This is my ‘normal’

This is my ‘normal’

The intense sadness is beginning to ease now. Waves of heaviness still creep up on me at times but I cry, wipes my tears away and face another day with a smile.
Maybe I am getting to that point of acceptance?
Maybe I am realising it isn’t the end of the world and I still have two beautiful, amazing children?
Or maybe it has all just become ‘normal’?

I looked back on some old videos and photos this week. There were happy moments of my children playing, flapping moments at lifts, lovely memories of my daughter singing, and too many photos of my children eating! Reminders of how things were and a stark reminder that in many ways things are just the same.image

My son still has his chubby cheeks, big brown eyes and cheeky smile. My daughter has stunning golden hair, piercing blue eyes and beautiful petite features.
And my son is still not speaking…

This is my ‘normal’.

Since my children were months old I have been trailing them regularly to hospitals and clinics. We have so many professionals involved they have to add extra chairs at every meeting. If we decide to change something, if my children have medical issues arise or don’t eat their dinner for a couple of nights I feel I have to call everyone to keep them up-to-date. I have phone calls from schools, people dealing with our children, and others who have just received referrals about them on an everyday basis. We have to take our mobiles everywhere and be available to pick our children up at short notice at any time. Every week I have to discuss with transport about times my child will not be at school due to appointments.

This is my ‘normal’.

I have visuals in every room of my house, we have regimented routines, I read the same bedtime story every single night. I make the same dinners, in the same way, at the same time every week. I buy my children the exact same shoes in the next size hoping they won’t notice I have changed them as their feet grow. We visit the same places we have been to before. I use google street map to show places before we go there and I have become an expert at knowing where every single lift is in every shopping centre within travelling distance of my house. I spend hours watching hand dryers with my son because it keeps him happy.

This is my ‘normal’.image

I can’t tell you if, or when, my son may speak. I can not tell you if, or when, my daughter may overcome her severe anxiety or be able to speak in school. I can not say if, or when, my son will ever stop wearing nappies. I do know my son is unlikely to ever attend mainstream school in any capacity. I have no idea if he will ever learn to read or write. I have no idea if his tumours will grow anywhere else in his body or if his seizures will remain stable.
I live with uncertainty. But I also live with intense gratitude.

This is my ‘normal’.

I am thankful for everything. I celebrate the mundane. I kiss and hug my children in private and in public without caring what anyone thinks. I smile because I have a thousand reasons and more to cause me to. I laugh with my children. I treasure life and find enjoyment in everyday moments. I take pictures of my children like tomorrow is not guaranteed. I love with all my heart because my children have taught me too.

This is my ‘normal’. And normal is good.

Just imperfect parents raising imperfect children

I have a confession to make: I am not a perfect mum.image
I just needed to get that ‘out there’ without feeling a failure or weak. The truth is none of us are ‘perfect’ parents and none of our children are ‘perfect’ either. We are all muddling through as best we can. It’s just some of us are under more scrutiny than others.Most families get to raise their children with minimum involvement from others outside of their own family. I don’t have that luxury. And while I am grateful for everyone who supports us it also comes with huge pressure to ‘perform’ and ‘jump through hoops’ at times.
I left another multi-agency meeting this week in tears. While no-one actually came out with the line of ‘it’s the parent’s fault’, there is always a feeling of inadequacy that comes with having children who have ‘extra needs’. Sometimes it can feel like your best is just never enough.
So I just need to get this out:
I am not perfect and neither are my children.

My children throw tantrums often for the craziest of reasons, they have more screen time than they should, sometimes we are still in pyjamas at lunch time at the weekend. I sometimes let them sit right in front of the TV even though I know they shouldn’t, I help them get dressed some mornings for school just because it is quicker and easier, and I have even thought about doing homework for them because I just can’t face another battle (I said thought as not quite mastered the art of writing and spelling like a six year old).
My children have off days.
And so do I.
Just because my children have special needs does not make my family any different to any other. In fact we are probably more exhausted, more chaotic and busier than many other families.
We live in a glass house at times where teachers, social workers and therapists feel they can tell us where we are going wrong and what we have to do to help our children. Sometimes it is helpful; sometimes it isn’t. I don’t have all the answers, but neither does anyone else.
But we are doing our best.
It is easy for others to judge and criticise and ‘guide’. And there are times when someone outside of the situation can see things we just can’t which is helpful and supportive. But on a daily basis we live this.
I know I get it wrong at times. And I know other times I get it just right. Sometimes my children master something new, sometimes they don’t.
Special needs parents are no different to other parents really. But because our children ‘struggle’ in areas it puts pressure on us to ‘fix’ them and support them when all we really are is imperfect parents raising imperfect children.
When we get it ‘wrong’, be kind. When we get it ‘right’, encourage. We are all raising unique, wonderful, individual children with different qualities and skills. And we are all doing it in the best way we can.
My children’s struggles may be obvious but everyone of us struggle, wether child or parent.
Be kind, be supportive, and don’t judge.
Every single one of us are just imperfect parents raising imperfect children at the end of the day.

