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...
Showing posts with label autism related disorder. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autism related disorder. Show all posts
17 May 2011
14 February 2011
Valentine
I am laying in bed with my young man of choice, and we are discussing our respective day.
I have been trotting about doing what I describe as "Mum stuff."
He has been hard at work, stuck at a desk for the best part of his waking day. He is having the roughest of times at present. Weekdays are no longer pleasant or full of promise. He dreads them to such a degree he has vomited from the fear of what unknown pressures he may have to endure that day. Every day presents a new challenge, often seemingly insurmountable, yet he continues to try his best.
His ability to cope with his daily environment has been disintergrating since new year. He is being bullied, and it is effecting his ability He knows things are wrong and there's nothing he can do. He's spoken to someone at "the office" about it; his superior if you will. Nothing has been done; the bullies have been told to leave him alone, and he spends his lunch hours alone; often lonely, certainly confused, whilst they continue to associate together.
The quiet way he says all this; his description of how sad it makes him breaks my heart. I am torn between the furious anger that makes me want to kick these bullies in the legs, the sadness that someone I love more than anything is in pain, and the knowledge that I cannot protect him.
I tell him that I love him. I hold him tight, and tell him he is my best friend and that that will never change. He drifts off slowly, but as he is dozing, he turns to me.
"Mum, thank you for my heart cake today. I will always be your valentine you know." With that, he drifts off, and I cling to the only man I will ever really love; my beautiful autistic son.
I have been trotting about doing what I describe as "Mum stuff."
He has been hard at work, stuck at a desk for the best part of his waking day. He is having the roughest of times at present. Weekdays are no longer pleasant or full of promise. He dreads them to such a degree he has vomited from the fear of what unknown pressures he may have to endure that day. Every day presents a new challenge, often seemingly insurmountable, yet he continues to try his best.
His ability to cope with his daily environment has been disintergrating since new year. He is being bullied, and it is effecting his ability He knows things are wrong and there's nothing he can do. He's spoken to someone at "the office" about it; his superior if you will. Nothing has been done; the bullies have been told to leave him alone, and he spends his lunch hours alone; often lonely, certainly confused, whilst they continue to associate together.
The quiet way he says all this; his description of how sad it makes him breaks my heart. I am torn between the furious anger that makes me want to kick these bullies in the legs, the sadness that someone I love more than anything is in pain, and the knowledge that I cannot protect him.
I tell him that I love him. I hold him tight, and tell him he is my best friend and that that will never change. He drifts off slowly, but as he is dozing, he turns to me.
"Mum, thank you for my heart cake today. I will always be your valentine you know." With that, he drifts off, and I cling to the only man I will ever really love; my beautiful autistic son.
26 May 2010
Happy
When I was pregnant with The Boy, I was often asked if I knew what I was having. To start with, I replied that I would be happy either way. I would then be told that "it wouldn't matter so long as they had ten fingers and ten toes", to which I always replied that that didn't concern me; so long as they were happy, I would be happy.
The ability to be other people's perception of "normal" was not a wish I had for my baby. I wanted them to be happy; have a happy childhood, enjoy the things around them, feel safe and loved throughout, as these were not things I felt as a child myself. I wanted things to be different for my child. I wanted things to be better. I felt sure that this was something I could attain.
It didn't start off great. I already put him in the same fatherless family as I was born into when he was six months old. Still, it wouldn't be awful. I reasoned that I could rely on my family, who all duly, er, disappeared.
No matter, things would be well. I could work around the troublesome sitiuation we were in, and I would suceed, for the sake both of our happiness.
Life continued, difficulties arose, but always and throughout, The Boy was happy. His smile lit up my heart. In my blackest hours, of which there were many, the mere fact that he existed made me believe that there was good in an otherwise dark and lonely world.
He never gave up on me. He always believed that I could make things better for him, for us. When my faith in us as a team slipped, his didn't. It never has and I doubt that it ever will.
There have been inordinate lows; his hospitalisation at 18 months when the little shit tried to die on me and leave me on my own in this shitty world springs to mind; my being told when he was 2 and a half that he would never speak and that I should "consider my options"; and enormous highs; the day that he spoke again after a year of silence; when he castigates me for trying to quit when, as we all know, Wiltshire's don't quit; when he casually tells me he loves me; his obvious joy when he does something brilliant and he sees the pride on my face.
My belief in My Boy has never been shaken. Sometimes I do not believe that the actions he takes are those of my child, are those of My Boy; yet I know that often the action performed is not his choice - it is autism's choice. It is not his reaction, it is autism's reaction. The pain that it inflicts on him, the awkwardness that he feels when he knows he mustn't hit others when he is angry but must instead talk about it to find a resolution, his inability to do this despite how hard he tries is utterly heartbreaking.
I don't resent that he is autistic. I have said many times and I re-iterate that were it not for him I would have self destructed years ago. I do resent the effect that the autism itself has on him. How, as it has become more "noticeable" and obvious that he is different to some of his peers, parents hold back their children, the invitations to parties do not extend to him, he is glared at for behaviour that he cannot help.
I resent and I despise how it makes My Boy sad, how it robs him of his happiness, and how he isolates himself from others because he is now so used to rejection that he figures he may just as well act upon the impulses autism provides.
I resent that I think that he doesn't deserve it, because you know, he doesn't deserve it.
I resent how his mainstream school have dug their heels in over statementing, and yet threatened me repeatedly that they will exclude him from school, enforcing illegal exclusions on him that I facilitated in his Reception year, how they have refused to get involved to help him, how the "blame" for the actions caused by his autism has been placed upon me, and how, when they purport that changes they have railed against have improved his behaviour by 70% last week have meant that his behaviour is increasingly disintegrating this week.
I resent that I didn't over rule him and insist he went to a school that I thought more trustworthy, had a better OFSTED (although admittedly it is in a "worse" area), and was rumoured to have better experience with SEN children.
I hate myself for thinking that his instant happiness was more important that his ongoing happiness; that I didn't sacrifice the continuity of children who could tolerate him when he was less obviously "weird" and different when he entered Recepton at 4 who now find him unbearable at 6.
I wish that I had thought it through more, and decided against the school next to his old nursery, where he still receives some after school care, to give continuity of grown ups the group that has let him down the most.
I wish for him to be happy. I want for The Boy to be happy. I need for My Boy to happy.
It is finding the way and taking the action that is most appropriate, knowing the damage a wrong decision could inflict today, the sadness it may cause, will provide him with a future that is full of the good stuff. A future where he will attain all that I have ever wanted for him; happiness.
The ability to be other people's perception of "normal" was not a wish I had for my baby. I wanted them to be happy; have a happy childhood, enjoy the things around them, feel safe and loved throughout, as these were not things I felt as a child myself. I wanted things to be different for my child. I wanted things to be better. I felt sure that this was something I could attain.
