic scenario. Have you ever tried to put a bikini on a Barbie? Fucksake. It's possibly THE biggest fine motor challenge out there. I never did manage it. Add to that the constant care of a disabled child, complete with a myriad of appointments, relentless chaos, complex medical issues and negotiating completely unknown support service territory you never even knew existed and I'm proud to say, my skillset is fairly inspired. MI5 level research and negotiation capabilities. Check. Epic admin skills. Check. Daily clinical decision making skills. Check. Anger management skills. Double check - special thanks to the Borough of Poole for that, whose shitty meetings definitely deserve credit for the near-zen state I can now function in despite raging internal fire. And yet, the skillset I've developed counts for nothing. At least not in a professional capacity. In fact, I am disadvantaged and penalised on job applications for my gaps in employment. GAPS IN EMPLOYMENT?! Apologies. I've clearly been sitting around on my fat arse watching Jezza Kyle for the last decade. My bad. 

Let's get real Theresa. I would like nothing more than to work. Sitting for a whole ten minutes to drink tea on a break sounds like heaven. Spending time contributing to something other than preventing my children's apparent death wish would be a fuckin' holiday. But since I have no transferable skills, at least none that anyone values, I am unfortunately royally screwed. Oh and there's the small matter of practically enforcing all that lovely legislation on inclusive childcare and equal rights for all. You seem to forget to do that. So here's what I did, Ms May. I got myself into debt I can't afford and did a degree. Psychology, if you're interested. And before you ask, no, I can't read your mind. Against all the odds, I'm juggling a degree, while still managing kids, a million appointments, daily battles, and specifically a child that needs 24-7 care all the time. All. The. Time. No tea breaks for me, although some days I get lucky and manage to inhale a coffee in between a wriggly pad change and a tube feed. 

I'm in my final year Theresa. It's going good. I'm miraculously pulling off a first for the time being. But I am shitting a brick as to what next. If there is (illegally) no option of childcare for my disabled child, then is all my hard work worth nothing? Surely you, with your hardworking Tory family values, can see that this sucks. It's unfair, and it further disadvantages an already vulnerable sub-group of society. I am not happy relying on the state. Especially a Conservative-led state where economic efficiency is the measure of everything. Sorry we don't fit your income-generating criteria. BUT, you're not above the law. Keep your local governments accountable to enforcing this stuff. Stop assuming we are happy to sacrifice any personal ambitions just because we have kids who need more than you are willing to provide. In case you'd forgotten - which, in fairness, would be forgivable given the current authoritarian state the world finds itself in - it's 2017. Not 1917. So please, Mrs May, hear this plea. Put us on an equal footing with all the other regular families out there. We want to contribute. We want a chance to change the world too. And to be perfectly honest, we're probably some of the best people for the job. 

Thursday, 15 September 2016

By The Balls

These past couple of weeks have been a bit of a gamechanger for me. First up, I went to an incredible music festival out in deepest darkest Dorset. It's hard to put into words how much music means to me- it's my emotional escape. The place I go when I can't afford to lose my shit realtime, but need to vent and reset before cracking on with business as usual. It probably comes as no surprise that I'm a bit of an oldskool punk girl. Anarchic fuck-the-shitty-system type stuff holds a big chunk of therapeutic value for me, what with being stuck in such a system. Fighting every step of the way for my boy to be afforded the same value and rights as every other person in society. Check out Hard Skin-hands down one of my favourite sets at End of the Road- big swears and even bigger attitude. I'm not just into the shouty shit though- the hippie heart of me resonates with the ethereal, folky, ambient melodies. I'm currently girl-crushing on the inspiration of Laura Gibson- 'Louie' and 'Empire Builder' get me right in the feels every time. Music like that takes me to a different place just for a while- somewhere dancing naked in the forest with flowers in my hair and no cares in the world. Again, massively cathartic in the continual chaos. So yeah, the festival was epic. Every beer you could possibly imagine, and a fair amount of sweet smelling smoke drifting about the place too... 

