I am unpacking the last of my Christmas shopping. I see that I have bought a box of marzipan fruits for my Nan; the most sugary of the boxed goods of choice of the elderly. Rank with food colouring, bristling with sugar, they are almond paste roughly fashioned in to the shape of out of proportion fruits, the interpretation of each manufacturer as divergent as you could wish for.
I think it would be nice to go to the pub with my Great Uncle, who would rag me horrendously for this purchase whilst regaling me tales of his youth. We would raise a glass to my Aunt, and I could tell him the terrible joke that The Boy told me, which my Great Uncle would duly make dirty and unrepeatable to anyone under the age of 21.
I forget that my Great Uncle has been dead for over 6 years, and my Nan for over half my life. I think about how their relationships with my children would have developed, and what they could learn from each other. I think about how well my son would have got along with my Grandad, and how alike my daughter is to my Great Aunt.
From time to time, I get a whisper of the past. I remember sitting on a bus going through Chingford Mount, two years after my Grandad had died and having the sensation of him being nearby. I could smell his aftershave, could smell the slight smoke of cigarettes, and I smiled and thought of him fondly.
I may see something that would have intrigued my forebears; hear a joke that would have made them laugh; read a news item that I want to talk about with them. Something happens that makes me miss them more, and sometimes I am devoid of feeling to their absence; I know they are not alive, but I cannot feel the earth's loss of them. It is almost as if they have never been. When this happens, and I remember, I try not to feel guilty. I try to remember that living is the best gift we can give those who loved and cared for us in our infant hood; who nurtured us as if we were their own child. It is hard to forgive myself nonetheless for what I see as the betrayal of their memory.
What is worse, and so much more painful, is that sometimes; sometimes I forget that they have died. I can sit, shaking my head, angry at myself for nothing. Sometimes, it feels like they are right here, whilst at others... Sometimes I forget.
For Ella, who is never forgotten.
10 December 2012
2 December 2012
Every Time
Last week, The Boy walked into a concrete bollard, face first. He had planned to somersault over it, but his carefully thought out action was scuppered and scuppered hard.
Bug came home from school on Monday, in floods of tears. The eponymous "Someone" in her class had told her that her was rubbish (Bug styles her own hair with 7,000 hair clips jauntily attached to every square millimetre of her scalp).
On Thursday, The Boy told me that, despite trying to keep his hands and feet to himself, he had ended up hitting children in his class out of frustration. He told me "I guess that's my last chance to have friends gone then."
When I look at my children's my instinct is to wrap them tightly in cotton wool, with a bubble wrap overlay, before securing them with brown tape. I want to keep them safe; hold them to me. I want to stop life from harming them in any way; to protect them as best I can from the world.
I look at my own life. I think how many times I have been hurt. How many times I have felt broken, how many times I thought I would never come back or recover. Every bloody painful time, I I did, though whether this stems from strength or stubbornness I can not tell you.
And I think, really and truly, that it's worth it. It's worth the pain and fraught nights and the relentless torment you inflict on yourself at 4am in the morning that drills deep in to your insecurities because you're tired and scared and lonely and can't see any way out, and you never want to sleep again or even close your eyes because you don't trust what you will imagine, whether it be true or not.
For every fear induced panic attack that sees you choking back the tears caused by your own stupidity or what you perceive to be somebody else's stupidity towards you, there have been times. Great times, times full of wonder and amazement, filled and overflowing with fabulousness. Times that you never wanted to end and, just because those times have ended, it doesn't mean that there won't be more. More good times with different people, in different places. Just because the good times you were having finished for now, it doesn't mean that the great times won't happen again.
It's putting yourself out there; risking it all, accepting that you have the choice. You could be safe, but who wants to always be safe? You'll never know unless you try.
And yes, it might all go to shit, and you may hit your face on a concrete bollard, or have some style lacking drone tell you your great inventive hairstyle is rubbish, or think you're a terrible parent because your kid has a disability that you can't control, or you may crave to be loved and held but are scared of getting let down again, or want to leave your job but you're terrified of what may happen if you do.
