31 January 2010

This, too, will pass

This week has been a bad week.

The Boy has been unsettled.  He has been sent home from school.  He has been unspeakably violent at home, spending one afternoon this week punching me in the face for two and a half hours.  

My ME has been a source of irritation, making me so exhausted that I had trouble moving around this week. 

It would also have been Ella's tenth birthday this week. 

I have been thinking of her often lately.  I wonder what she would have been like, what she would have been into, what nicknames she would have been given by us, what things we would have done together.  It's made me reflect on the terrible relationship I had with her biological father, and made me question why I stayed with him for almost four more years when I utterly and totally despised him.

It's sent me crashing into the abyss of depression, questioning what I am doing, if I am strong enough to keep doing this and whether I will be able to see all this through, before the stupid ME takes hold.

It's not a good place to be, this insular circulatory consistent questioning, but when the black dog catches you, it's hard to shake it off.  I have spent large portions of this week crying, sobbing piteously and unable to know what to do, where to go, how to help myself.

It shakes the delicate self confidence and esteem I have been trying to build to its core, and I have to start again.  It pokes at those old coping mechanisms until they try to pop up, but this time they have been resisted, they have been stamped down, bar five minutes of crass stupidity after alcohol that could have been anyone.

It hasn't been a good week. It has been fairly appalling actually, but this, too, will pass.  Remembering that makes it easier to bear.

OK is relative

One of the first things that "they" do when your child is diagnosed with a disability is to try to strip away your hope.  They do this by telling you that your kid won't have a "normal" childhood, they won't be a "normal" grown up, they will falter and they will not learn, and you will not be able to control them or yourself.  You will not be able to love them, they will not be able to love you, and you should disconnect from them.

For some, the battle is lost at this point.  For others, it never is.  For most, we veer between the two, mostly residing in one camp but sometimes sliding into the other.

Really, all we want to hear, all any of us want to hear, is that everything will be ok, whatsoever you perceive "ok" to be.  This may mean an "ok" where your kids learns to use the toilet, or an "ok" when your kid knows when they need the toilet, or an "ok" where you get funding for incontinence pants for them. For me, an "ok" would be where The Boy's violence ceased, and Lid could control her temper. 

When people ask me how things are, if The Boy has had a "good day", where I have only been a hit a few times, I will tell you that everything is ok, because for me, it is. Relatively.  If Lid has only had a few violent tantrums, it is an "ok" day.  Relatively.

I can overlook a week of bad days for one good one.  Two good days in a row can make my heart soar, and make everything seem better.  Three good days? I'll tell you when it happens.

28 January 2010

I can imagine

When I am told by someone that they "can imagine" what it is like to have autistic children, the temptation to scream at them is one that I have learnt to quell.  It has taken time and practice, and a great deal of internal monologuing, but it has been achieved.  I have been completely unable to quell the sarcasm though, and really why would I? Often it is the only thing that gets me and many other parents in my position through the day.  Humour darker than the six month winter at the South Pole, dollops of coffee and citalopram are literally my only connecting threads to sanity.  Whilst I will generally reply "hmmm" whilst smiling, occassionally I will let rip. On such occassions, people will enquire if there is "something wrong", and I will tell them.  A condensed version, but I will tell them.  Next, I will start to cry as it feels treacherous to admit that actually, the fact that my kids have autism is the problem, if not every day, then on this day.  Then they back away very slowly, looking slightly concerned for their safety, as I burst into tears.

I suppose, to save my having to cry again, I would like to offer this.

If you see a parent struggling with a child, whether neurotypical, not neurotypical, able bodied or not obviously so, please do the parent a favour.  Shut up.  Say absolutely nothing.  Offer the parent a grin and a raise of the eyebrows, and that expression should convey "fuck me you're handling that well."  Then, piss off.  Leave them be.  If they want help, they'll ask.  If they want to include you, which basically we only do because we are embarrassed and for some bizarre reason want you to think that our kid's behaviour doesn't  reflect on us, respond.  You will be able to tell when we are doing this, and all that is required on your part is a wry smile and an acknowledgement,

When people enquire how I am, I don't say.  Mainly it is because I possibly am the definition of fucked up beyond all recognition, because I don't want to be seen as a victim, and I am fearful that everything will tumble out rather than today's issue, but also because you will say "I can imagine."  The fact is - you can't.

You have no concept of my story, just as I have no concept of yours.  I wouldn't dream of patronising you by saying "oh, I can imagine how hard it is to decide if you're going to buy an ipad."  I couldn't.  Even if I wanted one I couldn't fucking afford it, so why dither on it.  I can't imagine what it is like to have disposable cash to spend on myself, let alone that much disposable cash.  I know how it was when I did have disposable income, but it is so long ago I have forgotten. 

So, here is the thing.  When you ask me if I am ok, and I start to tell you, listen.  Please don't foist your unwelcome platitude of "I can imagine" on me.  It isn't welcome.  I don't want it.  Offer me a shit joke.  Give me a nice smile.  Mush my hair up like you would a kids'.    Buy me a beer.  If I don't want to tell you, be cool about it.

Understand that, when autism is the "problem", I have a very hard time saying that out loud as it feels like a betrayal, and that hurts me very much.  Understand that I will need to give you a long qualifying statement about how great the kids are, and in between if you listen, you will hear how my heart breaks at the wanky shit the kids have to go through; how each rejection of them physically hurts; how being punched in the face by the people you love the most makes you die a little inside; but that you always have to keep on going, through tiredness, past fear, over exhaustion.