Secondly, I went to Milan. Yep. You read that right. I came home from End of the Road, pitched my tent in the garden to dry since we packed down in the pissing rain, washed my stuff (muddy as you like due to previously mentioned pissing rain), slept in an actual bed for a night, kissed my kids, and fucked off again. A Swiss friend of mine who has a little girl with the same condition as B messaged a couple of months back to let me know about a European conference that was happening in early September. I googled flights and managed to get an EasyJet bargain, arranged carers to help out while I was away, and I was suddenly off to Italy. Given the opportunity, and the fact the kids had gone back to school by this point, I decided to grab it by the balls and booked a couple of nights in an Airbnb place in central Milano. For those of you unfamiliar with Airbnb, it's sheer genius. It's a website facilitating people with spare beds/rooms/houses to rent them out cheaply for a night or few. A good friend of mine recommended it, and even went as far as to say it would change my life. I had slight reservations about being murdered in some grisly fashion in a country I had culturally and linguistically fuck all idea about, but I have to hand it to him- he was absolutely right. The place I booked was super cheap -  the loft room of a house that had a sort of international hostel feel to it. During my brief time there I met people from Tunisia, Indonesia and other areas of Italy. Dinnering with this melting pot of culture was just incredible, and, if you ever get the chance, I'd thoroughly recommend preparing a meal with someone who speaks an entirely different language. It's a- hilarious (and takes three times as long - holding up veg to ask its name in Italian and charades-ing kitchen activities to make sure you're all on the same cooking page) and b-amazing what you pick up both language wise and culturally. 

On arrival I knew approximately three words in Italian, including pizza, cappuccino and gelato. I managed to follow the masses and get myself from the airport to Milan Central Station, but came a bit unstuck about what to do next. From what I could gather there was a magical place called 'Uscita' which was accessible via every doorway. It took me about five minutes (much to the amusement of my annoyingly intelligent mate- thanks Jase) to figure out that actually meant exit, and there was no mythical omnipresent land of Uscita. A little disappointing, if I'm honest. I also noticed pretty much every single Italian guy, and a fair few women too, staring at me like I'd just stepped off Planet Mars. I was an actual ethnic minority in my own right. Ginger skills level ninja. Pasty, red-haired and blue-eyed I was the polar opposite of the dark-haired bronzed beauties everywhere I looked. And there are some seriously beautiful people in that city. I felt quite the raggedy scruff.  To be fair, it was stupidly sunny so they may have been dazzled by snow blindness from undoubtedly the whitest legs in Milano. Legs that were not, by the way, welcome inside the cathedral- God apparently doesn't like naked knees or shoulders and mine were both on display, it being 34 degrees and all. Wandering the streets of such a different place was inexplicably liberating - I had no agenda, and found cool arts places, castles, and tucked away gelaterias serving the most delicious ice cream you've ever tasted. Stopping in the park to write I got completely soaked by the stealth sprinkler that turned on periodically to keep the grass nice and green. Obviously having no clue about this I was the comedy highlight of the afternoon for the locals looking on. And it's not exactly a problem, getting soaked to the skin in a place whose weather means you're dry in four minutes flat. I also managed to fulfil a bucketlist item- going to a random live music gig in a random city I don't speak the language of. You know, the proper underground local stuff. Finding such a gig in Milan on Thursday night (my one night free) was a pretty difficult task- I'm not sure their live music scene is quite as abundant as our British muso landscape. I did find one though, and after a crazy hour long journey I rocked up at the most hardcore prog-metal gig I've ever been to. Like I said before, the shouty stuff has its place in my preferred music menu, but this was thrash metal on acid and then some. Everyone was wearing black, and not one other person I found spoke a word of English. Trying to have any sort of conversation over the noise was difficult enough; throw in the language/culture barrier and I was royally screwed. But what an experience! 

And then the conference. I got the train out to a town just outside Milan to meet my Swiss friends, who kindly picked me up on their way through. It's almost impossible to explain to people the bond forged by common experience of parenting children with such a rare condition; seeing Nine and David, and then subsequently all the European families, was like coming home. Family, in the truest sense of the word. You breathe a little easier, knowing people around you get it. You see other kids doing the same weird things your kid does and no one bats an eyelid. I sometimes wish we could all live in a dup15q commune somewhere- shut ourselves away from the battleground of typical society and stay safe and understood. My warm fuzzies were somewhat interrupted by the weird vibes of the place we were staying in though. It was an old 16th century monastery, still functioning as such, with rooms for hire and meeting spaces. I explored a little en route to my room and my already-active imagination went into overdrive. I weaved in and out of insanely ornate chapel rooms past multiple bleeding Jesus and weeping Mary statues, and I'll be honest here, it gave me the absolute willies. Every time I heard a noise I jumped out of my skin, and when I turned the lights on they flicked on one-by-one in sequence down the hallway (complete with creepy buzzing noise) like something out of the fucking Conjuring. I genuinely prepared myself for bumping into a soul-tortured 16th century monk on the stairs and planned my exit strategy accordingly. Seriously. The place was literally the next American Horror Story set. Watch out for series six: American Horror Story: Monastery. I was meant to stay there an extra night as my flight left early Monday morning, and the conference finished on Sunday, but there was no chance. I'd already used up my knicker allowance and didn't fancy shitty skidmark pants from staying there alone an extra night. So I rang the airbnb guy and asked nicely for a free bit of floor, which he willingly offered. Phew. 