Will it be ok? I don't know, I'm as clueless in all this as you are, but we're not going to find out unless we try. Will it always be worth it? Will it always go well? No. Of course not, but you have to stop thinking of failure. You have to be confident that you could succeed. Will it be easy? Nope. Never will be. But you know, as do I, that every time we try, there's a chance. A chance that things could go well. Not sometimes, but every time. Every. Single. Time.
Bug came home from school on Monday, in floods of tears. The eponymous "Someone" in her class had told her that her was rubbish (Bug styles her own hair with 7,000 hair clips jauntily attached to every square millimetre of her scalp).
On Thursday, The Boy told me that, despite trying to keep his hands and feet to himself, he had ended up hitting children in his class out of frustration. He told me "I guess that's my last chance to have friends gone then."
When I look at my children's my instinct is to wrap them tightly in cotton wool, with a bubble wrap overlay, before securing them with brown tape. I want to keep them safe; hold them to me. I want to stop life from harming them in any way; to protect them as best I can from the world.
I look at my own life. I think how many times I have been hurt. How many times I have felt broken, how many times I thought I would never come back or recover. Every bloody painful time, I I did, though whether this stems from strength or stubbornness I can not tell you.
And I think, really and truly, that it's worth it. It's worth the pain and fraught nights and the relentless torment you inflict on yourself at 4am in the morning that drills deep in to your insecurities because you're tired and scared and lonely and can't see any way out, and you never want to sleep again or even close your eyes because you don't trust what you will imagine, whether it be true or not.
For every fear induced panic attack that sees you choking back the tears caused by your own stupidity or what you perceive to be somebody else's stupidity towards you, there have been times. Great times, times full of wonder and amazement, filled and overflowing with fabulousness. Times that you never wanted to end and, just because those times have ended, it doesn't mean that there won't be more. More good times with different people, in different places. Just because the good times you were having finished for now, it doesn't mean that the great times won't happen again.
It's putting yourself out there; risking it all, accepting that you have the choice. You could be safe, but who wants to always be safe? You'll never know unless you try.
And yes, it might all go to shit, and you may hit your face on a concrete bollard, or have some style lacking drone tell you your great inventive hairstyle is rubbish, or think you're a terrible parent because your kid has a disability that you can't control, or you may crave to be loved and held but are scared of getting let down again, or want to leave your job but you're terrified of what may happen if you do.
Will it be ok? I don't know, I'm as clueless in all this as you are, but we're not going to find out unless we try. Will it always be worth it? Will it always go well? No. Of course not, but you have to stop thinking of failure. You have to be confident that you could succeed. Will it be easy? Nope. Never will be. But you know, as do I, that every time we try, there's a chance. A chance that things could go well. Not sometimes, but every time. Every. Single. Time.
7 August 2012
The Sea
"Come on, Mummy!" She calls to me as she paddles in the waves. "Let's go further in to the sea and pretend we are splashing in muddy puddles!"
I am immobilised; not through fear of the water, but from the certainty that I would not be able to stop walking in to it, until I could go no further and all life was but a speck on the landscape to me.
"Not today, sweetheart" I say. "Not today."
I am immobilised; not through fear of the water, but from the certainty that I would not be able to stop walking in to it, until I could go no further and all life was but a speck on the landscape to me.
"Not today, sweetheart" I say. "Not today."
19 October 2011
Words change, but some people don't
I was fortunate enough to be brought up by my grandparents. It gave me an appreciation and understanding of ways of life other than what may be accepted by members of my peer group as "the norm".
Nan was a very solid, sensible woman; practical, hard nosed, desperately proud, quick to temper, prone to sulks at times. She was funny, rude, informative and kind. She could destroy you with a look but was the one who would sit stroking my hair and calming me during one of my many childhood night terrors.
Grandad was a quiet man with a quick wit. He liked a drink and to socialise, performed magic tricks; an expert storyteller with an ability to convey and capture you in a chronicle like no other. He worked nights and we were often needed to be quiet during the day so he could sleep, but he ensured that he spent time with us three children, sharing something special and unique with each of us.
They were people of their time. Nan maintained she was racist but to me this seemed akin to most people's assertion that they are C of E; something that she had been brought up to believe but showed no empirical evidence of. Grandad was fond of getting an attack of what he called "The Sillies", but worked tirelessly as a union shop steward at Ford's.
