So I happen to know that comments are made and eyebrows are raised when the issue of how many children I have comes up. Mainly because number 2 of the four has autism, and I do not deny that he alone is very hard work. Hard enough that sometimes, I struggle to cope. So I understand when people question our decision (rarely to my face but that's another story) to keep going when we knew that life would be difficult. Sometimes, when they're pretty much killing each other and wrecking the house, i question myself! But let me explain.
Firstly, we were originally told that there was nothing wrong with Luca. He just needed 6 months of speech therapy and would be fine. Almost a year later, we went back to that same clinic (having had none of the speech therapy he apparently needed in order to be "fine") with our newborn daughter in my arms, to be told that actually, he would never be fine. Roman, as my close family and friends know, was a BIG surprise. But by the time he came along, I had realised something. Having siblings was helping Luca. His older brother kept him in check. If he was having an extreme meltdown, Jack could often coax him out of it. As Bella learned words and phrases, Luca began using them also. He learned how to be gentle(ish) while cuddling his baby sister, too rough and she'd squawk, and nobody likes that noise! And Luca was teaching them things, too. How to be patient, tolerant, understanding. How to concentrate on a task when all hell is breaking out right next to you (believe me my children are unflappable in loud situations, an excellent skill for their cv when the time comes)
So yes, my life is hard and sometimes I cry, sometimes I wonder what on earth possessed me to bring all these children in to the world. But mainly I'm in awe of how they all enrich each others lives, and how they've developed and grown.
Little moments make it all worthwhile. Like a few days ago when I suddenly realised it was far too quiet, an ominous sign. I went upstairs and had the pleasure of witnessing Roman and Luca playing together, Roman showing Luca how to actually play with the cars rather than just lining them up. And both of them were just enjoying the moment, engrossed in putting out the fire by the chest of drawers, totally not noticing their mother having a little blub on the landing.
Who wouldn't want that for their children, no matter how hard it is all the rest of the time.
Sunday 6 September 2015
Friday 31 July 2015
Another year older...
There's a birthday coming in our house!
Luca is turning 10. His birthday is a funny old day. He gets excited, I think. It's hard to tell, but he does start asking if it's his birthday soon several times a day in the days leading up to it, then on the day he starts off well, but the over stimulation soon gets to him and he becomes very upset and grumpy.
It's a hard day for me, too. Physically he's another year older. In his mind, well, nothing really changes. And this time 10 years ago I was eagerly awaiting the birth of my baby, another little boy who would be best friends with his big brother, play football with him, fight over toys and computer games and be friends for life. Now, instead of worrying about them getting drunk together or sneaking out to meet girls, I find myself wondering whether his big brother will be his carer once me and his dad are no longer able. This is something I just need to learn to accept and stop stressing about, I think. I can't change it, I just have to wait and see.
Presents, too, presents are an issue! I don't even know what your average 10 year old would be in to these days. Luca wouldn't know, either! He asks for the same things every year. Peppa pig DVD, and Mario kart on the ds. They're learned responses, but we still get those items for him, because it's all he has asked for. Then we buy him things we think he will like, that he can't eat or pull apart, preferably. This year, among other things, he'll be unwrapping sellotape and glue sticks, because sticking and gluing is his favourite thing! Don't get me wrong I'm happy to buy him anything that will make him smile, it just makes me sad when I'm looking at toys aimed at babies instead of bikes or skateboards or the latest computer game.
He'll have a little party, of course. But he doesn't have any friends to invite. But that's ok, he has lots of family to celebrate with. And true to tradition, he has a Mr Men cake. Shop bought, this time!
I really should be thanking my lucky stars. He's here, he's healthy, and he gets to celebrate his birthday. Many children don't, and I wouldn't change my Lu, not for all the tea in China. Maybe wallowing and feeling sorry for myself is selfish and silly of me. Coming to terms with Lucas disability is something that will take a lifetime. I don't know if that's wrong or right, I just know that for me, personally, I cannot embrace a condition that stole my child away from me. I can only regret that he wasn't helped sooner, and that his long term prognosis is not what it could have been, had he been picked up at 2, rather than 5. I love Luca, I love the sound of his laughter, I love the way he sleeps, I love his cuddles, I love all the little snippets we see of his personality, his sense of humour, his creative flair. And I do love celebrating his birthday, no matter how hard it is.
