Revelations of a Slummy Mummy

I've been sitting on this for a while. Not literally, you understand. Sitting on any Tory for whatever reason is not something I wish to engage in. Ever. *shudder* I wanted to make sure my response was considered given the current shit hot mess of a world we find ourselves in.  Iain Duncan-Smith falls well and truly into that category of Tories I don't wish to sit on. As the parent of a severely disabled child with complex educational and healthcare needs, I have nothing but contempt for this man in his professional capacity. He's made disastrous decision after disastrous decision as Secretary of State for Work and Pensions; decisions that have had direct detrimental impact on the lives of numerous chronically ill and disabled people.  This clip  (see here)  took shit to a whole other level. Essentially, distilled into one short interview, we see the priorities of the Tory government regarding not only immigration, but also what constitutes basic human worth...

FREE BOOZE! Confession time. I feel like a fraud. I just spent a night at a very fancy BAPS (Bloody Awesome Parents) award dinner for SEND (Special Educational Needs and Disability) bloggers. The evening was hosted by Sally Phillips, the brilliant comedienne best known for the likes of Bridget Jones and Miranda, who also happens to have a ten year old affected by Downs Syndrome. The dress code was 'formal', which for me meant digging out the one generic non-scruffy item I own, and even then I was sincerely underdressed. There was a posh dinner, complete with multiple cutlery sets; thankfully my mate Rachel* was on hand to tutor me through the whole experience (outside in, if you're ever in a bind..). And there were more acronyms than you can shake a stick at. At one point I got a little concerned I'd eaten the next door neighbour's bread roll- seriously, make that shit clearer, it's 50/50 right? The Oscars of SEN blogging.. I'd gotten throu...

A trip to the park should be a cosy, heartwarming affair. Right? Giggly squeals from small rosy-cheeked faces. Little fingers clutching at blue rope that's inclined to give you rope burn if you hold on too tight (or have to haul your not-so-little self up by). I used to offer silent blessings to the park-gods for every half hour killed at the play area with the small people in my stay-at-home-mum days. I also used to smugly survey my winning-at-life-ness when it was always everyone else's kids starting toddler wars or causing general chaos while mine politely waited their turn on the slide, or offered to help push tiny ones on the swings. Oh, how the tables have turned. Now, an outing to the park resembles the Hunger Games. Except instead of being the person running from the threat of death, I am the one trying to rein it in. Yes, that near death experience is, in fact, my child. My child with a myriad of complexities. My child who sees the world entirely upside-down compared...