Revelations of a Slummy Mummy

One thing I’ve been learning on my counselling course, alongside the sheer bloody-mindedness necessary so as not to crumble in a crying heap in the corner, is that the ability to get through tough stuff depends hugely on the ability to find joy in life. For those graph nerds out there X (being survival of the shittest) is exponentially linked to Y (capacity to find fun). Some of the most awesome people I know fall into this category, time and again shedding the skin of sadness to make room for the wings of delight. Now let me make myself clear, I’m not a fan of those Facebook fakes- you know the ones, the people who clog up your news feed with zealous tales of bliss every three seconds. Prosecco and besties- happy days! Fun family times #funinthesun Best weekend ever- love my crew! Off on adventures #holidayamazingness. These people’s blasé approach to exclamation marks and blatant overuse of upbeat adjectives honestly makes me want to punch them in the face. No, I’m talking about...

We all have them. Pancake days. The ones where you wake up in the morning bleary eyed and begrudging your alarm, look in the mirror and wonder why a raggedy old troll has inhabited your body, get even more irritated than usual at the damp towel in a nice neat pile on the floor, and envy the fresh cheery faces of your offspring who, incidentally, have no troll or towel related concerns. I’m talking about the flat days. And when I say pancake I don’t mean those fluffy American monstrosities, I’m relating to our skinny modest Brit versions. The days where everything seems tainted with just a tinge of doom. Not quite sufficient to tip you over the edge into a black hole of despair, but just enough of a sprinkling to shower your day in grumpiness. I’ve had a few of those days recently. A pancake week, shall we say. I’m currently on a counselling course (as in learning how to be a counsellor) which requires constant self analysis and awareness and is, quite frankly, exhausting. Dredging...

So I know you’re probably sick of my rantings about the injustices of raising a special child, and I can imagine some of you thinking that it really can’t be as bad as I make out, that surely in the year 2014 we’d have some near decent provision for special kids in our community. You’d think right? I recently took all four kids to the Oceanarium in Bournemouth. It’s currently school holidays, which, incidentally, makes me want to throw a flailing tantrum and bail on life for two weeks; something I resist strongly until my husband walks through the door at the end of the day. I hope he knows how lucky he is to have me ;) The Oceanarium is one of a handful of places I can take all four kids by myself; small enough to let the girls free range while I shadow B, with enough entertainment for a good hour or so. That plus the journey there and back, usually on the peasant wagon due to S needing the car for work, means we can kill about half a day. Genius. At the moment B has a pencha...

I watched something on Facebook today that made my blood boil. And before you ask, no, it wasn’t the latest fake Justin Bieber marketing scam or the pop-up ads presuming that because I am female and not a size zero I clearly have suicidal tendencies induced by lack of self esteem. Although those do come a close second. It was this: http://www.wfsb.com/story/24812844/teacher-records-autistic-boy-stuck-in-chair A hideous example of everything that’s wrong with provision for additional needs children in mainstream school; in actuality, a hideous example of how NOT to teach, in my opinion. A child of eleven, stuck in a classroom chair and left for at least ten minutes is bad enough. For a significant and responsible adult in charge to then film the incident takes it to a whole other level. Add in that this child also has autism and I genuinely wonder what the world is coming to. If any one of my children (‘normal’ or otherwise) was ever treated in that way I would have serious self restr...