But all this got me thinking. The conference itself was taxing- emotionally, intellectually and actually I was physically exhausted from the automatic knackeredness which comes when you're immersed in a different culture and language for a while. I picked up some Italian, and depending on who was round the table at dinner, often ended up speaking French as a common ground. It's also weighty knowing that the info you gather then needs to be translated into action back home. Unfortunately for us we're stuck in a system where professionals rarely communicate with each other, and don't hold the opinion of parents in high regard. I'm the centrifugal force that keeps our world together and spinning. That's a big responsibility, and one I didn't ask for. Every day there are clinical decisions to be made, medical procedures to follow, communication to be had.... the list is fairly endless. The psychologist who spoke at the conference talked about our shit being chronic. Acute shit is more easily dealt with- it has a start and an end point. When you live with chronic trauma, it's less defined and much trickier to navigate. Relentless is a good word. The pressure is relentless. 

So how, in the face of continual chaos, do you survive? When you're giving everything, all the time, how do you keep pulling that superhuman strength out of the bag. I think over these past few weeks I may have gone some way to cracking that question. You want to know the secret? Grabbing life by the bollocks. That's my answer. Literally sucking the marrow out of every good moment, however small, and using that to propel you through the crap. If our focus remains solely on the trouble, we drown. No doubt about it. No human is cut out for this. But life, however hard, and however mad, always has shiny bits to offer. Music. Ice-cream. People connections. The smell of fresh-cut grass. Sea swimming. Laughing til your belly hurts. Those are some of mine. And the shiny bits, when we focus on them, remind us that in whatever messy format, life is always beautiful. Now please hear me - I'm not downplaying the crap stuff and offering a glib platitude of 'always look on the bright side.' I know pain. I've wrestled with those deep dark soul wrenching questions; the ones that turn life on its head to try and shake out the sense. I've experienced shit I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Bright side living isn't about denying that stuff, not at all. You can't avoid crap- it comes to all of us in one format or other. But you can embrace the good bits, however slight and however few and far between, sucking them dry and bottling them up as a rescue remedy for later. Seizing those life moments by the bollocks and making them count. Living extraordinarily in the daily grind which so often threatens to crush us to powder. Off beat, soul stretching life. Do something that scares you- I guarantee you'll remember it. Do something nice for someone just because. Say what you think. Be authentic. This is all we have. Being bogged down by what other people think, or living reservedly, or spotlighting the shit- they're all recipes for treading water. But living adventurously on every level? Unapologetically gripping life by the bollocks and making it count? That right there is bright side living-remembering that even in the shit there is magic, and life is precious. You might still feel like you're treading water, but those shiny moments are the unexpected cruise ship sailing by and hauling you on board for the last night party. 

Life by the bollocks. Do it. 



Friday, 12 August 2016

Summertime Seuss

Today I am suffering with acute bureaucracy fatigue. It's a condition characterised by eternal phonecalls to people who hold imperative keys for life support, reading up on legal rights and the SEN code of practice, trying to hold your shit together while facing the millionth diversion in the road of accessing aforementioned life support, and walking the fine line between megabitch and softly softly catchy monkey. 

I think i'm fairly on point when I say that most parents find the summer holidays somewhat crazy. For working parents, there's the matrix of childcare to sort. For those at home, there's the frightening prospect of keeping all your children (and yourself) alive AND entertained for six weeks. SIX WEEKS. For us, this six weeks resembles something of a desert road, stretching on into a horizon we can't quite see. It takes us a ridiculous amount of hours to arrange appropriate support for our family to survive the heat of summer. It kills me to need outside support to function, but B requires constant 1:1 line-of-sight supervision for safety reasons, and last time I checked, they hadn't cloned another one of me to look after the girls. Cue the Schedule of Destiny. Weeks in the making, this is not something to be sniffed at. In fact, I think most parents of special needs children probably have better research and organisation skills than MI5. Now there's a career plan. Anyway, back to the S of D. On Tuesday, B attended a holiday club, based at his school but run by some new care providers in town. The company running last year's club folded, for mysterious reasons unknown. This happens a lot with care providers. It sucks. And unfortunately, beggar boroughs looking for contractors of provision for disabled children are not often afforded the opportunity to be choosers. And because of the distinct lack of competition, the losers end up being our kids. The very people whose needs are supposed to be being met.  