It didn't start off great. I already put him in the same fatherless family as I was born into when he was six months old. Still, it wouldn't be awful. I reasoned that I could rely on my family, who all duly, er, disappeared.
No matter, things would be well. I could work around the troublesome sitiuation we were in, and I would suceed, for the sake both of our happiness.
Life continued, difficulties arose, but always and throughout, The Boy was happy. His smile lit up my heart. In my blackest hours, of which there were many, the mere fact that he existed made me believe that there was good in an otherwise dark and lonely world.
He never gave up on me. He always believed that I could make things better for him, for us. When my faith in us as a team slipped, his didn't. It never has and I doubt that it ever will.
There have been inordinate lows; his hospitalisation at 18 months when the little shit tried to die on me and leave me on my own in this shitty world springs to mind; my being told when he was 2 and a half that he would never speak and that I should "consider my options"; and enormous highs; the day that he spoke again after a year of silence; when he castigates me for trying to quit when, as we all know, Wiltshire's don't quit; when he casually tells me he loves me; his obvious joy when he does something brilliant and he sees the pride on my face.
My belief in My Boy has never been shaken. Sometimes I do not believe that the actions he takes are those of my child, are those of My Boy; yet I know that often the action performed is not his choice - it is autism's choice. It is not his reaction, it is autism's reaction. The pain that it inflicts on him, the awkwardness that he feels when he knows he mustn't hit others when he is angry but must instead talk about it to find a resolution, his inability to do this despite how hard he tries is utterly heartbreaking.
I don't resent that he is autistic. I have said many times and I re-iterate that were it not for him I would have self destructed years ago. I do resent the effect that the autism itself has on him. How, as it has become more "noticeable" and obvious that he is different to some of his peers, parents hold back their children, the invitations to parties do not extend to him, he is glared at for behaviour that he cannot help.
I resent and I despise how it makes My Boy sad, how it robs him of his happiness, and how he isolates himself from others because he is now so used to rejection that he figures he may just as well act upon the impulses autism provides.
I resent that I think that he doesn't deserve it, because you know, he doesn't deserve it.
I resent how his mainstream school have dug their heels in over statementing, and yet threatened me repeatedly that they will exclude him from school, enforcing illegal exclusions on him that I facilitated in his Reception year, how they have refused to get involved to help him, how the "blame" for the actions caused by his autism has been placed upon me, and how, when they purport that changes they have railed against have improved his behaviour by 70% last week have meant that his behaviour is increasingly disintegrating this week.
I resent that I didn't over rule him and insist he went to a school that I thought more trustworthy, had a better OFSTED (although admittedly it is in a "worse" area), and was rumoured to have better experience with SEN children.
I hate myself for thinking that his instant happiness was more important that his ongoing happiness; that I didn't sacrifice the continuity of children who could tolerate him when he was less obviously "weird" and different when he entered Recepton at 4 who now find him unbearable at 6.
I wish that I had thought it through more, and decided against the school next to his old nursery, where he still receives some after school care, to give continuity of grown ups the group that has let him down the most.
I wish for him to be happy. I want for The Boy to be happy. I need for My Boy to happy.
It is finding the way and taking the action that is most appropriate, knowing the damage a wrong decision could inflict today, the sadness it may cause, will provide him with a future that is full of the good stuff. A future where he will attain all that I have ever wanted for him; happiness.
25 February 2010
Fine
Wiltshire Towers is in limbo. Lid had her "special" CDC yesterday. The one where I had hoped that the paedeatrician would laugh at me, tell me I am an over anxious mother and that of course she wasn't autistic, it was merely my imagination. The knowledge deep within me that yes, she is autistic and always has been, had been stamped down. We waited for the verdict.
The paedeatrician spent an hour questioning me about her "developmental milestones", whilst Lid endured two hours of tests to see how she was developing. The staff congratulated her with every mistake she made, cheered her on regardless of her success. I could see how many things she "couldn't" do, and my heart was sinking.
There was nothing left but for it to be provisionally confirmed. Lid is autistic. The doctor was jolly and upbeat, congratulating me on how well she has learnt to do things. Inside, I hated myself a little more.
It will now be a long uphill struggle to get that diagnosis made formally. It will be hard to get help for her. It will be more fighting, more shouting, more crying.
The fact remains that there is nothing to do here but suck it up and crack on.
I joke that at least this means I won't have any grandchildren, as everyone knows how I much I hate midgets, that I won't have to worry about their furture boyfriends or girlfriends. We will chuckle as to how we won't have to fork out money to buy presents for them to go to birthday parties, when the fact remains that they are actually asked to very few.
We will ignore that it hurts to see them isolated and unable to interact with others. We will pretend that I don't cry when I think about how lonely they are, how lonely I know The Boy is because he has told me. We don't kick the professionals who tell us that actually, the kids don't realise that they're different, so it doesn't "bother" them.
We will accept that they won't have the "normal" childhood experiences of their peers, and we will pretend that it doesn't matter, that it is fine. We will pretend that not being able to have a "normal" child is not cutting at my heart like the sharpest knife, that it doesn't make me fucking angry that I am such a shit parent that I have failed them in being able to supply them with the simplest task of decent DNA.
We will pretend that everything is peachy, everything is well, and I will not be awake at horrible hours worrying for them, for both now and the future. We will pretend that, when they are asleep, I don't hold them and cry in to their hair at what I perceive to be the unfairness that it is they and not other children who are autistic.
We will be quiet and we will be still. When you ask me if I am ok, I will say that I am fine. When you are not looking, I will stare off to the middle distance, and try to think about nothing. I will take pride in achievements that they get that you think are not important, because for them it was harder and took longer. I will love them, and I will be proud of them. I will continue because that is how it has to be, and I will be the one that has to explain again and again that no, it won't get better, no, they cannot help it, no, I do not need your input.
I will cry, I will scream, not for the diagnosis, not for me, but for the loss of the dreams.
It is not the diagnosis that causes the pain, it is the death of the dreams. And it is they; the hopes and aspirations that I had for her, that I had for him, the ones that need to be amended, the ones that can now realistically never have though should they have them for themselves they will attain them; that the loss of can never, ever be fine.
The paedeatrician spent an hour questioning me about her "developmental milestones", whilst Lid endured two hours of tests to see how she was developing. The staff congratulated her with every mistake she made, cheered her on regardless of her success. I could see how many things she "couldn't" do, and my heart was sinking.
There was nothing left but for it to be provisionally confirmed. Lid is autistic. The doctor was jolly and upbeat, congratulating me on how well she has learnt to do things. Inside, I hated myself a little more.
