Revelations of a Slummy Mummy

Today I am tired. Tired because sleeping is hard and my brain won't shut off.  Tired because four kids and the subsequent mundane bollocks of such activities as Tesco. I really really resent spending precious life moments fucking food shopping in the monstrosity of the mega market.  Tired because admin and bureaucracy.  Tired because it feels like my head will explode with one more bloody Oxford-ism. I swear academia mostly involves learning multiple pretentious words to describe a few simple-ish concepts in a thousand different ways. Except philosophy. Fuck philosophy.  Tired because I have been fielding seizure related phonecalls from school today. B's epilepsy is an arse right now.  Tired because this past weekend revolved around trying to look after a very manic, very unsettled little boy. The consequence? My hands are covered in scratch marks, and anywhere on my body that's B-reachable bears some kind of bruise.  Exhausted b...

Sorry not sorry for the angry undertone of my title. We've been struggling with a seizure shitstorm for the past while. I say we for a reason. Epilepsy takes no prisoners in relation to who it affects, and although B bears the brunt of the brainfuckery, the whole family reaps the unsavoury results. Usually, when someone mentions seizure, the first thing that springs to mind for most people is the classic jerking fit. B has (thank fuck) only ever had a handful of these. Before my up close and personal encounter with the epilepsy hellscape I would have thought the exact same thing. But it's a myth. The reality is seizures can present in a million different ways; it's like the ultimate hundred-headed beast.  Considering our very existence boils down to billions of electrical signals being fired at lightning speed inside our heads, it's not surprising that when it all goes to shit, this could pretty much mean anything in terms of what actually happens. Everything ...