Words were words in our house. There were no banned words, simply words that were used and words that were not used. Surprisingly to anyone who knows me now, I was late to swearing as I did not hear it at home.
I recall coming home one day from school, having heard a word in the playground, to ask what it meant. Nan turned ashen and Grandad was summoned from his bed to speak with me.
We walked around the garden, and Grandad told me about when he came to England, aged 16, during the war. He was spat on, refused entry to places, beaten up several times and these were the lighter aspects that he could tell to a 7 year old. When Nan and he married, her family refused to accept the match. He told me about their early lives together.
In later years, Nan became increasingly immobile. She had horrendous leg ulcers for which she endured many years of painful operations, and as she refused amputation, she needed a wheelchair to get around. As times had changed so had attitudes towards the Irish, although an Irish accent then equated to an association with the IRA in much the same way as a turban indicates membership to Al Qaeda today for some members of the community. He was addressed and she was ignored, the assumption being that she had in some way lost the ability to talk because she had lost the ability to walk.
Both experienced name calling based on an assumption of what and who they were, having been judged based on other's expectations of what they could achieve. Perhaps they always stayed quiet and accepted it; perhaps they challenged it; certainly they did not "get over it".
Regardless of how the meaning of a word may evolve or change, the intention behind its use does not always move at the same speed. People may change but not all people do.
After that chat in the garden with Grandad, I have never repeated the word I asked him about that day and can still only refer to it as "the 'p' word". He told me that to use words that pick up on other's differences, either as a weapon, a percieved defence or as a casual shorthand was not what he expected from me. I will not disappoint him in this expectation as I believe it to be true.
Fast forward to now. I have been subjected to other's "hilarious" casual use of words that have been used against my son, and on challenging them have been told I am over reacting. Language matures and the meaning of a word may advance, but the intention behind how it is used and received may not. It cannot be for anyone to challenge another's reaction to a word, because they do not know their life experience behind it.
When I read or hear words that I consider to be archaic anachronisms, it surprises me rather than shocks me. It makes me feel shame and pity; shame that the person using the word is so ignorant, and pity that they are living in a world where they think it is acceptable to demean others by casual reference to their colour, sexuality or disability before they criticise anyone who addresses them on it.
It's just not something that we should consider to be acceptable if we claim to be civilised and educated. Is it, Ricky?
Nan was a very solid, sensible woman; practical, hard nosed, desperately proud, quick to temper, prone to sulks at times. She was funny, rude, informative and kind. She could destroy you with a look but was the one who would sit stroking my hair and calming me during one of my many childhood night terrors.
Grandad was a quiet man with a quick wit. He liked a drink and to socialise, performed magic tricks; an expert storyteller with an ability to convey and capture you in a chronicle like no other. He worked nights and we were often needed to be quiet during the day so he could sleep, but he ensured that he spent time with us three children, sharing something special and unique with each of us.
They were people of their time. Nan maintained she was racist but to me this seemed akin to most people's assertion that they are C of E; something that she had been brought up to believe but showed no empirical evidence of. Grandad was fond of getting an attack of what he called "The Sillies", but worked tirelessly as a union shop steward at Ford's.
Words were words in our house. There were no banned words, simply words that were used and words that were not used. Surprisingly to anyone who knows me now, I was late to swearing as I did not hear it at home.
I recall coming home one day from school, having heard a word in the playground, to ask what it meant. Nan turned ashen and Grandad was summoned from his bed to speak with me.
We walked around the garden, and Grandad told me about when he came to England, aged 16, during the war. He was spat on, refused entry to places, beaten up several times and these were the lighter aspects that he could tell to a 7 year old. When Nan and he married, her family refused to accept the match. He told me about their early lives together.
In later years, Nan became increasingly immobile. She had horrendous leg ulcers for which she endured many years of painful operations, and as she refused amputation, she needed a wheelchair to get around. As times had changed so had attitudes towards the Irish, although an Irish accent then equated to an association with the IRA in much the same way as a turban indicates membership to Al Qaeda today for some members of the community. He was addressed and she was ignored, the assumption being that she had in some way lost the ability to talk because she had lost the ability to walk.