Finding beauty in the simple

Peace can often best be found in moments of simplicity.

The last few months have been anything but calm in my family with illness, upset and medical challenges and I have had to learn to find tranquility in the points of each day that may easily be overlooked. I could become overwhelmed with the endless screaming for example but that ten minutes when he laughed and flapped at yet another hand dryer shows me that such a simple thing can bring so much pleasure. Or watching his sister get so excited at the workings of  revolving doors. These are the moments I have to treasure in the midst of chaos.


imageLike the moment the other day when I was playing a game with Naomi and for the first time her twin brother showed an interest too. It took so much for both children to play together: one requiring encouragement and reassurance that I would not allow her brother to once again ruin the game or become violent and the other requiring huge physical and mental support to have any idea what the game was about. But despite that we had a beautiful moment. It was simple. But my twins played together for a brief moment. They connected and that was the moment I will remember from that day, and hopefully they will too. A moment of healing, peace and beauty in an otherwise stressful and chaotic weekend.

Life is not easy. I will never pretend it is. My children have huge additional needs and that puts a massive amount of stress and pressure on us all. But in among the endless meetings, appointments, forms, phone calls, paperwork and high care needs there are moments of love, moments of beauty, and moments to treasure. Right now those are the things I am looking for in every day. It is the glimmer of gold dust in among the filth, it is the rainbow in an otherwise wet and grey day, it is the diamond that appears when you least expect it.

I came across this poem I wrote about twenty years ago and it sums it up:

Beauty in the simple

Have you eyes to see the beauty in the simple?
Do you stop to smell the roses as you drive?
Inspiration will derive from all that’s simple
And it’s the simple things that keep us all alive

Have you eyes to see the beauty in a raindrop?
Or notice all the colours in the grass?
Have you ears to hear the song the birds are singing?
Or watch the insects crawling as you pass?

Have you time to notice how the leaves are falling?
Or gaze as clouds are drifting through the sky?
Can you taste the purity of water?
Have you listened to a new-born baby cry?

Have you eyes to see the beauty in the simple?
Or grasp those tiny details all around?
A creator who was wise and so inspiring
Knew that beauty in the simple could confound.

It really is amazing how a simple thing can make a big difference. My son may never be able to say I love you but his hugs say so much more.


Who supports the parents?

imageAnother letter. Another meeting. You know, the ones where everyone and their dog meets to discuss YOUR child? Now don’t misunderstand me here: I am so grateful for professional input, I appreciate them taking the time to come and I value there opinions (mostly).

The thing is though, they are doing what they are paid to do. They come dressed for the occasion, prepared, fresh and professional. And I just can’t compete with that.

I know I am ultimately the ‘expert’ on my child, but I don’t always feel like that.

I come to the meetings a very different person to them. I am mostly harassed, sleep-deprived, emotional and ill-preparedstres. I have not had the liberty of having a relaxed breakfast or had 15 minutes to apply my make-up. I have not even have a minute to use the bathroom in peace!

The times are set to meet their schedules, not mine. While I know the challenges involved in getting so many people together in the same place at the same time, I also know there will have been emails flying around, telephone conversations and tweaking of times and days among themselves to find a point of agreement. None of which I will have been involved in yet I am expected to just be there.

And I always am. Because it is what we do as parents and because I know these things are important for my children.

And so the meeting will go on. Each person will say what they are doing to help and support my child and reports will be circulated. It may well be minuted and if I am lucky I may even get a copy. Then they go their separate ways, each back to their own office, or base, or classroom and proceed with their day.

While I go home to cope with the everyday demands of two special needs children. Whilst in school my child appears to be well supported I wonder, not for the first time, about who supports the parents?

We are the ones dealing with the challenging behaviour, the meltdowns, the endless screaming, the not sleeping, the sensory difficulties and the food refusals. We are the ones who do the personal care, fight to get the uniform on and battle to get them to school. When the holidays come we are left alone and everyone at the meeting carries on with their day.

We are the ones fighting with schools, dealing with transport issues, and filling in forms. We are the bottom line and the most important people in it all. Our opinions matter hugely, our insight is important and our knowledge crucial. We should be valued, respected and acknowledged. We are the true professionals, the best experts, and have the most invested in our child. But we also deal with the reality so much more than anyone else.