When you send your child off to school, you entrust the most precious objet d'art to them.  You expect that you will receive said artefact back in a similar, if not improved, condition.  When you are instead handed back a piss sodden tent that some mental has embroidered the names of the poor unfortunates who have been Rohypnoled into knobbing them, you get a bit bewildered.  It doesn't make sense.  Then you go through the procedure of cleaning and restoring that art every night, every morning, every weekend and holiday, only for it to be destroyed every school day.  You hand them your beautifully made bed in the morning, with its Egyptian cotton matching bedsheets, and get a grotty sweat riddled, fag laden, vodka stained piece of vileness at the 3.15.

When people say to me "I can imagine", I sometimes can respond with "actually, you can't." 

What I want to say, what I want to scream is that, actually, when you are bringing up kids by yourself, it is hard.  When you do that with little or no support from your family (and you choose friends that can't or won't help), it is even harder.  Have ME, it just got a little bit more difficult.  Add in a dubious past for the parent, filled with various unpleasantness that they are fighting to overcome so their own kids don't go through it, you've not increased your chances of getting it right.  Pour in a good helping of needing to be good at what you do, but not being capable, the odds start to stack.  Give your kids a disability, and make it so that that is accompanied behavioural issues that provokes from them the sort of violence that you cannot get your head round, that makes you scared of your own children - whamo.  You can't imagine.  Neither could you try to.

So please - don't.  Just don't.

25 January 2010

Poo

In the contnued saga of Lid and potty training, Wiltshire Towers are currently on Amber Alert.

This is because despite continued efforts and encouragement, the wee cow refuses to use the toilet, and will quite happily piss herself, then deny it (despite standing in a puddle of wee at the time).

Today, whilst she occupied herself emptying a bottle of nail varnish over the floor (no idea, it wasn't mine), she decided to give us a dollop of Lid finest.

As her face turned increasingly red, and noises that can only be decribed as "straining" emanated from her, I asked her if she was doing a poo and needed the toilet.

In a voice that would have made Tony Green proud describing the prizes on Bullseye, she told me "nnnnnnnooooooooo", before depositing a stool that a 60 year old labourer would be proud of down her leg and over the kitchen floor.

I think we may have to re-approach this toilet training idea.  Most likely with a face mask, some air freshener, and a large box of washing powder.

Forgiveness

It is important to remember that, generally, the crimes that we commit against others are worse in our heads than they are in reality.

Often an action of ours that we feel is abhorrent is merely a mistake that others forgive us for much more quickly and quietly than we think that they can.

We may hold our action against ourselves for many years, whilst the person we fear we have hurt or damaged irrevocably has forgotten it many times over, often having forgotten us too.

Let me assure you, whatever you think your terrible crime is against another human being, your crimes are nothing compared to those of Genghis Khan.

Now stop worrying, have a cuddle and a cry, and then go and play outside. 

Bloody hell

Last week, whilst collecting a prescription of mentalism tablets, I popped into the toilets in the shopping centre. 

Whilst in there, I heard someone crying in a way that indicated severe distress.  I knocked on the door, and a small voice answered.

To cut a long story short - it was a thirteen year old girl, who had just discovered that she was having a period, her first one at that.  She had very little idea what was happening, and thought that she had hurt herself.

Parents, I'm not telling you how to do your job, but you realise that telling your children about body changes is your job, right?  That to leave your child so uneducated in the matter that they think they are dying when they get a period is nothing short of neglect?

That is all.  Continue.

Logic

One of things that is utterly delightful about having someone with autism in your life is their logic.  Regardless of the bad aspects that you encounter, and there are a few, the logic can undoubtedly make up for it.

Here are some of The Boy's recent decents.

On being told to wash his hands after using the toilet;
"I don't need to wash them, I cleaned them after I went to the toilet this morning." (It was 7pm at night).

Whilst, in an attempt to force him into practicing his fine motor skills (which are typically slower in developing in autistic children), I produce a book about John Lassiter, Pixar animator and one of The Boy's personal heroes, in an effort to get him to practice holding  a pencil in a tripod grip to do some drawing;
"I won't need to learn to do this, because John Lassiter has people that draw for him.  And they use computers anyway."

After a request that he sits down and practices his handwriting has been refused, and I use a grown up he likes who is a journalist as an example of someone who had to learn to have neat writing so that he could do his job (followed by a piercing gaze in my direction);
"No he didn't, he uses his iphone, and I bet when he hasn't got that, he uses a laptop like I do.  Or he gets his Mum to do it"
.
In the midst of a negotiation about bedtime, where he is adament that he does not need to go to bed;
"I don't need to go to bed.  I went to sleep yesterday, so I don't need to today.  Anyway, it's boring and I want to eat sweets."

On being told the he most certainly will not be eating any sweets and that he will, instead, be going to bed;
"But Daddy's eating sweets.  And he's not gone to bed. Why is he eating sweets and watching telly when I have to go to bed? Nanna said he's a baby too, and I'm a big boy, so why is he up and I'm not?"

After hearing that a grown up friend is coming to see him that he has never met before, he tells me, dismissively, when it is enquired whether it is okay if she can come;
"Well, yeah, but only if she has big boobies.  And not if she's going to be all girlie and silly, like Lid."

After being told, in depth, about god and heaven etc by a well meaning parent at school;
"Don't be silly, that doesn't make any sense at all."