Both experienced name calling based on an assumption of what and who they were, having been judged based on other's expectations of what they could achieve. Perhaps they always stayed quiet and accepted it; perhaps they challenged it; certainly they did not "get over it".
Regardless of how the meaning of a word may evolve or change, the intention behind its use does not always move at the same speed. People may change but not all people do.
After that chat in the garden with Grandad, I have never repeated the word I asked him about that day and can still only refer to it as "the 'p' word". He told me that to use words that pick up on other's differences, either as a weapon, a percieved defence or as a casual shorthand was not what he expected from me. I will not disappoint him in this expectation as I believe it to be true.
Fast forward to now. I have been subjected to other's "hilarious" casual use of words that have been used against my son, and on challenging them have been told I am over reacting. Language matures and the meaning of a word may advance, but the intention behind how it is used and received may not. It cannot be for anyone to challenge another's reaction to a word, because they do not know their life experience behind it.
When I read or hear words that I consider to be archaic anachronisms, it surprises me rather than shocks me. It makes me feel shame and pity; shame that the person using the word is so ignorant, and pity that they are living in a world where they think it is acceptable to demean others by casual reference to their colour, sexuality or disability before they criticise anyone who addresses them on it.
It's just not something that we should consider to be acceptable if we claim to be civilised and educated. Is it, Ricky?
23 August 2011
Ch...Ch..Ch...Changes
Life has a habit of changing and evolving whilst you merrily skip through it, utterly oblivious.
Where once you hated olives, you have a sudden hankering for all things meze. Your love for the lead singer of an indie band waivers when he starts comparing a well known fast food branch to people being shot, and suddenly you wonder if he really could invade Poland whilst retaining your loyalty.
Other things, like a hatred for Bono that verges on the distractingly passionate, or a love of The Muppets that would embarrass you at 37 if you actually gave a shit about these things, remain very much the same. Unchanged. Set in stone. A bit of a comfort.
As someone who constantly awaits her own inevitable upcoming failure and downfall, life is always interesting. I await karma's punishment for everything I do, for no good deed appears to go unpunished in my world, it's merely a case of whether that punishment is metered out by me or by the universe at large. The worst of these two options are the punishments I dole out to myself. I cannot forgive myself for what I would regard in others as attarctive character traits, but in myself I view with abject disgust. It is the downside to being a relatively happy depressive, or the pessimistic optimist if you will.
I have been attempting to change. Not in a huge way, but in the smallest, least significant of ways, I am attempting to build up something resembling a self esteem, something ego shaped; trying to like myself, if you will. Cripes on a bike it's a challenge, but I am trying (and yes, lawks alone knows I am so very, very trying).
It is the small things, the seemingly insignificant factors that are the things that start to both chip away at your carefully constructed protective walls whilst using those parts to start building a foundation. The most relevant thing I have done thus far is to not repoint the walls; to allow them to crack, to crumble and to stay that way.
It's nothing to those of you who believe in yourself, who insist that they deserve good things to happen to them and who have established their right to be in the world by spaying your ego around like a tom cat marking its territory. For me, who mentally flagellates and physically punishes herself and herself alone for her part in all her deeds, whether good or bad, it is enormous.
Where once you hated olives, you have a sudden hankering for all things meze. Your love for the lead singer of an indie band waivers when he starts comparing a well known fast food branch to people being shot, and suddenly you wonder if he really could invade Poland whilst retaining your loyalty.
Other things, like a hatred for Bono that verges on the distractingly passionate, or a love of The Muppets that would embarrass you at 37 if you actually gave a shit about these things, remain very much the same. Unchanged. Set in stone. A bit of a comfort.
As someone who constantly awaits her own inevitable upcoming failure and downfall, life is always interesting. I await karma's punishment for everything I do, for no good deed appears to go unpunished in my world, it's merely a case of whether that punishment is metered out by me or by the universe at large. The worst of these two options are the punishments I dole out to myself. I cannot forgive myself for what I would regard in others as attarctive character traits, but in myself I view with abject disgust. It is the downside to being a relatively happy depressive, or the pessimistic optimist if you will.