Back to Tuesday. On picking B up, I was offered no immediate conversation with regard to his day. When I inquired, his 1:1 told me 'he's been absolutely fine.' That was it. B had at this point reached his limit and needed to leave, so I ran out of fishing time. I was given no indication of seizure activity. I didn't know how much he'd eaten and whether they'd needed to tube feed. I had no clue about the activities he had taken part in, what he'd particularly enjoyed or disliked. And then, on arrival at the car, I discovered he was wet and dirty. The kind of dirty which was fairly bedded in and had obviously been knocking about a while. Bearing in mind the massive prep work that had gone into these guys being offered the privilege of taking care of my child, this was not OK. I'd sat in meetings with management. I'd answered a million questions and filled in a million forms. I'd emailed seizure care plans, feeding plans, behavioural plans, medical emergency plans, and general information on my beautifully complicated boy. A vague one sentence feedback for a child who is entirely non-verbal, has a plethora of complex medical and learning needs and had spent a whole six hours in their care was NOT FUCKING OK. 

The ranty, sweary, life's-not-fair parent came to the fore at that moment, and later I sat with B, apologising for the shitty world he happened to be born into. As though it was my fault. But as his parent, it really does feel that way sometimes. I promised him I was trying my best. That I was fighting his corner. I really, really hope he knows that. And at that point I had two choices. 

Option 1: Suck it up and accept less-than-preferable care provision. Assume B doesn't really get it and be grateful that someone else has him for a few hours. Fly under the radar. Accept it's never going to be different. Me versus the system. I mean, he's still alive at the end of it, right? And even if he has had a shitty time, he can't tell me, so I can realistically crack on in blissful ignorance. Right?

Option 2: Step up. Again. Be the voice B doesn't have. Speak out. Call them on their crap. Firmly set the boundaries of the expectations I have when I hand the care of my child over to someone else. Repeat the same things I've said a thousand times. Suck up that B might not have any provision if I do that. Fight, even in apparent futility. Fight even when I know the provision is massively outweighed by need and so there's no real accountability for the care providers to get their shit together. 

There will always be kids whose parents choose option 1. Honestly, I understand that. This chaos demands every ounce of energy every minute of the day. The admin, the emotional rollercoaster, the physical meeting of care needs- it's all costly. And for some parents, there's nothing left to give at the end of that. 

But I'm a feisty bitch. My personality is naturally a little confrontational I guess. I can't settle knowing I haven't tried my absolute best at something. I find it hard to sit still, or relax, in case I happen to be wasting a moment of my life in which something awesome could have otherwise been accomplished. I know it's not an altogether healthy place to be, and I'm working on it, but in this scenario it's pretty good. 

So I took a deep breath and emailed. It was fair, calm and constructive. I've learnt along the way that an insulting email minus any actual outcome targets is entirely useless, serving only to get everyone's backs up while earning you the label 'nightmare-bitch-parent-avoid-at-all-costs.' Not so helpful. Their response was less constructive, centering around the feelings of workers rather than addressing the very real concerns I'd raised and being B-focused. Next step. Option 1 or option 2. Always the choice. Every time shit hits the fan, or it gets harder, or I hit another barrier, I remind myself again why I am chasing option 2. 

In a wider context, taking the harder option and often shooting myself in the foot in the process feels right. If we start settling for less-than-best in the context of those who can't fight back for themselves, we surely start down a very slippery slope leading to all sorts of abuses of the most vulnerable among us. We also begin to dehumanise people. When the effort I put in to someone is dependent on what I can get back, their worth is reduced to some kind of fucked up economical exchange. B operates on a different level. Sure, he might not be able to communicate well. He is affected by complicated epilepsy which means he needs constant line-of-sight supervision. The people looking after him need to be shit hot on a million subtle complexities regarding his care. He is, as I mentioned before, costly. Emotionally, financially, time-wise and resourcefully my baby boy is expensive. It would be easy to settle for the least draining option. Palm him off to whoever will have him. Shrink back and decide any option is better than no option care-wise, and that I'm never going to be able to change the monstrosity that is the system anyway. But I refuse to dehumanise B to that. He is a person. Yes, he has difficulties and yes, he poses a challenge to a world so manically driven by productivity and accomplishment. But here's the thing. We as regular people so often exacerbate that same mentality. In the subtle society-approved dinner party questions we throw out on meeting up with friends. In the self-evaluation of our lives. And in the hopes and dreams we so often don't even realise we have for our kids until they're totally blown out of the water. We idolise the high flyers and forget about those on their literal knees, wiping shitty arses and caring for the unfortunate pitiful inconveniences among us. 