It will now be a long uphill struggle to get that diagnosis made formally. It will be hard to get help for her. It will be more fighting, more shouting, more crying.
The fact remains that there is nothing to do here but suck it up and crack on.
I joke that at least this means I won't have any grandchildren, as everyone knows how I much I hate midgets, that I won't have to worry about their furture boyfriends or girlfriends. We will chuckle as to how we won't have to fork out money to buy presents for them to go to birthday parties, when the fact remains that they are actually asked to very few.
We will ignore that it hurts to see them isolated and unable to interact with others. We will pretend that I don't cry when I think about how lonely they are, how lonely I know The Boy is because he has told me. We don't kick the professionals who tell us that actually, the kids don't realise that they're different, so it doesn't "bother" them.
We will accept that they won't have the "normal" childhood experiences of their peers, and we will pretend that it doesn't matter, that it is fine. We will pretend that not being able to have a "normal" child is not cutting at my heart like the sharpest knife, that it doesn't make me fucking angry that I am such a shit parent that I have failed them in being able to supply them with the simplest task of decent DNA.
We will pretend that everything is peachy, everything is well, and I will not be awake at horrible hours worrying for them, for both now and the future. We will pretend that, when they are asleep, I don't hold them and cry in to their hair at what I perceive to be the unfairness that it is they and not other children who are autistic.
We will be quiet and we will be still. When you ask me if I am ok, I will say that I am fine. When you are not looking, I will stare off to the middle distance, and try to think about nothing. I will take pride in achievements that they get that you think are not important, because for them it was harder and took longer. I will love them, and I will be proud of them. I will continue because that is how it has to be, and I will be the one that has to explain again and again that no, it won't get better, no, they cannot help it, no, I do not need your input.
I will cry, I will scream, not for the diagnosis, not for me, but for the loss of the dreams.
It is not the diagnosis that causes the pain, it is the death of the dreams. And it is they; the hopes and aspirations that I had for her, that I had for him, the ones that need to be amended, the ones that can now realistically never have though should they have them for themselves they will attain them; that the loss of can never, ever be fine.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
26 November 2009
Anniversary
The Boy and I had an argument yesterday.
Post his recent sticker and certificate triumphs, which resulted in our hot date after school yesterday (which included buying him a pair of boots, having a ride on a Paddington car and eating an ice cream), he was in a shocking humour last night when we arrived home.
He was petulant, moody, argumentative and aggressive. He spent twenty minutes arguing intently with me about why he would not be having a bath that evening - he didn't need one, he wasn't dirty; he had one yesterday; he wanted to go on the computer; I was being a big meanie; he just didn't want to.
Over and over, louder and louder, with my repeating, "best voice" or "number 3 voice, please" to no avail. He refused to listen to me, although he was registering what I said.
I was struggling to contain my anger - I feel a bit despondent this week and I keep forgetting to take the mad tablets, so keeping my cool is a bit harder.
I kept calm, we got through the rest of the day with more insolence - his deciding to run his own bath, brush his teeth and his face with toothpaste, his making and then helping himself to sandwiches and toast, getting dressed in day clothes when it was nighttime, turning on the computer and doing a search on space when I had told him that he was not to use it - and I wrote it off as one of those days when I remembered.
On 24th November, 2006, I was told that for all intents and purposes, I may be best served if I "wrote him off". He would never speak, he would never function, he would always rely on me to do everything for him, and really I may like to consider "my options."
I would just like to say, sincerely, to the people who told me that - fuck you. How fucking dare you piss on my hopes and dreams, before The Boy had even got a diagnosis? Who the fuck are you to write a 2 and a half year old kid off, you talentless, fetid wankers? How can you live with yourself after telling someone that their son wasn't "normal"?
So - and I really do mean this - every time I argue with the little shit, every time he disobeys me and trots off to do his own thing regardless, every time I feel like listing the sod on ebay as he's being a wee arse - and I mean EVERY TIME - I will always remember (eventually) when I was told to forget about him. And I never, ever will.
The only thing I can say to you, whoever you are and whatever your situation is - don't quit. Don't give up. Stop running and face it head on (and trust me, I have wanted to run like the clappers away from this whole parenting thing more times than I will ever say aloud. We will ignore that I run from other things but I am trying really hard to stop doing that).
Giving yourself the power to do that, whether it be facing a challenge you can do nothing about, accepting a fact you don't want to, examining why you act in a certain way, accepting your mental health may not be what you hoped it would be - look it in the eye and take the fucker down fighting.
It may take some time for it to sink in (I cried for 5 days non stop, went to the doctor and started those mad tablets I keep forgetting to take, and then decided that no cunt writes my kids off without me raising one hell of a stink, yet he still wasn't diagnosed as being autistic for another 2 years - that anniversary is this Friday). You may know what you need to do and just not be able to - but when you can, when you're ready, and sometimes even if you're not ready you still need to try - fight the good fight. Never, ever quit until you know you can't go any further. And when you feel like that, just keep on a little bit more.
The Boy - a stubborn little shit just like his Mammy. Happy anniversary.
Post his recent sticker and certificate triumphs, which resulted in our hot date after school yesterday (which included buying him a pair of boots, having a ride on a Paddington car and eating an ice cream), he was in a shocking humour last night when we arrived home.
He was petulant, moody, argumentative and aggressive. He spent twenty minutes arguing intently with me about why he would not be having a bath that evening - he didn't need one, he wasn't dirty; he had one yesterday; he wanted to go on the computer; I was being a big meanie; he just didn't want to.
Over and over, louder and louder, with my repeating, "best voice" or "number 3 voice, please" to no avail. He refused to listen to me, although he was registering what I said.
I was struggling to contain my anger - I feel a bit despondent this week and I keep forgetting to take the mad tablets, so keeping my cool is a bit harder.
I kept calm, we got through the rest of the day with more insolence - his deciding to run his own bath, brush his teeth and his face with toothpaste, his making and then helping himself to sandwiches and toast, getting dressed in day clothes when it was nighttime, turning on the computer and doing a search on space when I had told him that he was not to use it - and I wrote it off as one of those days when I remembered.
On 24th November, 2006, I was told that for all intents and purposes, I may be best served if I "wrote him off". He would never speak, he would never function, he would always rely on me to do everything for him, and really I may like to consider "my options."
I would just like to say, sincerely, to the people who told me that - fuck you. How fucking dare you piss on my hopes and dreams, before The Boy had even got a diagnosis? Who the fuck are you to write a 2 and a half year old kid off, you talentless, fetid wankers? How can you live with yourself after telling someone that their son wasn't "normal"?
So - and I really do mean this - every time I argue with the little shit, every time he disobeys me and trots off to do his own thing regardless, every time I feel like listing the sod on ebay as he's being a wee arse - and I mean EVERY TIME - I will always remember (eventually) when I was told to forget about him. And I never, ever will.