On enquiry as to whether he had had any lines put through his good behaviour stamps at school (he receives a stamp each time he behaves well at school, which will be crossed out if he shows bad behaviour, like spitting or kicking, hitting et al);
"I didn't get any lines put through my stamps today, I was a really good boy wasn't I Mummy? Can I have a prize?"

After Mummy dishes out a prize, it transpires that whilst he didn't get any lines put through his stamps, he didn't actually get any stamps at all because he was so poorly behaved that day.  On further enquiry, where he is asked if he got any stamps at school, he replies, without batting an eyelid;
"I didn't get any lines at school today Mummy."
Then eats his dinner and starts humming.

After a discussion as to why we mustn't hit as it isn't kind and it hurts, and a reminder that we must use gentle hands at all times, he declares;
"What about if I hit people gently? Like this?"
(a resounding thwack around the noggin follows).

After being reminded to be careful whilst walking in the snow, and that he should be careful as he gallops off like a gazelle in the Serengheti, I am advised with a heavy dollop of sarcasm;
"Why would I fall over? I'm ice skating, not walking."

After calling his name six times, I ask him, very loudly, if he can hear me;
"Of course I can hear you Mummy. I'm not deaf. I'm just ignoring you because I don't want to speak to you."

Should. Have got. A cat.







24 January 2010

Reply Hazy - Try Again Later

I find twitter horribly incestuous.  The links between people who I know in real life (none of whom follow me), and those that I twitter "know" are far too close, with less than two degrees of seperation applying.

The benefit of using twitter was that, to begin with, I didn't have my real name listed.  Everyone I spoke with on there was an unknown entity, thus I could be myself with little or no reciminations.  Every mad, mentalist, dribble-sodden wibbly thought could be unveiled, and what the fuck did it matter?  I didn't know them, I'd never meet them, who cared what they thought about anything I said or did? 

It was wonderfully freeing.  I didn't bother locking my profile; no one knew I was there, so who gave a shit? 
I had core groups of people that I conversed with, I could get on with my autism advocacy and my anti BNP thing, and no one would ever be any the wiser.

Then I fucked up.  I fucked up quite spectacularly, and at that point decided that I may as well just put my name on it.  I wasn't saying anything I didn't really think or stand by, so why not.

I started to piss about more. I dipped into the whole meme thing.  I became more "me", but the proper one.  The me that thinks other people's children are fucking horrible, but worships her own in a manner that borders on the obsessive.  The me that swears just because she enjoys it (but never in front of t'Midgets, mine or other peoples).  The me who thinks it's funny to teach small children how to "throw" a burp snowball, or get them to pull my finger.  The me who, regardless of mostly not finding herself totally repellant and idiotic, is still sometimes tempted to staple copies of her phd to their foreheads nonetheless.  The me who has some impressive mental health problems, and a past life that is fucked up beyond all repair.

I started to post my whiney bitch blog posts, and people were generally tolerant of it.

Then I discovered I fucked up again, but to a larger, more horrifying degree and got a bit self conscious.  It meant that I posted less, watched what I said, got a bit nervous about being laughed at rather than with, and generally had a bit of a wibble.

Frankly, I went a little loopy.  It was pretty pointless, didn't deal with why I went a bit bonkers, so I thought fuck it, and carried on regardless.

In the spirit of saying fuck it, I invite you to participate in Magic 8 Ball Day.  If anyone asks you a question, merely shake the ball of brilliance for a reply.

You may be thinking that there is no way that a toy could answer your questions, or the questions asked of you by others.

Personally, I'm looking forward to it.  Particularly any questions asked by the Midgets.

Magic 8 Ball Day : Will it be a success? Ah, it is certain... 

Use the Magic 8 Ball here to join in

22 January 2010

Mrs Bear Won't You Please Come Home

When The Boy was a month or so old, I bought him a bear.  We were walking around Adams, me with £2.20 in my pocket, he asleep.  We passed a basket full of sale items, and on top was a pink, flat bear.  She was the shape of a star, flat, extremely pink, with the word "Bear" embrodered on her chest within an oval.  She caught my eye, and as I picked her up, The Boy stirred, gurgled, smiled, and reached for her.  It was natural for her to become the fourth member of Wiltshire Towers (along with our cat, Bod, The Boy and myself).  She was the first toy The Boy expressed any interest in.  She was a pound well spent, and a member of our little family.

As The Boy grew, Mrs Bear developed her own back story.  It was decided that, between myself and my friends, that Mrs Bear was a woman with a past.  She had a courful sexual history, was a madam bear at a brothel, and worked shifts at a cab firm controlling the desk once she'd retired from the industry.   She had a song that she sang to The Boy (who always knew that it was me singing it, as he would look at me like I was an idiot and fondly shake his head).  One day, when The Boy was two and a half and after he hadn't spoken a word for over a year, he started to hum the Mrs Bear song.  He sang it most of the way through.  It was the longest thing he "said" for the next 18 months.  Every silly, silly word was perfect.

Mrs Bear has been everywhere with us.  When The Boy was in PICU at St Marys, Mrs Bear slept with him every day and night.  When he was forced to go to the Contact Centre to see his biological father, she went with him to help get him through.  When he started pre school, she went with him and then snuck into my bag to come home again.  She met him every day afterwards.  She travelled with us on trips, and once got lost.  We joked that a blue plaque should be erected in her honour where she was found.  In short, she was his first friend that expected nothing back, took him for exactly who he was, and she never, ever received any of the violent behaviour the rest of us did.

