Revelations of a Slummy Mummy

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 week...

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...

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 flower...

This month is autism awareness month. I know it seems that every single day is taken up by some awareness raising cause, but this is something that really doesn't get the societal spotlight it deserves. Let me explain. 352,197 people in 2013 were diagnosed with cancer. That's about 1 incidence of cancer for every 182 people. And we've all heard of cancer. Money is spent on educating, awareness raising, researching, preventing. You name it, it's probably being done, and absolutely rightly so. Cancer is a cruel and indiscriminate disease which continues to destroy lives daily.  Now before you get your knickers in a twist about the slightly controversial link I just made, let  me be clear. I DO NOT think autism is a medical disease in the same way as cancer. It's not primarily physical and it can't be cured with conventional medicine. It's not something to be devastated about and it certainly isn't a killer. My point was merely this. Autism spectrum di...

The best types of mum come in all shapes and sizes, With one thing in common which shouldn’t surprise us Mums love from their heads to the tips of their toes, Despite the chaos and challenge that life sometimes throws. ‘Come on, hurry up, we’re going to be late.’ ‘Have you done your homework?’ ‘Please clear up your plate!’ ‘Why is the fish swimming round in the loo?’ ‘And no, not right now, you can’t go for a poo.’ ‘Stop fighting, but if you insist then bog off.’ ‘You’re not dying, get dressed, it’s only a cough.’ ‘Will you please put your clothes to be washed in the pile, Your room smells like hellrot, it truly is vile.’ ‘I love you a lot but right now it’s quite hard, To like you so much when the window’s in shards.’ ‘That willy joke’s funny, but 12 times today?!’ “Yes, I can see you had fun at school with messy play.’ ‘This cake is delicious, you’re such a great cook!’ ‘No, the iPad doesn’t count, you have to read a real book!’ ‘You...

January is a tough month for most people. The financial wasteland that seems to stretch on forever before the long awaited January payday, the Monday-morning feeling which lasts for a whole friggin’ month, and the shitty weather - in the UK predictably alternating between crap-it’s-so-cold-I-just-accidentally-keyed-someone’s-car-with-my-nipples and oh-shit-it-looks-like-I’ll-have-to-swim-to-work-again. Not forgetting of course the in your face promotion of all things ‘healthy’ directly after a month of shameless media-driven hedonism involving alcohol, cheese, and a substantial increase in waistline. January is difficult again for me. It’s the month I lost my mum. Three years ago now she got unexpectedly sick with pneumonia, partly due to her poor general health but partly due to the one inadequate gas fire heating in her home, which she didn’t put on out of fear of not being able to pay the bill. All round, January is not my favourite or my best when it comes to happy months. If you ...