The only thing I can say to you, whoever you are and whatever your situation is - don't quit. Don't give up. Stop running and face it head on (and trust me, I have wanted to run like the clappers away from this whole parenting thing more times than I will ever say aloud. We will ignore that I run from other things but I am trying really hard to stop doing that).
Giving yourself the power to do that, whether it be facing a challenge you can do nothing about, accepting a fact you don't want to, examining why you act in a certain way, accepting your mental health may not be what you hoped it would be - look it in the eye and take the fucker down fighting.
It may take some time for it to sink in (I cried for 5 days non stop, went to the doctor and started those mad tablets I keep forgetting to take, and then decided that no cunt writes my kids off without me raising one hell of a stink, yet he still wasn't diagnosed as being autistic for another 2 years - that anniversary is this Friday). You may know what you need to do and just not be able to - but when you can, when you're ready, and sometimes even if you're not ready you still need to try - fight the good fight. Never, ever quit until you know you can't go any further. And when you feel like that, just keep on a little bit more.
The Boy - a stubborn little shit just like his Mammy. Happy anniversary.
24 November 2009
Sticker
Today, The Boy was awarded a sticker at school. It was small, round (smaller than his index fingernail), blue and had "well done" printed on it, with a smiley face in the middle of it. He was wearing it on the lapel of his shirt.
It is the first sticker he has ever been awarded at this school (his first ever from an educational establishment was from a pre school in Wandsworth. It was a dinosaur. A tyrannosaurus rex. I still have it).
We are big on stickers at Wiltshire Towers, despite their transitory, non biodegradable status.
They are used for every sort of bribe imaginable, from getting The Lid to sit on the potty or toilet without shattering my eardrums with her displeased screams, to rewarding good handwriting, for positive behavioural re-enforcement ("well done! You didn't hit me when I told you no, even though you were cross". Yes, bizarre I know, but it works. Sometimes) to charting progress of daily tasks so that both Midgets can remember their routine.
Both are always happy to receive such trinkets from Mummy. Who doesn't like a sticker? But I had underestimated the power of receiving a sticker from school.
He approached me shyly, and indicated his shirt. I had spotted it immediately, but wanted him to tell me all about it. He told me how, because he had been a big boy and worked very hard to get "five Captain Adorables" (a behaviour re-enforcement "reward chart" that his teacher has developed), even though he had only got three on his chart he had been given the sticker for being such a calm, well behaved boy. He also had a certificate commending him on his tremendous effort.
The visible pride that he had in telling me, the care he took in showing me the certificate and the sticker, the wideness of his smile and his unprompted cuddle to me to show his delight at receiving them - the reward was rolled on to me, too. Marvelous.
It is the first sticker he has ever been awarded at this school (his first ever from an educational establishment was from a pre school in Wandsworth. It was a dinosaur. A tyrannosaurus rex. I still have it).
We are big on stickers at Wiltshire Towers, despite their transitory, non biodegradable status.
They are used for every sort of bribe imaginable, from getting The Lid to sit on the potty or toilet without shattering my eardrums with her displeased screams, to rewarding good handwriting, for positive behavioural re-enforcement ("well done! You didn't hit me when I told you no, even though you were cross". Yes, bizarre I know, but it works. Sometimes) to charting progress of daily tasks so that both Midgets can remember their routine.
Both are always happy to receive such trinkets from Mummy. Who doesn't like a sticker? But I had underestimated the power of receiving a sticker from school.
He approached me shyly, and indicated his shirt. I had spotted it immediately, but wanted him to tell me all about it. He told me how, because he had been a big boy and worked very hard to get "five Captain Adorables" (a behaviour re-enforcement "reward chart" that his teacher has developed), even though he had only got three on his chart he had been given the sticker for being such a calm, well behaved boy. He also had a certificate commending him on his tremendous effort.
The visible pride that he had in telling me, the care he took in showing me the certificate and the sticker, the wideness of his smile and his unprompted cuddle to me to show his delight at receiving them - the reward was rolled on to me, too. Marvelous.
9 November 2009
Crying
Last week, during a fit of pique, The Boy threw a billiard boy at another child attending after school club. It is difficult to see how I am supposed to deal with the matter.
The other child isn't a "special" child like t'Midgets. He is, however, a total tosser.
The child concerned has been unkind to The Boy during lunch times at school. His brother has been mean to The Lidster, behaviour that The Boy will not tolerate (for only he can be mean to his sister).
Time and again, I am explaining the same things to the same people within the education and childcare fields. I am repeatedly admonished for not having "faith" in their abilities to handle The Boy's behavioural quirks, however they consistently forget that the rules that they like to impose don't work for everyone.
Three weeks ago, I gawped open mouthed at a teaching assistant who punished The Boy by both telling him off and sending him to the end of a queue to start queueing again when we all know how very good ASD children are at waiting.
I have had to explain that the reason his handwriting is so "poor" is because he does not possess the fine motor skills needed to make it "readable".
Sometimes, trying to explain the huge field of autism is emotionally draining, not because you need to explain it, but because you need to say the same thing constantly to the same people, and still they can't grasp the sensitivity your child has because of their disability.
I have even purchased and supplied the school with headphones to help The Boy manage the amount of distress he is caused by noise sensitivity (though he is not allowed to wear the sunglasses provided for his light sensitivity).
I have passed them book after book, articles and information, practical advice, given them my time and energy, and yet I am still getting nowhere with them.
Then, this week, I found the answer.
Tears. Lots of them. Burst into tears, keep a managed voice and point out, consistently, that whomever you are talking to doesn't understand and that no, you wouldn't behave in the same way as the mother of your son's alleged victim would (that is to shout loudly at you as you entered the childcare facility that your son had "attacked" her son), you would be understanding as you have previously demonstrated when your son was bullied by her child.
This coming week, I have a meeting with The Boy's headmistress. Seeing as my tearful outburst was successful, I am tempted to try it again.
Remind me to apply a hearty dose of Vick's vapour rub to my hanky for that crucial moment...
The other child isn't a "special" child like t'Midgets. He is, however, a total tosser.
The child concerned has been unkind to The Boy during lunch times at school. His brother has been mean to The Lidster, behaviour that The Boy will not tolerate (for only he can be mean to his sister).
Time and again, I am explaining the same things to the same people within the education and childcare fields. I am repeatedly admonished for not having "faith" in their abilities to handle The Boy's behavioural quirks, however they consistently forget that the rules that they like to impose don't work for everyone.
Three weeks ago, I gawped open mouthed at a teaching assistant who punished The Boy by both telling him off and sending him to the end of a queue to start queueing again when we all know how very good ASD children are at waiting.