I have been attempting to change. Not in a huge way, but in the smallest, least significant of ways, I am attempting to build up something resembling a self esteem, something ego shaped; trying to like myself, if you will. Cripes on a bike it's a challenge, but I am trying (and yes, lawks alone knows I am so very, very trying).
It is the small things, the seemingly insignificant factors that are the things that start to both chip away at your carefully constructed protective walls whilst using those parts to start building a foundation. The most relevant thing I have done thus far is to not repoint the walls; to allow them to crack, to crumble and to stay that way.
It's nothing to those of you who believe in yourself, who insist that they deserve good things to happen to them and who have established their right to be in the world by spaying your ego around like a tom cat marking its territory. For me, who mentally flagellates and physically punishes herself and herself alone for her part in all her deeds, whether good or bad, it is enormous.
17 May 2011
"My" Cinema, Walthamstow
When I was 3 years old, I was taken to the cinema for the first time. The film was "Star Wars", and the cinema was Walthamstow. It signalled the start a love affair with cinema, (but particularly Walthamstow cinema, which I always regarded as "mine") and film (although my adulation of Star Wars ended when "The Phantom Menace" was released.)
We were counted in by the cinema manager, a man who we nicknamed "Hitler" on account of his stature of 4 foot 5 inches and who inexplicably checked how many of us could come in by smacking us soundly on our heads.
We bought our tickets; beautiful, snug rectangles of card, generally grey if memory serves, which we carried as if they were golden tickets for entry to Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. We were ushered past the sweet concession stall, on account of the sandwiches we had smuggled in, wrapped in tinfoil (mine were haslet and concealed in my pocket) and a carton of juice each. We walked up the grand staircase, impossibly high to my three year old legs; marveled at the chandelier and walked, dumbstruck, to the viewing room.
We (my mother, sister, brother and I) took our seats (after careful checking by Mum that we had all gone to the toilet). I remember looking around the theatre and being in utter and complete awe of its magnificence. Mum told me that it used to be a music hall theatre. When I was older, my Nan told me Alfred Hitchcock used to go there. My Grandad had seen The Kinks there.
I stared around me, unable to believe just how wonderful the building was.
It started with an advert for Pearl and Dean, the tune of which transports me back to being the over excited 3 year old I was when I first saw it. The "upcoming features" were wonderful, and I remain one of the few people who refuses to forward through previews on DVDs.
The noise, the lights; the beauty of the theatre. Utter. complete, divine. Happiness; sheer happiness.
The sticky floors; the people sureptitiously having a fag in the back row (these being the days when the back row meant something).
I went to Walthamstow cinema fairly regularly afterwards. We lived in Chingford, and it was our local cinema. I even continued to go there when we moved to Loughton, and was an occasional visitor when we moved further afield.
When the cinema was taken over by EMD with the stipulation that only non English language films be played, I still visited.
This all stopped in 2003 when the UKCG church bought the building, closed it, and did nothing with it. From the point of purchase in 2003 until the current day, they have boarded it up and left it to slowly rot. The church's application to change the cinema into a church has been consistently rejected by the council, and despite many offers from interested parties, including cinema operators, UKCG will not sell the property on.
There's been a constant campaign, from the McGuffin Film Society, and Save Walthamstow Cinema amongst others. Tomorrow, Waltham Forest Council make a final decision as to its eventual fate. It has been UKCG's plan to convert the cinema into a church has been recommended against, but there will still be a debate and a vote as to what will happen.
Now look; you may have never even heard of Walthamstow, didn't know of its existence before reading this and had no idea it had a cinema let alone one that was closed.
But do you remember, when you were wee, going to your first film? The excitement and the noise; the sticky floors; the lure of the popcorn; the feeling of being miniscule in relation to the venue you were in? The epic films; the insanity of the impossibly huge screen that you were watching it on; the black circles that popped up to tell the projectionist to change the reel of film.
For that reason alone, Walthamstow EMD (nee Odeon, Granada et al) is worth saving.
If you are a local, there is still time to get your opinions heard by the planning committee, via your ward councillor. You can turn up to the protest being organised for 18th May.