I just wish things could be different.
Luca is turning 10. His birthday is a funny old day. He gets excited, I think. It's hard to tell, but he does start asking if it's his birthday soon several times a day in the days leading up to it, then on the day he starts off well, but the over stimulation soon gets to him and he becomes very upset and grumpy.
It's a hard day for me, too. Physically he's another year older. In his mind, well, nothing really changes. And this time 10 years ago I was eagerly awaiting the birth of my baby, another little boy who would be best friends with his big brother, play football with him, fight over toys and computer games and be friends for life. Now, instead of worrying about them getting drunk together or sneaking out to meet girls, I find myself wondering whether his big brother will be his carer once me and his dad are no longer able. This is something I just need to learn to accept and stop stressing about, I think. I can't change it, I just have to wait and see.
Presents, too, presents are an issue! I don't even know what your average 10 year old would be in to these days. Luca wouldn't know, either! He asks for the same things every year. Peppa pig DVD, and Mario kart on the ds. They're learned responses, but we still get those items for him, because it's all he has asked for. Then we buy him things we think he will like, that he can't eat or pull apart, preferably. This year, among other things, he'll be unwrapping sellotape and glue sticks, because sticking and gluing is his favourite thing! Don't get me wrong I'm happy to buy him anything that will make him smile, it just makes me sad when I'm looking at toys aimed at babies instead of bikes or skateboards or the latest computer game.
He'll have a little party, of course. But he doesn't have any friends to invite. But that's ok, he has lots of family to celebrate with. And true to tradition, he has a Mr Men cake. Shop bought, this time!
I really should be thanking my lucky stars. He's here, he's healthy, and he gets to celebrate his birthday. Many children don't, and I wouldn't change my Lu, not for all the tea in China. Maybe wallowing and feeling sorry for myself is selfish and silly of me. Coming to terms with Lucas disability is something that will take a lifetime. I don't know if that's wrong or right, I just know that for me, personally, I cannot embrace a condition that stole my child away from me. I can only regret that he wasn't helped sooner, and that his long term prognosis is not what it could have been, had he been picked up at 2, rather than 5. I love Luca, I love the sound of his laughter, I love the way he sleeps, I love his cuddles, I love all the little snippets we see of his personality, his sense of humour, his creative flair. And I do love celebrating his birthday, no matter how hard it is.
I just wish things could be different.
Tuesday 21 July 2015
Holiday blues
Well hi.
It's been a long, long time since my last blog. Things have happened. Some nice, some not so nice.
Essentially, other than the children being bigger, funnier, more amazing, more frustrating, things are pretty much the same. I still try (and mostly fail) to bake. I still try (and mostly fail) to eat well, exercise and take care of my health, both mental and physical. I laugh about pretty much everything, because if you don't laugh you'll cry, right?
But today, today I decided to blog because I read something that cut me to the bone. It wasn't in any way aimed at me, but it upset me to the point that I've laid awake all night pondering, and if I don't get it out I'll explode, so here I am.
It begins with a Facebook status. One mother, who had noticed that already, when it's only day 1 of the summer holidays, mums are moaning about their kids. There followed after this, a conversation whereby those who moan about the holidays are deemed to be unfit parents, who probably should never have had children in the first place if they can't be bothered to make the holidays fun.
I didn't just cry over this. I sobbed. I am one of “those" mothers.
I don't mean to be. I love my children unconditionally, with every fibre of my being. But school holidays for me, are not fun. They're horrific. We become captives in our own home, unable to venture further than the garden. Autism keeps us all prisoner. We can't all jump in the car and go hunting for the gruffalo, or digging for treasure at the beach. We can't go to the park. We can't ride our bikes to the shop and buy ice cream. We can't take a picnic to the woods and have rounders tournaments and rolling down a hill competitions.
Basically, the things I dreamed of, when I had my babies, the promise of long summer days filled with fun and laughter, they were taken away from me. From all of us.