I have had to explain that the reason his handwriting is so "poor" is because he does not possess the fine motor skills needed to make it "readable".
Sometimes, trying to explain the huge field of autism is emotionally draining, not because you need to explain it, but because you need to say the same thing constantly to the same people, and still they can't grasp the sensitivity your child has because of their disability.
I have even purchased and supplied the school with headphones to help The Boy manage the amount of distress he is caused by noise sensitivity (though he is not allowed to wear the sunglasses provided for his light sensitivity).
I have passed them book after book, articles and information, practical advice, given them my time and energy, and yet I am still getting nowhere with them.
Then, this week, I found the answer.
Tears. Lots of them. Burst into tears, keep a managed voice and point out, consistently, that whomever you are talking to doesn't understand and that no, you wouldn't behave in the same way as the mother of your son's alleged victim would (that is to shout loudly at you as you entered the childcare facility that your son had "attacked" her son), you would be understanding as you have previously demonstrated when your son was bullied by her child.
This coming week, I have a meeting with The Boy's headmistress. Seeing as my tearful outburst was successful, I am tempted to try it again.
Remind me to apply a hearty dose of Vick's vapour rub to my hanky for that crucial moment...
13 October 2009
Diagnosis : A New Journey
The Lidster is now three and a half. Her speech is significantly delayed. On the emotional, social and play development scales, she is averaging 18-24 months. Her tantrums have not lessened. She has never had a bath without screaming, despite consistent patience and a variety of ways of approaching the event. She hates her head being touched. She covers her ears and screams at loud, sudden noises. She will screw up her eyes and turn away if something scares her, frequently animation. She will take off all of her clothes as they 'hurt'. She responds very badly to the word 'no'. She seems to have no grasp of right or wrong. She has no time for other children, preferring adult company. She refuses to use the toilet, or the potty, and as such toilet training just isn't happening as my nerves can no longer take it. She is insistent on a very precise way of playing, which includes categorising her toys by shape, size, colour and type.
It is becoming quite, quite clear that she is not just the cow that I had previously thought she was.
Most siblings of autistic children show similar behaviour patterns to their elder brother or sister, until such a time that they are in an environment with a greater level of neurotypical children. When they are around more neurotypical children, it is supposed, their behaviour and development will fall back within (and I use this word painedly) "normal" guidelines.
Lid's introduction to pre-school, on a daily afternoon basis, has not seen an improvement in her behaviour. If anything, it would appear that some of her foibles have become more noticeable, and I am advised that at school nursery she does not make eye contact.
With girls, Autistic Spectrum Disorders are particularly difficult to diagnose due to their superior ability to mimic "caring" roles. This is to such a degree that often, those on the more highly functioning end of the spectrum, may not be diagnosed at all.
Now, after much nagging on my part, (not having a health visitor hasn't helped, nor has the fact that my previous health visitor was convinced that I was 'imagining it') she is scheduled to start the rounds of speech and language therapy, educational psychologists, and SENCO assessments.
Why it has taken so long for us to get to here I do not know. It is a cause of great anxiety on my part that she has had to suffer my lack of understanding for the time I was convinced that she was merely naughty. I am unable to forgive myself for the impact that the delay in achieving diagnosis may have done to her, especially for my lack of patience, more so when compared to the almost unending patience I display with her elder, already diagnosed, brother.
So - here we are on a brand new journey. I am, I think, accepting that she will be diagnosed as being on the spectrum, but then it has been a slow realisation, helped by research. It is, as always, others that find it so hard to accept. I hope that I am up to the job of protecting and helping her, and ensuring that she is now my autistic little cow rather than my naughty little cow. Wish us luck.
It is becoming quite, quite clear that she is not just the cow that I had previously thought she was.
Most siblings of autistic children show similar behaviour patterns to their elder brother or sister, until such a time that they are in an environment with a greater level of neurotypical children. When they are around more neurotypical children, it is supposed, their behaviour and development will fall back within (and I use this word painedly) "normal" guidelines.
Lid's introduction to pre-school, on a daily afternoon basis, has not seen an improvement in her behaviour. If anything, it would appear that some of her foibles have become more noticeable, and I am advised that at school nursery she does not make eye contact.
With girls, Autistic Spectrum Disorders are particularly difficult to diagnose due to their superior ability to mimic "caring" roles. This is to such a degree that often, those on the more highly functioning end of the spectrum, may not be diagnosed at all.
Now, after much nagging on my part, (not having a health visitor hasn't helped, nor has the fact that my previous health visitor was convinced that I was 'imagining it') she is scheduled to start the rounds of speech and language therapy, educational psychologists, and SENCO assessments.
Why it has taken so long for us to get to here I do not know. It is a cause of great anxiety on my part that she has had to suffer my lack of understanding for the time I was convinced that she was merely naughty. I am unable to forgive myself for the impact that the delay in achieving diagnosis may have done to her, especially for my lack of patience, more so when compared to the almost unending patience I display with her elder, already diagnosed, brother.
So - here we are on a brand new journey. I am, I think, accepting that she will be diagnosed as being on the spectrum, but then it has been a slow realisation, helped by research. It is, as always, others that find it so hard to accept. I hope that I am up to the job of protecting and helping her, and ensuring that she is now my autistic little cow rather than my naughty little cow. Wish us luck.
Tosserism : A New Threat
There is a terrible new scourge affecting our children.
It is a deadly disease, that can develop over time, claiming our children from us and rendering them almost unrecognisable as human beings.
It is called Tosserism.
There is no research as to why so many children will grow into this condition (and it appears to be something that children will grow into as they age, the disease itself taking a steady hold as they grow). It mainly affects those over the age of 16, but has been recorded in some much younger than this. It appears to take peak effect from middle age, only worsening with old age.
It is estimated that, of every 91 children born, over 65 will develop Tosserism.
Characteristics of the disease include disapproving looks, loud tutting, elongated rabid ramblings as to what happened in the sufferer's day, unwarranted input as to how a child should be disciplined, as well as uneducated supposition as to a parent's skill at being same.
There is currently no known effective long term treatment for Tosserism.
It has been known to develop randomly, particularly when the sufferer observes a parent dealing with their child, especially when that child is autistic and is having a very public meltdown.
Sadly, it is still illegal to slap someone suffering with Tosserism.
The best thing that we, as a society, can do for those suffering with this terrible disease is to try to understand what it must be like to be devoid of any empathy for other human beings. We must try to comprehend the juxtaposition between their being accepted easily within society compared with the difficulty suffered by those who have autism.
There are no plans to start a help campaign to assist those afflicted with Tosserism.