Please help save "my" cinema.
We were counted in by the cinema manager, a man who we nicknamed "Hitler" on account of his stature of 4 foot 5 inches and who inexplicably checked how many of us could come in by smacking us soundly on our heads.
We bought our tickets; beautiful, snug rectangles of card, generally grey if memory serves, which we carried as if they were golden tickets for entry to Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. We were ushered past the sweet concession stall, on account of the sandwiches we had smuggled in, wrapped in tinfoil (mine were haslet and concealed in my pocket) and a carton of juice each. We walked up the grand staircase, impossibly high to my three year old legs; marveled at the chandelier and walked, dumbstruck, to the viewing room.
We (my mother, sister, brother and I) took our seats (after careful checking by Mum that we had all gone to the toilet). I remember looking around the theatre and being in utter and complete awe of its magnificence. Mum told me that it used to be a music hall theatre. When I was older, my Nan told me Alfred Hitchcock used to go there. My Grandad had seen The Kinks there.
I stared around me, unable to believe just how wonderful the building was.
It started with an advert for Pearl and Dean, the tune of which transports me back to being the over excited 3 year old I was when I first saw it. The "upcoming features" were wonderful, and I remain one of the few people who refuses to forward through previews on DVDs.
The noise, the lights; the beauty of the theatre. Utter. complete, divine. Happiness; sheer happiness.
The sticky floors; the people sureptitiously having a fag in the back row (these being the days when the back row meant something).
I went to Walthamstow cinema fairly regularly afterwards. We lived in Chingford, and it was our local cinema. I even continued to go there when we moved to Loughton, and was an occasional visitor when we moved further afield.
When the cinema was taken over by EMD with the stipulation that only non English language films be played, I still visited.
This all stopped in 2003 when the UKCG church bought the building, closed it, and did nothing with it. From the point of purchase in 2003 until the current day, they have boarded it up and left it to slowly rot. The church's application to change the cinema into a church has been consistently rejected by the council, and despite many offers from interested parties, including cinema operators, UKCG will not sell the property on.
There's been a constant campaign, from the McGuffin Film Society, and Save Walthamstow Cinema amongst others. Tomorrow, Waltham Forest Council make a final decision as to its eventual fate. It has been UKCG's plan to convert the cinema into a church has been recommended against, but there will still be a debate and a vote as to what will happen.
Now look; you may have never even heard of Walthamstow, didn't know of its existence before reading this and had no idea it had a cinema let alone one that was closed.
But do you remember, when you were wee, going to your first film? The excitement and the noise; the sticky floors; the lure of the popcorn; the feeling of being miniscule in relation to the venue you were in? The epic films; the insanity of the impossibly huge screen that you were watching it on; the black circles that popped up to tell the projectionist to change the reel of film.
For that reason alone, Walthamstow EMD (nee Odeon, Granada et al) is worth saving.
If you are a local, there is still time to get your opinions heard by the planning committee, via your ward councillor. You can turn up to the protest being organised for 18th May.
Please help save "my" cinema.
Fat
A phonecall from the school. The Boy was in the head teacher's office, having punched one of his colleagues in the face. Can I come in to discuss what has happened?
Of course, says I, hoping this isn't the start of another reaction to a change at school that I have, yet again, not been advised of and will thus spend several weeks of being used as his human punch bag until I can get to the bottom of what the issue is.
To school I toddle, and am shown straight through to the head teacher. The Boy is sat outside, swinging his legs and with his head bowed, picking at an invisible to my eye speck on his trousers. He won't look at me, he won't look up at me. He does not respond when I say his name. He is clearly struggling to contain himself.
It transpires that he has punched some of his fellow inmates during a lunch time scuffle, and continued to shout at said compadres and attempting to kick at then as he was pulled off. I ask if it has been establised what led to this incident; I am told "nothing". I am told that he "jumped on and started to attack and pummel" these children with no possible provocation.
I take several deep breaths and launch, once again, in a detailed speech about how autism doesn't work like that; how everything is a result of stimuli, how sometimes his reactions are delayed to earlier wrongs, and how morality has no place in examining what has occured. I ask if they have a STAR form filled in for him in relation to the incident, already knowing the answer is no.