'What do you do for a living?'

'Have I reached my goals? Am I settled financially? Am I in a good job? Have I managed to get on the property ladder? Do I have a decent standard of living?'

'I really hope she gets into a good university.'

'He needs to find a nice woman and settle down.' 

Honestly, on a societal level, I don't even know where to start with valuing people for people. It's so inherent in our psyche that all the other peripheral shit is tangled up with our perception of worth. How do you start unravelling that? For me, I'm pulling the small thread that is B. Making sure that the care he receives matches his inherent worth as a human. Individually, not as part of a mass of 'people with disabilities.' And I'm going to make much more of an effort to hear people's stories. Care about the road they've travelled. Listen to their hopes and dreams and make those human on human connections. The connections where circumstance fades away in the strength of shared humanity. Imagine the richness of experience we could share in a world free from social class lines, and easy neat boxes we use to categorise and group. I choose to keep pulling that thread, even though the mass of knotty chaos seems overwhelming, and even when it feels like I'm the only one pulling. 

To end this slightly off tangent heavy post on a more accessible note, here's a couple of extracts from my favourite author ever. A super wise guy with incredible talent for rhyming, I give you Dr Seuss. 

Horton Hears a Who is one of the most insightful books on people I think I've ever read. An elephant finds a speck of dust on a clover, and on that speck is a whole planet of small people. His friends think he's crazy and want to boil the clover to end the ridiculousness, but Horton stays faithful to protecting the little speck planet. And this is why. A person's a person no matter how small.

'From sun in the summer to rain when it's fall-ish, 
I'm going to protect them no matter how smallish,
For even though you can't see or hear them all, 
A person's a person, no matter how small.'

Oh the Places You'll Go chokes me up every time I read it. My littlest is a huge Dr Seuss fan, and every night we read an epic rhyming tale together. Whenever I read this one, she always asks why my voice is wobbly and I have watery eyes. Dr Seuss talks about life, about how it doesn't always go to plan, and about how we can choose our responses in that. Kids book? Yes. Philosophical gem? Absolutely. 


'And when you're alone, there's a very good chance
you'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that can scare you so much you won't want to go on.

But on you will go though the weather be foul.
On you will go though your enemies prowl.
On you will go though the Hakken-Kraks howl.
Onward up many a frightening creek,
though your arms may get sore and your sneakers may leak.

On and on you will hike, and I know you'll hike far
and face up to your problems whatever they are.'


So, Dr Seuss, thanks for the life wisdom. Here's my little response. 

Yes, I am tired, and the weather be foul, 
And I'm constantly hearing the social-care howl.
But I choose to get up and stand tall and crack on.
Though the road that I'm walking seems way way too long

If I look really hard on this dark lonely street,
I'll always find someone amazing to meet
Their arms may be sore and their sneakers all wet,

But their stories are some of the best I've heard yet.

Monday, 13 June 2016

Epic Life Musings From The Sanitary Aisle

Sometimes, there are too many things that hurt. Too much to contend with that’s tough. It seems to me that if you care even remotely about making the world a better place, the longer life goes on, the bigger the task and the smaller you shrink.

I’m overwhelmed right now on a few levels. Personally, I’m tired. So. Damn. Exhausted. Lifewise nothing is mammothly different at the moment. There’s the constant kids. The constant B-admin. The constant two-steps ahead to ensure life happens for everyone, even if it is to a less-than-optimal degree. But relatively speaking, we’re in a slightly smoother patch. B’s seizures have lessened and as a result he’s been storming school. The girls are getting more independent and it feels a little easier to breathe. Although, disclaimer, I am still that mum who forgets every fucking form and sneaks into events frazzled and late. The ones I remember at all, that is. So it got me thinking; why, even in a good patch, are things so tricky?

This weekend simultaneously slapped me in the face and bit me in the arse with an answer. From fairly calm waters, a sudden storm. B, for reasons mostly unknown, was not a happy boy. We had meltdowns. Kicking, pinching, biting, scratching meltdowns, complete with the launching of anything that happened to be within his reach. He was flitty, unfocused and obviously bothered by something. But even the most educated and knowledgeable guessing did sweet FA to remedy the mystery problem. We had to keep the kids apart to make sure the girls didn’t get hurt. The stress of the whole situation seeped out like some obnoxious gas, turning the others into grumpy arses, which then, in turn, hiked up the stress levels a few notches more. Vicious circle springs to mind.