As he grew older, Mrs Bear was not required so much.  She became less of a constant companion, and more of a comfort bear, a nightime cuddle to help him get to sleep.  He would put her over his face to help him drop off, and she comforted him during the longs hours he was awake.  If she was there, he would be safe, and she was there, always.

Yesterday, we had an appointment at the doctors.  We had had a chat, and The Boy told me that his inability to sleep, how agitated it was making him, was making him very sad, and we wanted to find a way to help him settle more easily.  It would mean a referral to the mental health service for behavioural support, and an attempt to get him a precription for melatonin.  He was also said that his ears had been buzzing, so they would need to be checked.  He asked for Mrs Bear to come with him, as he was nervous about having his ears checked (he has particularly acute sensory issues with his ears), and the agreement was that he would speak to the doctor about what was concerning him.  He held her as he spoke, as she gave him confidence and courage.  She was with us then, and he was cuddling her as we left the doctors.

Mrs Bear came with us, but she didn't come back.

Somewhere between Stanhope Surgery in Waltham Cross and our house, she has gone astray.  The Boy is devastated, as am I.  We searched yesterday for hours, have started to make posters (some shops have been kind enough to put handwritten ones up already), and have checked everywhere.  I went out and checked during the night, I have been back around the shops to see if I can find her, but to all intents and purposes, we know, deep in our hearts, that she is gone.

He is being furiously brave, he has told me that she has gone to play with her bear friends.  He said that maybe she is looking for her lost underwear, as per that song we sang so long ago.   He wants her and is terribly upset. 

So I would ask that, if anyone in the Waltham Cross area reads this blog, they look out for a careworn, flat bear, whose stuffing only rests in parts of her from constant cuddling, who was once pink but is now a dirty "put in the wash" colour, who was made by Adams and is no longer stocked (made by Little Bundle), if anyone can find her or help me *find* her, I would be more grateful than I could ever, ever express.

Oh, Mrs Bear - please come home.  We miss you.

*She looks like this one, but is flatter from cuddling, and is now a pink washed out colour.  Please help!


21 January 2010

Flinch

I have a bad history with the significant men in my life.  My father was a violent paedophile, who physically and emotionally abused me.  A number of ex partners have been physically, sexually and emotionally violent to me. 

As a result, if a male raises his voice at me, I will shrink slightly into myself.  I have been on long boozy nights with male friends, lads that I have known since primary school, and should they, in the midst of over animated conversation, raise their hand to enforce what they are saying, I will flinch.  It isn't noticeable unless you know that I do it, but it happens.  Every time.

I had never met a male that I felt completely comfortable with when clothed.  Make it a naked party and it's fine - I seperate sex and love so completely that whilst doing the former the latter never even occurs to me, and nor has it ever done.

It is slightly bizarre that a naked party led to the arrival of the one male that I trust and love above all over, the person who taught me what love actually means, that unconditional love was real and existed - The Boy.

The Boy is a lovely, funny, sunny ray of bonkers.  He is clever.  He is kind.  He is decent.  He can look at a person, ascertain that they need help and give it to them.

He also suffers, as do we, from extreme mood swings.  They can make it very hard to like him as much as I'd like to at times, as part of The Boy's autism experience is extreme violence. 

He hits, kicks, spits, headbutts, sometimes relentlessly.  During the holidays and the time around it, when they were off from illness, or because of snow, it felt like he was constantly beating me up. Mostly because he was.  Lid also has violent tantrums, and these are progressively worsening as she gets older.

There are times when the pair of them kick the living shit out of me.  They are strong children, phenomenally so.  At any time, I have numerous bruises.  I have had my nose broken, black eyes, broken fingers, chunks gouged or bitten out of me, have been spat at constantly for hours.  Whilst it isn't an everyday event, it isn't and neither has it ever been an occassional occurence.

As he grows older, the incidences of violence are happening with more frequency and force.  It mutates into other forms - he now shouts almost constantly, he spits regularly, and the hitting has graduated into full on punches to the face - he has broken my glasses in the past.

I love him.  I can't imagine anything that would stop me from doing so, despite the beatings.  But I have noticed that now, when he comes near me, I flinch.  This is something I had always hoped wouldn't happen.  I know that I am, silently, scared of him.  I am frightened of him.  I don't always like him as much as I want to.  I want to like him as much as I can, but the behaviour can preclude that.

I have been, as of late, attacked with increasing frequency and ferocity.  When he finally goes to bed, I am slightly relieved.  I know that he doesn't actually sleep until 1am, and until then I will be called upstairs to reassure him that he is safe, to receive extra slaps and to generally calm him down as much as I can.  By the time he is finally asleep, I may get a few hours before Lid wakes up, when she will start her tantrums within the hour.  Her brother will join her and join in the hitting, by 7am.

I am exhausted.  I am depleted.  I have refused a job working with autistic children, not because I don't think I could do it, but because it presents me with a possible future for both children that I do not wish to contemplate.  I cannot believe that their future will include heavy medication to regulate their behaviour to a level that society expects.  I do not wish to contemplate putting them into assisted living programmes.  The fact that it is a possibility for the future horrifies me.  What makes it so much worse is that I can see that this may be a probability for The Boy, whilst it remains only a possibility for Lid.