It is vital that we remember that those with Tosserism cannot help themselves for acting in this way but, with patience, sarcasm and quick wit, they can be taught that their opinions are unwelcome and should be soundly kept in their mouths, not shared.
If you, or someone you love are affected by Tosserism, it may be time to reconsider the company you keep.
It is a deadly disease, that can develop over time, claiming our children from us and rendering them almost unrecognisable as human beings.
It is called Tosserism.
There is no research as to why so many children will grow into this condition (and it appears to be something that children will grow into as they age, the disease itself taking a steady hold as they grow). It mainly affects those over the age of 16, but has been recorded in some much younger than this. It appears to take peak effect from middle age, only worsening with old age.
It is estimated that, of every 91 children born, over 65 will develop Tosserism.
Characteristics of the disease include disapproving looks, loud tutting, elongated rabid ramblings as to what happened in the sufferer's day, unwarranted input as to how a child should be disciplined, as well as uneducated supposition as to a parent's skill at being same.
There is currently no known effective long term treatment for Tosserism.
It has been known to develop randomly, particularly when the sufferer observes a parent dealing with their child, especially when that child is autistic and is having a very public meltdown.
Sadly, it is still illegal to slap someone suffering with Tosserism.
The best thing that we, as a society, can do for those suffering with this terrible disease is to try to understand what it must be like to be devoid of any empathy for other human beings. We must try to comprehend the juxtaposition between their being accepted easily within society compared with the difficulty suffered by those who have autism.
There are no plans to start a help campaign to assist those afflicted with Tosserism.
It is vital that we remember that those with Tosserism cannot help themselves for acting in this way but, with patience, sarcasm and quick wit, they can be taught that their opinions are unwelcome and should be soundly kept in their mouths, not shared.
If you, or someone you love are affected by Tosserism, it may be time to reconsider the company you keep.
8 October 2009
Bumface
The Boy is being bullied. Not the casual, "you're weird", "why does he do that" bullying that, to my shame, we are used to (though we still rail against it, it is difficult to amend the opinions of the parents the children get their comments from, nor can we give them information that they don't want to know), but a more serious, less insidious type that is slowly but surely destroying his love of school.
It was always clear that, due to his lack of statement (Hertfordshire is notoriously difficult when it comes to funding for special needs children), we would have an uphill struggle helping him integrate into mainstream school. His desire was to attend mainstream school, to go with his friends, and although I was not fully behind the actual school he chose, we agreed that we would try the school.
It was made more troublesome by our eviction from our previous address (the one hour notice debacle, see previous blog), as our arrival back in Herts came as the intake for schools had been closed. We had very little choice but to go with his decision.
It was ensured that The Boy had additional settling in periods at the school. This didn't really work as planned, due to the Autism Advisory Services' inability to turn up to said scheduled appointments to help settle him, and explain what was going on.
However, the Reception teacher was extremely accommodating, and worked with us both directly to help his transition, which helped an inordinate amount. He and I spent a lot of time talking about 'Big School', the sort of behaviour that was expected there, and what was expected of him.
He has always been very aware that he is different, he knows he is autistic, and it is something that sadly troubles him a great deal. Despite my assurances, he is unconvinced that being autistic is a positive thing, and was only slightly persuaded otherwise when he decreed that Doctor Who is autistic.
What we have is a very aware, very clever 5 year old, who knows he is different but wants to make friends with people who may as well be speaking Japanese as far as his understanding of their social signals and cues is concerned. So he tries to join in and gets persistently battered down by all but the most understanding of his peers.
The irritating fact remains that any amount of 'work' that went in to explain to The Boy what was going on is worthless when his condition and behaviour hasn't been explained to the children in his class. Regardless of the fact that I purchased books for his Nursery to explain to the children his condition (they refused to use them, bar the teaching assistant who took them to show children 'on the sly'). We even sat down together to write a 'book' about his behaviour, which we copied for every child in his class, but we weren't allowed to give them out. We circulated the same things in his after school club, who were more interested.
Since his transition to 'Big School', the gap between he and his peers has become more noticeable, mostly in his behaviour which can turn violent on occasion, usually through frustration. His inability to deal with unstructured time make lunch times and play times a nightmare for him, regardless of my suggestions and bombarding them with information as to how to handle the situation.
Now, this casual estrangement has escalated to the point that some vile little bastard, two years older than him, called my son a retard at playtime. A boy so stupid that he called my son 'smartypants' because The Boy forgets to hoist up his trousers, so his pants are on display from time to time. He and his friends, bigger than my son, jostled him and taunted and teased him. And it wasn't noticed (though, as a bitter aside, the MSA's soon notice if The Boy acts like the other children by jostling or playing roughly. He will then invariably get reported whilst the other children do not. And yes, I have stood at the gates watching and gone in to complain accordingly.)
No amount of explaining that smartypants is actually a positive thing to be has assured him. No amount of complaints to the school are working. The process of parent applied statement is started. So what should I do?
At the moment, my confident, bubbly, bonkers wee man is a blundering wreck. He is tearful for no reason. He refuses to sleep alone (he says that he "needs a grown up there to look after" him). He complains bitterly when it is time to go to school. It is slowly destroying me to the point that, yes, whilst I do sympathise that there must be some stuff going on for this boy to bully my son I DON'T CARE. I despise the little shit for what he is doing to my son, and I can't fathom how he is allowed to continue to be in the school, causing my son misery.
The best part of this is, as a manner of defence, I told The Boy that, next time he was called any of those words, he should respond by saying that his name wasn't what they called him, but The Boy, whereas their names were Bumface as they have faces like bums.
Can you guess which parent was called in? Certainly not the bullies'. The Bumfaces.
It was always clear that, due to his lack of statement (Hertfordshire is notoriously difficult when it comes to funding for special needs children), we would have an uphill struggle helping him integrate into mainstream school. His desire was to attend mainstream school, to go with his friends, and although I was not fully behind the actual school he chose, we agreed that we would try the school.
It was made more troublesome by our eviction from our previous address (the one hour notice debacle, see previous blog), as our arrival back in Herts came as the intake for schools had been closed. We had very little choice but to go with his decision.
It was ensured that The Boy had additional settling in periods at the school. This didn't really work as planned, due to the Autism Advisory Services' inability to turn up to said scheduled appointments to help settle him, and explain what was going on.
However, the Reception teacher was extremely accommodating, and worked with us both directly to help his transition, which helped an inordinate amount. He and I spent a lot of time talking about 'Big School', the sort of behaviour that was expected there, and what was expected of him.
He has always been very aware that he is different, he knows he is autistic, and it is something that sadly troubles him a great deal. Despite my assurances, he is unconvinced that being autistic is a positive thing, and was only slightly persuaded otherwise when he decreed that Doctor Who is autistic.