The trickiness isn’t in the day to day grind, although that’s relentless and exhausting enough. It’s in the soul-crushing unpredictability. One day I’m winning, the next I do everything exactly the same and I’m on my knees. I succeeded. I failed. I succeeded. I failed. I hate rollercoasters at the best of times, and right now is a vomit-all-over-the-person-in-front moment. Yesterday I realised I’d been standing in the same aisle in Asda for ten minutes. Ten whole minutes. I’m not sure where those ten minutes of my life went, or indeed what people must have thought about the decision making capabilities involved in buying tampons. I’d spent the day up to that point with B and BH, which is enough to scare any responsible grown up, but after maximum chaos in soft play (hawk-eyeing B to save any poor T-shirt clad small people from getting pinched, and then an epic WTF in the tube feeding department-B scratching and flailing and feed flying everywhere) today was particularly harsh. I think I brain-blanked, and when I did come to I just wanted to cry. Right there in the sanitary aisle, which would obviously have done wonders for all those patriarchal hormonal-PMT-crazy lady stereotypes. Sorry feminism. As it was, I didn’t cry- floodgates and all that. But I would have happily wandered off into another life in that particular moment. Not because I don’t love my kids. Not because I’m a horrible human. But because life. And the absolute chaos that rules day in, day out.

Then the Brexit stuff. I mean, I’m sure many of you know my views on this. I’m pretty vocal. But that stuff directly adds to the daily chaos in a very real way. Other than the uncomfortably obvious are-we-really-going-to-stamp-our-feet-and-fuck-off-because-we-don’t-get-our-way-and-are-seemingly-as-a-nation-a-little-bit-racist, the connotations are way more real life for me, and for other families like mine. The looming threat of Brexit fills me with actual, tangible dread for the future of all my kids, but especially for B. Shedloads of funding for services that would be considered basic for disabled children and adults comes from the EU. Without those basic services a whole sub section of our community are denied the right to humanity; to be fully and absolutely integrated as valuable members of that community. I speak selfishly and from my own standpoint, but I also know there is uncertainty over our economy, over our NHS and over our government if Brexit goes ahead. If the worst case scenario becomes reality, everything goes tits up, and in a few years we are expected to meet all B’s needs, financially and otherwise, alone and without outside help, I literally don’t know how I’ll do it. (Although maybe the boobs could come in handy-see previous post!) He’s costly, in every sense of the word. But he’s also a person and his worth, along with others like him, cannot, and must never be, reduced down to efficiency. The main arguments for Brexit are all economical. B doesn’t feature in that sort of decision. It’s true he’s not productive in an economic calculation. But that kind of thinking dehumanises him. I thought I belonged to a society that was better than arrogant pride. A nation willing to promote unity and diversity rather than make decisions based on fear of different ‘others’. Such scaremongering, arrogance and dehumanisation is not the heartbeat of a healthy Britain.

Living and giving a shit is seemingly pretty rough. It seems like the world is at an all time low, and apparently humans are idiots- who knew?! I’ll be honest, that zealous fire of optimism I used to have back before life happened has kinda dimmed to a barely glowing flicker. But what can I actually do to make the world, or at least my corner of it, a little bit better? I’m not altogether sure but I have some ideas. Grabbing the moments. Spending time making memories and reminding myself of the good stuff out there. Listening to music. Loving. Loving again. Loving some more. Especially when it’s costly and especially when it would be easier not to. Sharing my shit. Helping others with theirs. Believing it can be better. We can still change our communities at a grass roots level. We’re not entirely dependent on the machine, at least not yet. Please, please can we be better than this? Better than the individualistic, self-serving, system-feeding drones we are programmed to be. I need you. And you need me. The reigning noughties high school movie has a lesson for us all- we really are all in this together. (High School Musical, in case you’re interested. Definitely worth a watch.)


No human is an island. And no country is either, regardless of geography.

Friday, 29 April 2016

Off Piste

When people first discover I have a son with significant and complex needs, their instinctive reaction is often a slight but detectable head tilt, and a fleetingly brief expression of discomfort rapidly replaced by a somewhat sad, somewhat constipated (I can never quite figure it out) half-smile. Then to fill the thick, awkward silence I've just induced comes, 'I'm sorry. That must be hard.' 

I'm not in the business of tiptoeing around issues and my inner monologue regularly goes AWOL at the most inconvenient of times, which I'll admit, sometimes gets me into trouble. Bull in a china shop springs to mind, but anyway, in scenarios like I've just described, I think it's probably a positive thing. 