I know he is young.  Tomorrow is a different day, a new beginning, and he may have a great day where there is no hitting, no spitting, no shouting, no kicking.  Lid may have no tantrums at all.  We may all wake up in a fluffy wonderland, where Labour is actually left wing, the BNP is merely a French bank, and I fart out fairy cakes. 

In the meantime, I will continue haranguing the professionals, turning up on their doorstep, writing them emails, phoning them, in the hope to get help for the midgets.

When you ask me how things are, I will fall silent.  I will distract you with something else.  I will play up the good parts, even if the good part lasted ten minutes in the course of a week.  I will tell you that everything is fine.  I will think you are asking out of politeness, and do not require a middle aged woman sobbing, clinging to you and begging you for help that you cannot give whilst you look on puzzled and wishing you hadn't asked.

Just know that things aren't fine for me, not even slightly, and the reason I don't discuss it is because I can't.  I can't even think this stuff without flinching.

19 January 2010

People are people, but some people are bigger cunts than others

The Lid and I are standing outside Nursery, waiting to go in. I am, as per usual, being silly and acting as the unofficial children's supervisor whilst their parents look through them and speak with the other parents.

To one side of us, there is a small child of perhaps two, crying copiously.  Her elder sister, around four, is also crying and asking mummy to stop it.

Mummy is too busy having a full blown argument with her partner / ex partner on the phone.  There is swearing, lots of "you don't love these effing children", recriminations aplenty.  Plenty of focus on her. Literally, despite our attempts to avert our gaze.

It's impossible not to get pissed off with a co parent, regardless of your relationship with them.  Seriously though, a time and a place, eh, and certainly not at all when it comes to upsetting your children.

Fact is - people are cunts, every single one of 'em - just some people aren't cunts like we are.  They are much, much bigger cunts. 

That is all.  Continue.

Wasted on the young

I am speaking to one of my work "favourites". As I could be the parent of most of my work colleagues, I am delighted when they want to speak to me, when they want to include me in anything.
We are talking about the upcoming match between Tottenham and Leeds. I am telling him about a friend who is coming down on a stag night to see the game, and he is saying that he has tickets. There is general excitement and banter. We don't support the same team (he rips the shit out of me for my love of West Ham constantly); we don't have a lot in common (the fact I could be his mum negates this). We share a mutual love of football which makes us both extremely animated when we speak about it, and always detriorates into "West Ham would get a nose bleed if they made it to the top five." Which, in fairness, is a good point these days (though roll on the takeover where we will be resplendant in porn, swearing and footy thanks to Gold and Sullivan, though add in a co sponsorship by Cadburys and Adnams for Wiltshire Heaven).
We are talking about good places to go drinking after. The conversation progresses, and we are l speaking about nights out. I (loosely) reference my murky past, as I am fairly sure that he is convinced I was born old, as all of us are as teenagers, of those older yet no wiser than us. I casually ask him to guess how old I am.

He guesses almost exactly. Except he makes it one year older than I am, making me 36. I turn 36 in five months time exactly, and despite this, I am horrified.

He has over aged me (by all of five months). Worse, he has a look on his face that suggests he is underestimating what he believes to be my real age to please me. Which means that he thinks that I am substantially older than I actually am. And this despite my being inordinately immature at all times.

Time to cover the tits up methinks, and hand the Hooters crown over to another, perkier, contender. Sigh...

Hatred

Please don't think you are helping me by conducting yourself like this. You're not.

I am well aware that my devotion is unwanted and unwarranted. Brain knows well that it is not a viability, and that I am being used and mistreated due to my own foolishness.  It is a stupidity of heart that I cannot remove, regardless of how hard I try to, regardless of the logic that I have applied to explaining to myself why it exists at all.  Regardless of how hard I quash it, it re-appears as a synonym for my depressive episodes.  It is intertwined with it, just like the vomiting and compulsive cleaning, but I daren't say that that is the case as I cannot conceive that such a confession would be welcomed by anyone.  It would not help either party to do so, merely cause destruction, disgust and ultimately dismissal.

A direct refusal would be better than this, as that way only I would be rejected. 

Cruelty being used for ultimate kindness does not work in these situations.  Decency does.  Please remember this.

Infamy, infamy, no one's got it infamy

Working at a hotel, we often get varying degrees of celibrity through the door.

We've had entire football teams (some are lovely, though the lads who attended a wedding here were so bloody awful,  it ended up with my dragging one of them out of the fountain by his ear and depositing him outside the front door. True story), athletes, artists, musicians (again, with varying degrees of fame or lack thereof), actors (recently a fellow West Ham fan attended a wedding here, for which there was much excitement all round).

The general rule is "the bigger the star, the nicer they are" (bar two, one of whom was The Andorra football team.  They were lovely, unassuming, very decent men, who got shit from a small group of English morons; the latter of whom were later ejected from the hotel for being giant twats).

What is always amusing to watch, regardless of whether they have fame or not, is the view that people have of themselves.

Some are desperate to be noticed, need to have everything that they do commented on, praised.  Others pass by, walk on the earth gently, are assured of their worth without seeking their peers to put a value on them.

Recently, we had a guest who I remembered playing a character that shares a name with a former prime minister.  The penny didn't drop immediately, and apparently he has done a number of higher profile things since then, but it is for his earlier role that I remember him. 