What we have is a very aware, very clever 5 year old, who knows he is different but wants to make friends with people who may as well be speaking Japanese as far as his understanding of their social signals and cues is concerned. So he tries to join in and gets persistently battered down by all but the most understanding of his peers.
The irritating fact remains that any amount of 'work' that went in to explain to The Boy what was going on is worthless when his condition and behaviour hasn't been explained to the children in his class. Regardless of the fact that I purchased books for his Nursery to explain to the children his condition (they refused to use them, bar the teaching assistant who took them to show children 'on the sly'). We even sat down together to write a 'book' about his behaviour, which we copied for every child in his class, but we weren't allowed to give them out. We circulated the same things in his after school club, who were more interested.
Since his transition to 'Big School', the gap between he and his peers has become more noticeable, mostly in his behaviour which can turn violent on occasion, usually through frustration. His inability to deal with unstructured time make lunch times and play times a nightmare for him, regardless of my suggestions and bombarding them with information as to how to handle the situation.
Now, this casual estrangement has escalated to the point that some vile little bastard, two years older than him, called my son a retard at playtime. A boy so stupid that he called my son 'smartypants' because The Boy forgets to hoist up his trousers, so his pants are on display from time to time. He and his friends, bigger than my son, jostled him and taunted and teased him. And it wasn't noticed (though, as a bitter aside, the MSA's soon notice if The Boy acts like the other children by jostling or playing roughly. He will then invariably get reported whilst the other children do not. And yes, I have stood at the gates watching and gone in to complain accordingly.)
No amount of explaining that smartypants is actually a positive thing to be has assured him. No amount of complaints to the school are working. The process of parent applied statement is started. So what should I do?
At the moment, my confident, bubbly, bonkers wee man is a blundering wreck. He is tearful for no reason. He refuses to sleep alone (he says that he "needs a grown up there to look after" him). He complains bitterly when it is time to go to school. It is slowly destroying me to the point that, yes, whilst I do sympathise that there must be some stuff going on for this boy to bully my son I DON'T CARE. I despise the little shit for what he is doing to my son, and I can't fathom how he is allowed to continue to be in the school, causing my son misery.
The best part of this is, as a manner of defence, I told The Boy that, next time he was called any of those words, he should respond by saying that his name wasn't what they called him, but The Boy, whereas their names were Bumface as they have faces like bums.
Can you guess which parent was called in? Certainly not the bullies'. The Bumfaces.
21 September 2009
The first rule of Lego Club is - you don't talk about Lego Club
Exciting times are coming at Wiltshire Towers. Last week, I was doing some doing some research to help The Boy's social skills. The Boy, as you know, is autistic. One of the characteristics of autism is what Professor Baron-Cohen - yes, he is related to that one - refers to as "social dyslexia" (an inability to recognise faces and social situations rather than letters and words), so anything that can develop his socialisation skills is welcomed and applied to the best of my limited abilities.
In the past, we have used "The Transporters" (blog post to follow) to assist The Boy in developing the theory of mind deficits are incumbent with the disability. We have also, due to the refusal of the school he attends to do so, developed a "Circle of Friends" outside of school hours with his sympathetic neurotypical friends.
Naturally, we have accrued hours and hours of painstakingly executed turn taking games (with the accompanying painful slaps and kicks that can accompany the admonishment of "No, it's Mummy's turn" a process we still engage in), as well as football training (he practices his goal keeping at said training lessons, often when he has been placed in a midfield position), he is about to start swimming lessons (he took some persuasion), and, following his love of the bouncy castle purchased for the summer holiday, we have discussed trampolining lessons (though he remains unsure).
"Lego Club" (also known as "Lego Therapy") seems a logical step to take on our journey. The theory behind said therapy is to assist high functioning children communicate and problem solve. Working in pairs or groups of three (with one as the engineer, explaining the instructions, another as supplier locating the pieces required and one as the builder putting the pieces together), Lego constructions are built and, hopefully, communication skills are developed and improved. The roles of the children are swapped around, so each has the opportunity to play at each one.
So, armed with a box of Lego borrowed from the Toy Library, we have started our own experiment to see if this will assist The Boy. We tried it yesterday (substituting Mummy for one of the children), and today he has been extremely calm.
We will keep you updated. In the meantime, let me know about anything you are trying that you find has helped with your autistic child's socialisation skills.
In the past, we have used "The Transporters" (blog post to follow) to assist The Boy in developing the theory of mind deficits are incumbent with the disability. We have also, due to the refusal of the school he attends to do so, developed a "Circle of Friends" outside of school hours with his sympathetic neurotypical friends.
Naturally, we have accrued hours and hours of painstakingly executed turn taking games (with the accompanying painful slaps and kicks that can accompany the admonishment of "No, it's Mummy's turn" a process we still engage in), as well as football training (he practices his goal keeping at said training lessons, often when he has been placed in a midfield position), he is about to start swimming lessons (he took some persuasion), and, following his love of the bouncy castle purchased for the summer holiday, we have discussed trampolining lessons (though he remains unsure).
"Lego Club" (also known as "Lego Therapy") seems a logical step to take on our journey. The theory behind said therapy is to assist high functioning children communicate and problem solve. Working in pairs or groups of three (with one as the engineer, explaining the instructions, another as supplier locating the pieces required and one as the builder putting the pieces together), Lego constructions are built and, hopefully, communication skills are developed and improved. The roles of the children are swapped around, so each has the opportunity to play at each one.
So, armed with a box of Lego borrowed from the Toy Library, we have started our own experiment to see if this will assist The Boy. We tried it yesterday (substituting Mummy for one of the children), and today he has been extremely calm.
We will keep you updated. In the meantime, let me know about anything you are trying that you find has helped with your autistic child's socialisation skills.
14 September 2009
If protecting our children is paramount, how can we object to £64? : Thoughts on the Vetting and Barring System
Marvellous. The Daily Mail's delayed reaction to the Safeguarding Vulnerable Groups Act 2006, and the subsequent establishment of the Independent Safeguarding Authority, has produced the usual foam mouthed missive of which they appear to inordinately proud.
Under the legislation, those who work three or more days or once overnight per month with vulnerable groups in society, will be subjected to the Vetting and Barring System. This includes those who work within the "obvious" areas (i.e health care, education et al) and will include volunteers who "ferry children to clubs", amongst others. This will, potentially, include parents who transport other people's children.
One wonders therefore what on earth has happened at The Independent, The Guardian, The Times etc that they should have joined the Mail in it's incoherent ramblings that proclaim that to check on adults volunteering with children is tantamount to destroying their civil liberties.
Such is the idiocy of the response that seasoned journalists appear to be misinterpreting the legislation into any form that will provoke the most outrage amongst their readers.