I think, surely at this point, they've heard this from me so many times, in so many variations, that they muct be expecting it. You'd think that they would at least investigate what I say to them; what I "claim" to the case, merely to save me saying this to them every time I am called in for one of his minor disability related misdemeanors. Sometimes, the constant explanations that I need to give, what seems like total logic to me, appears to pass them by completely and I start to hear my voice wander off elsewhere, trying to find where the teacher's comprehension facilities are and why their brains can't process such easy, evident information.
I ask that The Boy be called in. He shuffles in, eyes down. He is picking at a nail, the side of his thumb is gently bleeding from the pressure he is applying to ease his stress. He looks at me; a mixture of defiance, annoyance and a face that just screams out "this isn't fair."
It is a face I know well on The Boy, and one that does not need to be questioned. Ever. He has acted in a way he believes tobe absolutely right, and now we will need to find out what the reasons were that he did.
He sits down. The head teacher starts to speak. The Boy looks directly at me. He speaks quietly, and over the head's voice.
"They called Lid fat Mum, and they made her cry. They wouldn't stop. I told them to leave her alone, and I asked the grown ups, but they didn't. And Lid was crying and she was really sad. So I stopped them."
The head teacher starts to say that, even if this is the case, it is not right of him to react like this, and tells The Boy that I agree with her. She waits for me to confirm that she is right on this supposition.
I ignore her. I hug him and thank him for being a good big brother. I tell him that I wish that I had a brother like him, and I really, genuinely do. My heart swells with pride. I want to rush up to these bullies and shout "ha!" in their faces. I want to put The Boy up on my shoulders, carry him through town shouting "this is my son! I made him in my tummy you know!" But most of all, I want to see my daughter and make sure she is ok.
As it is nearing the end of the school day, she is brought to me, still slightly sniffy, still very upset. She starts to cry when she tells me that these stupid, ignorant idiots have called her fat. I know that she is delicate in a way that people miss, and I know this because she is me.
We cuddle and chat. I tell her that of course she isn't fat. She is strong and tall and extremely cool. I tell her that she is the most beautiful girl in the world. "And the prettiest" pipes up her brother. I tell her that she is more than just beautiful, she is kind and gentle and funny and clever; that these are the things that are important; these are the qualities that the bullies in the playground do not possess; the same ones that she and her brother have in gargantuan quantities.
The head attempts to intervene about a suitable "punishment" for The Boy. I ask how will the children be punished for their verbal abuse of my daughter? I am told it will be "investigated". I already know that this means nothing will be done.
Her voice persists, saying that The Boy will have to miss break times for a week, and may need to be internally excluded.
I sigh heavily. At times like these I struggle to keep my tendency to swear when those around me are being idiotic under control, although my control assisted inordinately by having children in the room. I look at her. I tell her, very slowly, in my best cross voice, that maybe she should be examining how the lunchtime assistants are supervising their charges. A little less time for them to gossip, a little more time for them to attend to the chidlren around them.
I tell her that I can't help but be proud of The Boy, because although hitting isn't right, defending someone younger and smaller than you always is, especially when it's your sister. I tell her that I won't condemn him for being the sort of brother that all girls, but especially Lid, deserve, and that I can only heap praise and thanks on him for stepping in where I could not and her staff would not.
We leave at this point. Nothing will be achieved by continuing the conversation. I hold on to The Boy and Lid's hands, and we skip outside in to the sunshine.
"You'd think Head Teacher would understand more" says The Boy "because she really is fat."
"Yes" says Lid "and she has goopy droopy boobies."
*Sigh* I can see a lecture about not calling people namesa coming on...
Of course, says I, hoping this isn't the start of another reaction to a change at school that I have, yet again, not been advised of and will thus spend several weeks of being used as his human punch bag until I can get to the bottom of what the issue is.
To school I toddle, and am shown straight through to the head teacher. The Boy is sat outside, swinging his legs and with his head bowed, picking at an invisible to my eye speck on his trousers. He won't look at me, he won't look up at me. He does not respond when I say his name. He is clearly struggling to contain himself.