I love that so many people support my children. But I do wonder sometimes when I watch other families going through the same thing as I do, when I hear so many parents of special needs children struggling with depression or crumbling with the stress of it all;

Who, in all this, is supporting the parents?

Preparing for ‘The talk’


It’s always when you are busy that children suddenly choose a moment to spring something on you, and tonight was no different. I was right in the middle of preparing tea for the kids when my six year old walks into the kitchen, her voice tired and slightly emotional:
“Do you know something mum, me and my special friend, I just think there is something different about us…”

Oh boy! It’s just an ordinary Wednesday night in late August. I am cooking dinner and thinking about homework we will be doing together soon after. My mind is on mashed potato and school uniform for tomorrow and now I need to urgently think how to respond to a statement I have been waiting for for a while now.

My daughter has autism and she attends a mainstream school. Her best friend is on the cusp of being diagnosed too though they are both very different.

How to I approach this? I want her to know she is unique and wonderful, but also recognise that she finds some things more of a challenge. I need to keep it at a level a six year old can understand without babying her or over simplifying a very complex neurological condition.

I must remember to talk about social differences, sensory differences, understanding language differently, rigid thinking, repetitive movements….my mind is racing ahead now…

Oh, maybe I should text her friends mum and warn her or even chat to her about how we approach this. The girls are bound to talk tomorrow and I owe it to my friend to prepare her for what her daughter may discuss. Maybe I should delay ‘the talk’ until the girls are together? Yes, maybe we should be doing this together so they both understand and hear the same thing?

Actually, maybe I should wait until my son is not distracting my attention too. He has classic autism so I must remember to talk about that side too. But that might confuse her? She only commented that her and her friend were ‘different’ so maybe she hasn’t realised how different her twin brother is yet..

I finish dishing up dinner to find her right behind me sitting at the table watching and waiting. I go get her brother and give them their dinner and decide ‘the talk’ can wait another moment while I switch the kettle on. I have a feeling I could do with some caffeine to help me.

She hasn’t said anything else since that statement. My drink is now ready and with my mind still whizzing and my heart beating fast I decide I can not delay this any longer.

I need to go carefully. I need to watch my words and check her understanding. She might be ready for this but I am not sure I am…

And go!

“Right sweetie, what was it you were saying about you and your friend being different…”

Sip of caffeine and a short pause later…

“Well I was just thinking mummy…you know at playtime, well me and my friend like red crisps for snack and everyone else has something different”

And breathe….

And with that simple fact ‘the talk’ once again got put to the side for another day.

That day will come though. And I need to be ready. I just hope I don’t have fish fingers and baked beans cooking the next time she asks…

Grieving for a child I haven’t lost

imageAs I sat on the bench in a public park the tears came easily. Watching little toddlers peddling trikes and mothers chatting to babies. Seeing pre-school children laughing and chatting as they wheeled around the water on their brightly coloured scooters.

It has been building for a while.

The night before last it was anger and hurt as a friend shared how her 14 month old was defiantly talking back when they were trying to get her to bed. I wanted to scream and say ‘but she understands! But she talks!’ Instead I mourned silently.

The world goes on while I grieve for a child I haven’t lost.

It is a very different pain to others. I know the pain of not having children. I know the pain of losing a yet-to-be-born baby. I know the pain of losing someone very close. I know that feeling of despair and anger and hopelessness. People understand when they know you have loved and lost.

But how do you explain you are grieving a child you have not lost?

I get to read to my son. I get to bathe him and dress him and kiss him. I hear him laugh when I tickle him and get to push him on the swings at the park. He goes to school. He will watch a video sometimes. And yet he is lost.

I have yet to hear his voice. I grieve for the conversations we will never have. I grieve the fact I will never hear him sing or shout or chat with friends like those little ones in the park. I grieve for the fact I will never hear him tell me a joke or talk to me about his day at school. I grieve for the loss of never hearing him whisper ‘I love you’. I can only dream about what his little voice may sound like, how it might have grown in depth and tone as he aged, what sort of accent he may have had or how he would pronounce names of people he knew. A part of him will never be. And I feel the loss and pain of that.

I grieve for all the milestones I have missed and may never have with him. As I watched a mum bend down to hold her son’s hand today to help him walk I thought about how much she takes for granted. Her little one was not much over a year old and yet he confidently held her hand to take some steps. By the time my child did anything like this he was tall enough that I had no need to bend and his hands were nothing like as tiny as her son’s. I have skipped the toilet training, the bike riding, the learning to read and write, the school plays, the attending clubs and the having friends. I have been robbed of things others take for granted and that should be part of normal childhood. There is a loss and a sadness for times that might have been but will never be.