We bantered gently, then he told me who he was, and offered to have his picture taken with me.  I wasn't interested, but didn't want to appear rude.  I duly dug through my bag filled with crumpled tissues, train whistles, chopstick holders, glitter, broken mp3 player and general gunk to retrieve my phone.  It then transpired that we were going to have a mini photo shoot, as I tried unsuccessfully to disengage myself by claiming such mundanities as "er, I've got to work", "give me back my bloody phone you mental", "fucking seriously, piss off".

He was, genuinely, a lovely and charming man, comfortable with himself and clearly used to a much higher recognition factor than just the one middle aged woman.

His evening continued - he engaged a group at the bar, who were duly charmed senseless by him, and rightly so.  He was recognised by similar old farts, who knew him for those later, higher profile, roles.  This recognition did not extend throughout the bar.

Specifically, it did not extend to the teenage barman, who, upon seeing and hearing said lovely and charming man announce himself as being Mr "Such and such film reference", looked at him blankly.  Said man followed this with "yeah, you know who I am, I am such and such person, I was in such and such film."  Teenage barman remains looking blank, though he responds with a slightly inappropriate "I don't know who are you, but I'll pour you a drink."  The conversation continues, with the teenage barman completely bewildered as to why a strange man is insistent he knows who he is when clearly he has little idea of who he is let alone anyone else, and said lovely and charming man is genuinely bemused as to how there can be someone alive who doesn't know who he is, especially one who has no idea of his film credits.

Laugh? I nearly shat. Suit yourselves...

A Day On My Own

Today, for the first time in over seven weeks, I had the house to myself.

Unlike some, I actually like being on my own.  I like my own company.  I am accomodating and appreciative of my plentiful personality quirks.  I don't mind that I enjoy doing things others think are odd.  I quite like me, on the sly, I genuinely do think I'm a decent person (though I often forget).  I don't like to sit about and do nothing as that gives my mind too much scope to think, but I am as happy being alone as I am when I am with others, sometimes more so.

It seems as if there has been someone off through illness, snow or holiday since November (whether it be a child, The Mammy or Himself).  It's nice to have people about, but it also impedes my mentalism.  When that happens, I can't get my full on crazy hat on, which means that I can't use my odd coping mechanisms to deal with things (see obsessive cleaning, for example).  That in turn means that I get grumpy a lot.

I end up shouting at the Midgets and being horrible to them in a way that seems inexcusable to me (last week, I crossed the line, screaming at Lid "Because I am the grown up and I say no." Cringe). 

I start to worry with too much intensity.  I forget to take my mad tablets.  I navel gaze.  I want to binge and vomit more.  My memory starts to fail me.  I forget words, actions, deeds.  I start to randomly snack on foods that destroy me, then the ME starts to take hold and I become less able to do anything as my mind becomes more cloudes.  Confidence plummets.  Ability to do things, anything, takes a tumble. 

I get to the point where, even when I have the opportunity to leave the house, I find an excuse not to do so.

Which of course, leads to my being unable to use coping mechanisms to rid myself of the crazy, or at least keep it under control.

Today, The Mammy (finally) returned to work.  Both Midgets went to school. Himself merrily took himself to work with the fractured elbow.  The house was mine.  So.

I had a walk around the charity shops. I rearranged the books so the ones I like best were at the front.  Bought a top (that co incidentally I will never wear again, as a guest asked me earlier if I was pregnant, to which I replied "No, I'm just fat").

I trotted back home.  I should have cleaned the house, but fuck it.

I had a big cup of coffee.  A huge bowl of salad, liberally sprinkled with nuts and olives and seeds.  I watched an episode of "ER" (though I had no idea what was going on as I've missed 15 or so series of the damn thing) and read a bit of a book I've been meaning to start.  And then - I went to bed. And I slept, for four hours straight, which is the most I have slept in a very long time. 

It was glorious. I recommend it.  Both the sleep and indulging in what I like to do.  Give it a try.

15 January 2010

Single Bed

There are few things less comfortable than sleeping in a single bed as an overweight adult.  Your feet dangle out of the end of the bed. Your bottom is stuck against a freezing cold wall and your neck screwed into a position that would fund a chiropractic's conservatory. 

Then your two children clamber in beside you.  Bye bye sleep...

Green Eyes

After I split with The Boy's father, I made a small vow to myself that I would never have a relationship with another person, and that it would be me and The Boy.

I stuck to that for some time.   Sometimes I dated people, sometimes I just had sex with them.  There was a few people who I thought were special amongst those I dated, who I thought things could develop with, none amongst those I merely slept with.

I wasn't pining for anyone, I wasn't waiting for anyone, I just wanted to get better in myself, and make a life for me and my family.

Time moves on, you continue your journey.  You stop thinking about meeting anyone, because you no longer particularly want to.  Thoughts of "what if" have long since evaporated (apart from on a particularly navel gazing day); ideas of what could have been creep into your head with less frequency until they cease altogether;  and you determine that you will remain as you are.  The fear of being alone leaves you; you recognise that you can be alone in a roomful of people, and being by yourself is no longer something that frightens you.

You don't even realise how hardened and set in your ways you have become, and then it hits you - whilst you were busy building metaphorical brick walls around yourself; whilst you were hardening your heart to ensure that you were never hurt again, someone crept in and you didn't even notice.  That someone has surreptitiously taken a huge part of your heart, insidiously worming their way into your affections and now you can neither imagine (and nor do you want to) life without them.

I was waiting yesterday for a person I hadn't even realised had become my someone. I had been to a meeting, and was eager to see them.  It felt a little like we hadn't seen a lot of each other this week, and I had been missing them desperately.  We usually hang out a lot together, but they've had other things on, other activities, and having started a new day job, they are mingling with new people and making new friends.