It transpires that he has punched some of his fellow inmates during a lunch time scuffle, and continued to shout at said compadres and attempting to kick at then as he was pulled off. I ask if it has been establised what led to this incident; I am told "nothing". I am told that he "jumped on and started to attack and pummel" these children with no possible provocation.
I take several deep breaths and launch, once again, in a detailed speech about how autism doesn't work like that; how everything is a result of stimuli, how sometimes his reactions are delayed to earlier wrongs, and how morality has no place in examining what has occured. I ask if they have a STAR form filled in for him in relation to the incident, already knowing the answer is no.
I think, surely at this point, they've heard this from me so many times, in so many variations, that they muct be expecting it. You'd think that they would at least investigate what I say to them; what I "claim" to the case, merely to save me saying this to them every time I am called in for one of his minor disability related misdemeanors. Sometimes, the constant explanations that I need to give, what seems like total logic to me, appears to pass them by completely and I start to hear my voice wander off elsewhere, trying to find where the teacher's comprehension facilities are and why their brains can't process such easy, evident information.
I ask that The Boy be called in. He shuffles in, eyes down. He is picking at a nail, the side of his thumb is gently bleeding from the pressure he is applying to ease his stress. He looks at me; a mixture of defiance, annoyance and a face that just screams out "this isn't fair."
It is a face I know well on The Boy, and one that does not need to be questioned. Ever. He has acted in a way he believes tobe absolutely right, and now we will need to find out what the reasons were that he did.
He sits down. The head teacher starts to speak. The Boy looks directly at me. He speaks quietly, and over the head's voice.
"They called Lid fat Mum, and they made her cry. They wouldn't stop. I told them to leave her alone, and I asked the grown ups, but they didn't. And Lid was crying and she was really sad. So I stopped them."
The head teacher starts to say that, even if this is the case, it is not right of him to react like this, and tells The Boy that I agree with her. She waits for me to confirm that she is right on this supposition.
I ignore her. I hug him and thank him for being a good big brother. I tell him that I wish that I had a brother like him, and I really, genuinely do. My heart swells with pride. I want to rush up to these bullies and shout "ha!" in their faces. I want to put The Boy up on my shoulders, carry him through town shouting "this is my son! I made him in my tummy you know!" But most of all, I want to see my daughter and make sure she is ok.
As it is nearing the end of the school day, she is brought to me, still slightly sniffy, still very upset. She starts to cry when she tells me that these stupid, ignorant idiots have called her fat. I know that she is delicate in a way that people miss, and I know this because she is me.
We cuddle and chat. I tell her that of course she isn't fat. She is strong and tall and extremely cool. I tell her that she is the most beautiful girl in the world. "And the prettiest" pipes up her brother. I tell her that she is more than just beautiful, she is kind and gentle and funny and clever; that these are the things that are important; these are the qualities that the bullies in the playground do not possess; the same ones that she and her brother have in gargantuan quantities.
The head attempts to intervene about a suitable "punishment" for The Boy. I ask how will the children be punished for their verbal abuse of my daughter? I am told it will be "investigated". I already know that this means nothing will be done.
Her voice persists, saying that The Boy will have to miss break times for a week, and may need to be internally excluded.
I sigh heavily. At times like these I struggle to keep my tendency to swear when those around me are being idiotic under control, although my control assisted inordinately by having children in the room. I look at her. I tell her, very slowly, in my best cross voice, that maybe she should be examining how the lunchtime assistants are supervising their charges. A little less time for them to gossip, a little more time for them to attend to the chidlren around them.
I tell her that I can't help but be proud of The Boy, because although hitting isn't right, defending someone younger and smaller than you always is, especially when it's your sister. I tell her that I won't condemn him for being the sort of brother that all girls, but especially Lid, deserve, and that I can only heap praise and thanks on him for stepping in where I could not and her staff would not.
We leave at this point. Nothing will be achieved by continuing the conversation. I hold on to The Boy and Lid's hands, and we skip outside in to the sunshine.
"You'd think Head Teacher would understand more" says The Boy "because she really is fat."
"Yes" says Lid "and she has goopy droopy boobies."
*Sigh* I can see a lecture about not calling people namesa coming on...
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