Truthfully, it is hard. Truthfully, as any loving parent would be, I'm frustrated by how difficult everything is for my child. I abhor above anything his medical issues- the brain damage; the unpredictable seizure whirlwind that sweeps through at random leaving a litter of broken skills in its wake. This stuff sucks arse. Yes, this stuff is hard.

But why are you sorry? And seriously, why, when you convey this to me, do I suddenly feel the urge to pass you the Dulcolax?! As I understand it, apologies are offered in one of two situations. One-when you've fucked up and need to make things right. Two- when someone's died. Unless I'm missing something, learning of a person's disability or learning they care for someone with a disability ticks neither of those boxes.

As much as I know it's probably not reflective of anyone's explicit intention, this knee jerk response speaks volumes about how, even in our enlightened, socially tolerant (!) 2016 state, we still view disability as an awkward, clumsy taboo. Apparently it's something that needs shrouding in sorries because we inherently see fuck-ups and grief. 

My son, and the countless others like him, are not fuck-ups. And trust me, honestly, there are times I need to remind myself that. The grief thing is tricky, and I can't help but think that perhaps if our culture wasn't so goal-orientated and competitive, the grief wouldn't be so much of an issue.

 As parents of disabled kids, we often find ourselves grieving the child that wasn't - the boy that met all his milestones and hit all the arbitrarily imposed tick boxes for a successful life. And by grieving the child that wasn't we so often miss out on the child who is. The boy that's right in front of us. I don't want to be that parent, so slowly (much more slowly than I like to admit) I'm stripping away those stupid restrictive boxes and pre-determined pathways that dictate what life satisfaction looks like. I'm going off-piste, and if disability is ever going to be viewed through a positive lens, I need you to join me.  

When I was visiting the States a couple of years back, a friend took me to Multnomah Falls in Oregon. Having lived in Wales for a few years and walked the Brecons most weekends, I was a little bit excited about seeing a giant American version. For all my States mates, I apologise profusely for what I'm about to say and please don't hate me forever, but.... well, it just wasn't all that great. The landscape was stunning, but the Falls themselves? They'd done that 'let's make is safe for tourists and put safety fences up and tarmac down' thing, and, as much as I tried to get past it, that kinda killed the whole experience for me. Was it safe? Yes, totally. Could you buy a nice latte from the cafe at the bottom? Absolutely. Could you pee in a sanitised environment? There were even loo seat covers. Was it genuine, and authentic, and raw, and real? No, not so much. 

Going off track is never the easiest or safest thing to do. There's the very real chance that you'll fall off a cliff, or step on a snake, or get bitten to death by huge red ants. You might even have to re-route a few times, or climb through a field of cows, or get bitten on the arse while you're pissing in some stinging nettles. And this is my life, most of the time. Negotiating shit I have no clue about, facing up to situations way beyond my skill level and, for the most part, blagging it. BUT. And here's the beautiful but. Going off track makes you feel alive. The itching, the lack of caffeine, the constant re-routing all pale in comparison to the incredible sunset you just saw from the best vantage point ever (a vantage point completely vetoed by the health and safety tarmac brigade). Or catching a glimpse of that rare bejewelled bird who steers well clear of the tourist areas and seeks solace in the wilderness. Or seeing those crazy colourful little flowers that struggle to push through the cement of the easy paths. These are the things we miss when we're constantly craving the easy way, the way most everyone else chooses to go. 

For me, craning my neck and straining my eyes in the direction of where everyone else's child is and where my kid 'should be' does nothing except blinker me to all the amazing stuff right where I am. This week B gave his carer a kiss. Completely out of the blue, when we were playing together in the lounge, B smooshed his face up against his carer's cheek. And smiled. I wish I could convey how mammoth that is for us, and for B. A kiddo with autism, who rarely seeks out contact or interaction- that kiddo kissed his carer. An unmistakeable and deliberate show of affection. That was my ultimate sunset view. This week he's also been persevering (something he's not great at) at trying to turn his little trains on. They have the most bastard fiddly switches, not great for kids with fine motor issues, and this week we've been working on helping B to turn them on himself instead of just doing it for him. Every time he hands us a train we say 'pointy finger.' Do you know what he does? He only bloody sticks out his index finger! He gets it and HE STICKS OUT HIS FINGER! That's my beautiful rare bird right there. 

Every day I realise more and more that he has as much to teach me as I do him. Patience, love, respect, and how actually, going off the beaten track is maybe, despite all the shit bits, the most liberating thing we can ever do. Thank you B, I love you. 