The casual familiarity with which one of their new workmates spoke about them to me, as if they had known them forever and I for only a short while rather than the truth of their lack of intimacy of knowledge, hit me like a shot to the heart.   

It is the part of any love based relationship that I dread - I was jealous, and desperately so.  It would be a test for me, a test for us, as to whether I could act maturely and conquer it without it rearing its head.

I smiled dismissively, and waited to catch the eye of my someone.  Once achieved, an enormous smile, a rush to get to me, followed by a loud proclamation of "Mummy! It's my mummy!" assured me that she hadn't forgotten me just yet, that there was still a space for me in her busy schedule, that we could still hang out together like we used to, but now on different terms.

Lid is enjoying Nursery and doing well.  Me - not so much, but as Lid likes to point out, Mummy has green eyes.

11 January 2010

First Day

Today, at 9am, my daughter starts Nursery school.

She had been attending pre school for a few hours every afternoon for the past term.  Her initial upset (which started on the second day and lasted for the next fortnight) abated quickly. Mine never did, and I could be found sobbing pathetically after I had dropped her off.  Every afternoon.

This is now, finally, my chance to "escape" her.  She can go to child care on site after she has finished her morning nursery session.

I could get a proper day time job, stop working a ridiculous night job and actually do something tangible with my phD, re-train, get on, have a grown up life.

*Whispers.*

I don't want to.

I don't want her to go. I want her to stay with me, driving me crazy, being bonkers, flashing me a smile that will and can break hearts, that always breaks my heart as she twists me round her little finger and pushes my hair out of my eyes when it flops in, rubbing my "hurts" when I drop something or fall over, helping me cook, drawing on the walls, throwing things in furious three year old rage, telling me off, making me laugh, making me believe that I can be a good parent, making me want to be the best person I can be, to be a sterling example to her.  I want to be her hero, because she is mine.

It hurts to think of her not with me.  I don't want someone else to get her best laughs, to provoke the throaty chuckle that starts in her toes and spreads up through her body, through every pore.  Those are mine.

I don't want her to wink at other people in the exagerrated way of the toddler, making her entire face a pantomime performance.

I don't want anyone else to get my kisses, or the big tight bear hugs she gives out.

I don't want to let her go.  I have to, but I don't want to. I must let her hand drop, smile, be brave, and pretend that I don't care that she is there, even though I will be counting the seconds, the minutes until my bonkers blonde bird throws herself into my arms and I can start complaining about how bloody loud she is again.

So ends this phase of parenthood for me forever - mothers hold their children's hands for a short while, but their hearts forever.

2009 and all that

So, 2009.  You were a period of time that had to be endured.  What an odd fellow you were too.

You brought people from my teenage years, a semi nervous breakdown, a talking daughter who has stopped screaming so much in the bath, a big boy who started primary school and got bullied, arguments with parents, Lid starting on the diagnosis journey, a lovely new house, a horrible housemate who turned out to be a paedophile (yes, this post is about him. I lied. Sorry. It should be noted that both children have been checked and are fine), my loss of trust in others but increased confidence in myself (regardless of wibbles), a lovely group of people who don't find me horrifically boring when I am being my stone cold sober self, an in resident parent, a renewed interest in politics and a lot of autism advocacy, The Boy's Green Team, The Lid's start at pre school and my subsequent partial emancipation, a trip to A&E, a vow of celibacy, lots of snow, an understanding of my mentalism, an understanding of the tells of my mentalism, a pregnancy scare and lots of outings to places as I start to seize control and have a social life again. Or, at the least, attempt to. Plus, of course, a Nativity play, and a lot of boring chatter.

You were, as my dear old Nan would have said "an strange one".

2010 - raise your game. That is all.

9 January 2010

This Be The Verse

Being a parent is a troubling experience.  There are no lessons you can take, no exams you need to pass.  The only thing you can do is your best, and hope that your child or children survive childhood relatively unscathed.

In my own case, I'm big on discipline. By discipline, I mean that the children get encouraged or told off according to their behaviour.  I try not to be too focused on their autism, and instead treat them as I would neurotypical children.  They do have certain allowances made - I know that it will take many more times for them to listen and act on what they are told.  I also know that they are the only children I have met that actively encourage their peers with "well done!", "good try!" etc.

Our house is set up for their convenience.  It is a child centred environment.  No one is allowed in if the children do not want them to.  It is as safe an environment as I can possibly offer them without calling in presidential levels of security.  They are well fed, allowed both terrible junk and food with food in it.  They play in the garden, they make my walls a terrible mess with paints, sticky fingerprints and beans (courtesy of Lid who appears to be going through a "little shit" period), we play a variety of games.

They are, by and large, passable as well adjusted small people.  I would give everything I have to ensure their happiness and success.

I never forget that I chose to have them both, and that I am privileged to have been able to have children.

This is not the case with my own mother.  My mother and I have what you may describe as a "troubled" relationship.  I can't really pin my finger on it, it's not because of a horrendous level of abuse I have suffered at her hands, it is, quite simply, that she didn't want me and has always made that very obvious.  By telling me same.

Since I was very small, I have been told that I am "just like my father".  That's not the greatest compliment a girl can receive, but it is less so when you consider that my biological father was physically violent to us all, and sexually violent to me. He "abandoned" us when we were small (my parents divorced when I was 18 months, so it's not hard to guess that I wasn't planned, wanted or consensual considering the divorce laws 35 years ago).  This was used whenever I showed any sign of what she considered as non compliance.