The Independent has attempted to show voluntary groups feeling outrage where there is none, in response to what it refers to as "draconian regulations". Politicians who voted for the legislation are now clamouring against it - even though, as has been asserted, it passed unopposed by all parties at the time. Authors who visited schools are up in arms that they have to prove that they are not a threat to the children they visit.
Sarcasm is rife, as well it might be, but what is the alternative? Children have the right to be protected, and we as adults have a duty to them. It is not just children who are covered by this legislation - why no references to grandchildren taking their elderly grandparents out for the day where they might be tempted to "give them a shove"? Why is it not so funny to make references to volunteers working with the disabled?
Put simply - we, as a society, expect not to be questioned over any decision that we make in regard to our children. We should be able to hit them, undermine them, demean them - how dare the nanny state intervene with our right to do so? After all, it was good enough for us, wasn't it?
Of course it wasn't, and it certainly isn't good enough for our children either. By expressing misplaced outrage that suggests that paedophilia is restricted to certain sections of society, it prevents us from examining the actual truth of the matter.
The idea presented, that being a parent excludes you from being a paedophile, ignores the fact that the large majority of paedophiles have families who know nothing of their proclivities. It is a mental illness which cannot be treated. Castration, chemical or otherwise, only stops actual physical assault occuring - it does not stop the urges towards children.
I have two children, both of whom have delayed speech. My eldest has a diagnosis of autism, my youngest is about to start that process. They are vulnerable in a way that sadly many children are. They are both young, have little in the way of legally protected rights, and would not be able to express if anything happened to them. As emotional and over dramatic as it sounds, they are the world to me. I have and will continue to do everything I can to ensure their well being, happiness and growth.
They are almost the embodiment of the 'confident, loved and secure' young people that Alison Shepherd refers to in her opinion piece derived from the Mail article in The Independent on Sunday.
I had always thought of myself as staunchly libertarian, until I discovered that an acquaintance with whom I got on extremely well and had hoped would become a friend, who appeared very interested in helping my autistic son, whom I had let into my home and had been around my children, was arrested on charges concerning owning indecent images of children, and had been arrested on the same charges previously but released on caution. The caution previously earned meant that he was not on the sex offenders register.
Under the checks, his past history would have been exposed, and he would not have been employed in the position that he was where he encountered children and other vulnerable groups. I would not have met him, he would not have come into our lives, and I would not be flagellating myself with self hatred that I allowed myself to be tricked and potentially put my children in danger.
As a parent, I regularly have my children's friends over to play. As a parent who works night shifts, I am able to help out parents who have to work office hours, in terms of bringing their children to school, and this also helps my children, especially with the nature of their disability, develop socially.
Were it the case that I needed to be subjected to these checks, do I think that such examination of my life is an invasion of my civil liberties?
No - £64 is a very small price to pay if it prevents one child from being hurt, as despite the opinion held by some that our children "ain't...that innocent", mine are.
If there is a possibility that, by having the VBS, one child won't be hurt, if enforcing it will protect and maintain one child's innocence - to me, that cannot have a price levied upon it.
Under the legislation, those who work three or more days or once overnight per month with vulnerable groups in society, will be subjected to the Vetting and Barring System. This includes those who work within the "obvious" areas (i.e health care, education et al) and will include volunteers who "ferry children to clubs", amongst others. This will, potentially, include parents who transport other people's children.
One wonders therefore what on earth has happened at The Independent, The Guardian, The Times etc that they should have joined the Mail in it's incoherent ramblings that proclaim that to check on adults volunteering with children is tantamount to destroying their civil liberties.
Such is the idiocy of the response that seasoned journalists appear to be misinterpreting the legislation into any form that will provoke the most outrage amongst their readers.
The Independent has attempted to show voluntary groups feeling outrage where there is none, in response to what it refers to as "draconian regulations". Politicians who voted for the legislation are now clamouring against it - even though, as has been asserted, it passed unopposed by all parties at the time. Authors who visited schools are up in arms that they have to prove that they are not a threat to the children they visit.
Sarcasm is rife, as well it might be, but what is the alternative? Children have the right to be protected, and we as adults have a duty to them. It is not just children who are covered by this legislation - why no references to grandchildren taking their elderly grandparents out for the day where they might be tempted to "give them a shove"? Why is it not so funny to make references to volunteers working with the disabled?
Put simply - we, as a society, expect not to be questioned over any decision that we make in regard to our children. We should be able to hit them, undermine them, demean them - how dare the nanny state intervene with our right to do so? After all, it was good enough for us, wasn't it?
Of course it wasn't, and it certainly isn't good enough for our children either. By expressing misplaced outrage that suggests that paedophilia is restricted to certain sections of society, it prevents us from examining the actual truth of the matter.
The idea presented, that being a parent excludes you from being a paedophile, ignores the fact that the large majority of paedophiles have families who know nothing of their proclivities. It is a mental illness which cannot be treated. Castration, chemical or otherwise, only stops actual physical assault occuring - it does not stop the urges towards children.
I have two children, both of whom have delayed speech. My eldest has a diagnosis of autism, my youngest is about to start that process. They are vulnerable in a way that sadly many children are. They are both young, have little in the way of legally protected rights, and would not be able to express if anything happened to them. As emotional and over dramatic as it sounds, they are the world to me. I have and will continue to do everything I can to ensure their well being, happiness and growth.
They are almost the embodiment of the 'confident, loved and secure' young people that Alison Shepherd refers to in her opinion piece derived from the Mail article in The Independent on Sunday.
I had always thought of myself as staunchly libertarian, until I discovered that an acquaintance with whom I got on extremely well and had hoped would become a friend, who appeared very interested in helping my autistic son, whom I had let into my home and had been around my children, was arrested on charges concerning owning indecent images of children, and had been arrested on the same charges previously but released on caution. The caution previously earned meant that he was not on the sex offenders register.
Under the checks, his past history would have been exposed, and he would not have been employed in the position that he was where he encountered children and other vulnerable groups. I would not have met him, he would not have come into our lives, and I would not be flagellating myself with self hatred that I allowed myself to be tricked and potentially put my children in danger.
As a parent, I regularly have my children's friends over to play. As a parent who works night shifts, I am able to help out parents who have to work office hours, in terms of bringing their children to school, and this also helps my children, especially with the nature of their disability, develop socially.
Were it the case that I needed to be subjected to these checks, do I think that such examination of my life is an invasion of my civil liberties?
No - £64 is a very small price to pay if it prevents one child from being hurt, as despite the opinion held by some that our children "ain't...that innocent", mine are.
If there is a possibility that, by having the VBS, one child won't be hurt, if enforcing it will protect and maintain one child's innocence - to me, that cannot have a price levied upon it.
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