So next time someone mentions disability, please don't perpetuate the pity party. Instead, come join us. The crap stuff is crappier, but the stuff you experience going off piste is more life-inducing than you can even imagine. After all, the higher the mountain, the better the view right?











Tuesday, 19 April 2016

Sizz City

In the city of Sizz lived a mighty fine mix
Of Trumpers, Ba-Bators and frilly Farzicks
Each creature was different, it made things quite fun
Important with ten different jobs to be done

The Trumpers would toot on their Flug-a-Fone flutes,
While Ba-Bators created the most brilliant boots
Boot-shoes are fantastic for shoeing your feet
And Sizz-lers the best kind of shoe-ers you'll meet 

The Farzicks helped too in the most helpful way
Their legs were so stretchy they walked in one day
The distance that most in a year could not manage
Delivered shoes swiftly, all new and undamaged

Sizz-city was truly an excellent place,
Each which-way you looked was a friendly-ful face
Til one day a new mayor strolled right into town
He wandered straight in and he tore the place down

The Sizz-lers, (I hate to inform you but must)
Were a little too free in their giving of trust
They loved their new mayor by the generous heart-ful
Made dinners, picked flowers, brought boots by the cart-ful 

But this mayor (by the name of McGubbins Magoo)
Was super-smart clever, he knew just what to do
He hatched up a plan in his brainiest head
'I won't be the bad guy', he thought, 'No, instead

I will show them their differences, shed a new light
So a difference is no longer good in their sight, 
But a most awful thing that must quickly be banished'
Then that devious McGubbins took off and he vanished

He called for a meeting to make some new rules
The first thing to change, he insisted, were schools
Long-legged Farzicks were too tall for the buildings
Most Sizz-lers objected, but the mayor was unyielding

Ba-Bators, of course, thought themselves mighty grand
Without them there would be no more boots in the land
And all feet need shoes, it is factually true
And Ba-bators made many in rainbow-esque hues

The Trumpers had nothing to offer a school
It's true that the Flug-a-fone music was cool
Their brains though, a little small-minded at best
Not one single Trump-child passed alge-count test

The plan! It was working! Right down to the letter!
Each person was thinking their own type was better
Mayor Magoo, well he didn't have too long to wait
Those silly old Sizz-lers snapped right on the bait
Sly Magoo really knew how to rile up a crowd
Working up from a whisper to shouting mad loud
'Children of Sizz, you must listen to this.
This sparkly city has lost all it's fizz
To fix it, he said, there is work to be done
There is change to be had, and this change will be fun'

'From now on' he bellowed, his voice deep and boomy 
'Your schools will be better, less crowded, more roomy
Ba-bator kids' classrooms will be in the West
Where they'll learn tricky things and pass alge-count test

The East will be home to the tooting flute Trumpers
Whose classes will fail (well, we know they're all flunkers)
And as for the Farzicks, they're a little too high-
Their lessons up north, in the northern-most sky'

So the Sizz-lers (who now thought that difference was bad)
All stuck to their own in case others were mad
Old friends were abandoned and types stuck like glue
Knowing which one was what one and what one was who

Well then pretty soon things began to go wrong
Ba-bators discovered they needed a song
Precisely the song from the Flug-a-Fone flutes
To help them keep making their rainbow-hue boots. 

The Trumpers and Farzicks sat twiddling their thumbs
Left out in the cold, teachers labelled them dumb
The things they did best weren't allowed any more
And it hurt them a lot, made them sore to the core. 

The Sizz-lers (all types) got more sad by the day
'Til the smallest and wisest Farzick had her say.
She cleared out her throat with a sweet gentle cough
Spoke three simple words- 'ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.

Since when did we all go completely doo-lally?
For three weeks I have not seen my best Trump-friend, Sally
I am different and bad, so she's told by her mother,
But difference, perhaps, is why we NEED each other

Ba-bators need music to keep making shoes 
The best kind of boots with their rainbow-esque hues
The tunes come from Trumpers who make such sweet sound
The sweetest and soundest for ten miles around

Our super tall legs mean we walk for one day,
And reach places and lands super far-far away
It makes us quite handy for dropping off boots
Those boots made to toots of the Flug-a-Fone flutes

McGubbins Magoo is a bad sort of mayor
A mayor whose small heart is not able to care
For difference is definitely NOT a bad thing 
That difference is what makes our Sizz truly zing 

So Trumpers, Ba-Bators or Frilly Farzicks
Let's change this around, and let's change it round quick
Sameness is dreary, but difference is fun
Difference is teamwork to GET THE JOB DONE!'


So the Sizz-lers got really quite smart on that day
The day they sent Mayor Magoo on his way...