She has constantly told me, through the years, that as far as she is concerned, she has a favourite son (my elder brother), a favourite daughter (my elder sister) and a friend (which is me, apparently).  She didn't act like I was her friend though, and she still doesn't now.  I couldn't imagine saying to my friend "it doesn't matter that your sister is the pretty one, you've got a nice personality", which is exactly what you want to hear at 13.

So it has continued through the years, her lack of expertise or interest meaning that I was dumped on my grandparents at age 4.  She would be about, but disinterested and dispassionate at my existence.  That she would constantly be unencouraging about anything I loved to do, unless it was something that her beloved son and beloved daughter was doing.  I constantly flew under the radar, so much so that she didn't notice when I tried to kill myself, she didn't notice the mad bouts of depression that have followed me since I was young, that I had developed quite horrific bulimia and that my weight had dropped to under 6 stone.  She never noticed that I loathed myself, could find nothing good to say about myself.  She never submitted anything positive about me, never said anything loving or encouraging to me, and could barely tolerate my presence, which irritated her enormously.

Her contribution has been the constant erosion of my confidence, the constant destruction of my happiness; constant cristicism, and constant competition against a child who was desperate to be loved, liked, or merely looked at by her mother and thus conceded to be the loser, everytime.

Who thinks that their mother, having abandoned her own children, will expect to be able to settle with the one that she treated the worst and can still emotionally manipulate? That she will say "I am too old to be childrearing" when she obviated her own duty? That she will bring up the grandparent that you cared for, that you left university to look after, who you sat up with through the night, brought to the toilet, fed, covered up for, that you carried when she couldn't walk, who you devoted years of your life to, and claim that everything that was done, everything that you sacrificed, was performed by her?

Anything that can be has been made to be about her - when The Boy was hospitalised, I was told by her colleagues that it was an enormous worry for her, "your poor mum having this to worry about".  This was despite her not having seen The Boy for two months beforehand.  She missed his second birthday, which happened six months after his stint in hospital, as she "was too busy". My miscarrying Lid's twin somehow was made about her, athough even now I struggle to see why or how.  When I was pregnant and homeless, she wouldn't help me, but instead told me to "crack on with it".  Every dream has been pissed on, every aspiration crushed.

Why I let her move into my house, free of any input whatsoever, I am not entirely sure.  It was to give my niece and nephews a rest from what appeared to be her constant criticism of them, made harder for the fact that they live in the house she holds the title to.  Surely she wouldn't try that in my house, would she?

Since she has been here, I have returned to my old habits of depression. I am back to secretly vomiting. I am back to self loathing. I return, at times, to that synonymous crush, on a person who uses me and treats me like shit. Again, I have a woman who is only interested in undermining me in my home. 

I have been subject to the old criticisms - my cooking is bad; (this from the woman who hadn't cooked for us since we were 11, as she was too busy "having her life" so it fell to me to run her household, with no consideration that I hadn't even started my life at that point); my weight  ("You're putting on a lot of weight there"; "Ooo, you could have this jumper but I imagine it will be too small for you"); my intellect; my choice of work (and it is a choice to do the job I do, I chose my kids over anything else because that is what they deserve) -  the old sniping nastiness that she has always brought to our relationship is back and more prevelant than before.

I have noticed that she is now pointing the sniping in my daughter's direction, and I rather think we shall be having none of that.  It is attempted criticism of The Lid on a constant basis - yes, she is quite a naughty young lady, but I can't shout at her for emptying a packet of fake snow all over my bed when I let her go to my room on her own, unsupervised, can I?  That would not be fair, and neither is it fair to tell her off because she acts, in many ways, like a neurotypical three year old; she wants attention, she gets jealous, she is loud for no reason, I have to tidy up after her, she won't clean her room - but these aren't things that my daughter is doing, these are things that my MOTHER is doing, and refuses to amend how she acts.

I have spoken to my mother nicely and poiltely, I have spoken to her away from the children.  I have enquired oh so very discretely as to whether she may want to see a counsellor, if she thinks there are any underlying matters that she is so vehemently bitter at a comparatively young age, have phrased it delicately and kindly, much more so than I have here.  I have been told in return that I am the family nutter, and to mind my own business.

I have explained that this is a house that belongs to the children who live in it, that they are afforded every possible respect.  This has fallen on deaf ears.

It is now at the point whereby I tell her off as if she is an additional child.  A month or so ago, I pointed at her and said "You. Stop It. She's 3, you're 63. Act it and grow up."  Who envisages having to say that to their mum?

This is whining, I know.  I haven't had a terrible childhood, merely an unpleasant one.  In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing.  The years have passed, and there is much I could say about her lack of care, her lack of interest, but the buck stops here.

There will be no more unpleasantness directed at the younger Wiltshires by the elder Wiltshires.  There will be no stomping of dreams, there will be no destruction of hope.  There will only be love, and if The Mammy cannot abide by that, then The Mammy must leave.  Our job is to do better than our parents did, to try harder, and always the aim is to not be the mum and dad that fuck them up.

In the end, it comes down to this : "'You. Mother. Sun of your child's life.  Remember that joy, that special privilege. Act accordingly."

Pffft II

Aye, so I said that I wasn't going to write the blog anymore, but I lied.

Meh.