There is sadness that I can not walk him to school or that he can not go to school with his twin sister. There is pain relying on others to tell me about his day when I should hear it from him. There is heartbreak watching the neighbours child of the same age jump on a trampoline and my son can not balance on one leg let alone jump. There is a lump in my throat when people ask what my child wants for Christmas and he still plays with baby toys at almost seven. We have never experienced the tooth fairy with him, he has no concept of Santa Claws and neither chooses his own clothes nor has the ability to dress himself. He has never said ‘mummy can I have’ or gone in a strop because he can not go out to play. He has no friends his own age and doesn’t get invited to parties.

He is here but to many he isn’t.

I have a son. He is my pride and joy. I am so proud of everything he does. But I still grieve for him, for the things he will never achieve and the experiences he will never have. And I grieve for myself as a parent when I see a world of parenting I can only ever dream about.

As I sat on a bench in a public park the tears came easily; tears of heartache and anger, tears of frustration and pain.

It is all part of the journey. Before I can move on I need to grieve for the loss. And grieving takes time.

So please forgive me and support me. Life goes on and I understand that. I have no bitterness at that.

But sometimes those tears are needed. Bear with me as I grieve for a child I haven’t lost.

When other people get involved


The uniforms are bought, the bags packed, and the children prepared to once again start a new term at school. It is with great anxiety and fear that once again I release my children into the hands of others to be looked after and educated for six hours a day, five days a week.

For the last seven and a half weeks I have pretty much been with them both 24/7 and even though that has brought pressure and stress at times, it has also been a relief to not have to deal with other people and schools for a while.

Now that is all about to end.

Once again other people are about to get involved in my life.

When other people get involved…

1. It is easy to feel like a failure.
While I know my children have thrived this summer under my care there will be teachers and therapists within my children’s schools who will only see the fact that their development has not been stretched perhaps as much as the would have liked, or they have not been challenged educationally or encouraged to socialise with others their own age enough.
Then there is the fact other families will stand in the school playground boasting of holidays abroad, play dates with friends and new skills their children mastered over the summer which my children may never achieve.
Being around other children the same age as mine and seeing what they can do and say has a way of making me feel like an utter failure within minutes, even if unintended.

2. Everything suddenly becomes a big stress.
In summer we ate when we were hungry, if we wanted to have pizza for lunch instead of dinner we did. We ate out now and again, we took packed lunches and went out for day trips and we had fish and chips at the end of a busy day. But now my children are returning to school where one barely eats and drinks and now food will become a huge stress again.
Now the professionals are back involved there is also an expectation to ‘move the children on’ in areas they have become stuck at and we are expected to follow “proven” methods or be criticised even when these may not be right for our child. Stress!

3. The pressure to perform becomes huge.
Did anyone care if my son wore an un-ironed t-shirt last week? Returning to school brings with it a pressure to have children dressed smartly, in uniform, and arriving on time, having eaten healthily and slept well. All of those things are major challenges for my children with sleep difficulties, sensory issues, limited diets and no understanding of time. Forgetting homework, leaving the packed lunch at home or not remembering PE kit has you instantly marked down as a terrible mother and raises my daughters anxiety to a level that makes her ill. There is pressure to keep up with the other children in the class and do weekly activities too. Having other people involved in caring for your children puts so much pressure on us all.

4. I lose knowledge that is vital to communicate with my children.
My son is non verbal and both my children have social and communication difficulties (autism). Being with them all summer has meant we have learnt to understand each other. My son would only need to find a photograph to show me and I would immediately know what he was trying to communicate because I was there with him and I know what he enjoyed. When other people get involved I lose that vital connection and no school diary or ten second talker can make up for the fact I am not with my child and therefore I have no knowledge of what he is trying to communicate. He may have heard a song at school he wants to hear again and I am expected to just ‘know’ and because I don’t we have hours of self harming, frustration and upset all round.
Neither of my children can properly communicate to others when they are hurt or where. Neither will adequately communicate when personal needs require to be met or that a food may make them feel sick. This is the bit I hate: that not knowing and having missing pieces that they can not explain to me and I have no means of working out.

I know there are some advantages of having other people involved though. It is important my children become more flexible and less rigid in insisting only I can meet their needs. They also do need to learn independence even if they will require support throughout their life. There is also the fact that having some professional involvement can actually help by bringing new ideas, support me and help access resources that can make a difference. We just need to learn to communicate, trust and work together.

I need to let go. After almost eight weeks with my children that is hard. But for my children’s sake and my own it really is important…

To let other people get involved.