Our reality is getting through 6 weeks of changed routine, of bored children desperate for my attention, of trying to come up with things we can do at home and convincing my “normal" children that this is JUST as fun as the things their friends are doing. They're getting too old to be fooled. Luca is getting too big, too strong and too clever to be contained. So on top of feeling like the worlds worst mother, I become the worlds worst housekeeper, my house is trashed. And yes, I know, “I'm rocking my baby" and all the other “it's OK to have an untidy house" poems and memes can be posted all over Facebook. But that doesn't change the fact that clothes need to be washed, plates need to be cleaned, food needs to be prepared. Pee and poo needs to be removed from the bathroom walls, the nutella all over the bed covers? Well that can't be left, either. It takes 20 seconds of turning my back to create a mess that will take 30 minutes to clean. And in that 30 minutes, 50 more messes will be made.
I can laugh and joke about it, I'll spin it and try to see the funny side, but under the surface I'm stressed, overwhelmed, and increasingly anxious. What if my children grow up hating me and resenting Luca, because our lives revolved around everything he was unable to do? What if social services knock on my door, see the mess and decree I am indeed a crap mother who doesn't deserve to have my children?
I mean, I could jump in with both feet and say that the mothers who are out every day doing amazing things, and making scrapbooks to take in to school come September to show everyone what wonderful memories they've made, are clueless, and smug. But I wouldn't say that. I say you're lucky. Lucky that fun is possible. Lucky that while you may have the odd day of whining or arguing and proclamations of how boring this all is, for the most part, you'll be loving the time together and thinking it's going far too quickly.
I just have 1 request. Don't judge others based on what you are able to do. Making me unable to express how tired, or stressed, or overwhelmed I feel, denies me of the opportunity to hear other mothers say “me too" or “hang in there, not long now" so that I know I'm not alone. In short, you make the not so “good" mothers feel even more isolated.
Believe me, we feel rubbish enough as it is.
It's been a long, long time since my last blog. Things have happened. Some nice, some not so nice.
Essentially, other than the children being bigger, funnier, more amazing, more frustrating, things are pretty much the same. I still try (and mostly fail) to bake. I still try (and mostly fail) to eat well, exercise and take care of my health, both mental and physical. I laugh about pretty much everything, because if you don't laugh you'll cry, right?
But today, today I decided to blog because I read something that cut me to the bone. It wasn't in any way aimed at me, but it upset me to the point that I've laid awake all night pondering, and if I don't get it out I'll explode, so here I am.
It begins with a Facebook status. One mother, who had noticed that already, when it's only day 1 of the summer holidays, mums are moaning about their kids. There followed after this, a conversation whereby those who moan about the holidays are deemed to be unfit parents, who probably should never have had children in the first place if they can't be bothered to make the holidays fun.
I didn't just cry over this. I sobbed. I am one of “those" mothers.
I don't mean to be. I love my children unconditionally, with every fibre of my being. But school holidays for me, are not fun. They're horrific. We become captives in our own home, unable to venture further than the garden. Autism keeps us all prisoner. We can't all jump in the car and go hunting for the gruffalo, or digging for treasure at the beach. We can't go to the park. We can't ride our bikes to the shop and buy ice cream. We can't take a picnic to the woods and have rounders tournaments and rolling down a hill competitions.
Basically, the things I dreamed of, when I had my babies, the promise of long summer days filled with fun and laughter, they were taken away from me. From all of us.
Our reality is getting through 6 weeks of changed routine, of bored children desperate for my attention, of trying to come up with things we can do at home and convincing my “normal" children that this is JUST as fun as the things their friends are doing. They're getting too old to be fooled. Luca is getting too big, too strong and too clever to be contained. So on top of feeling like the worlds worst mother, I become the worlds worst housekeeper, my house is trashed. And yes, I know, “I'm rocking my baby" and all the other “it's OK to have an untidy house" poems and memes can be posted all over Facebook. But that doesn't change the fact that clothes need to be washed, plates need to be cleaned, food needs to be prepared. Pee and poo needs to be removed from the bathroom walls, the nutella all over the bed covers? Well that can't be left, either. It takes 20 seconds of turning my back to create a mess that will take 30 minutes to clean. And in that 30 minutes, 50 more messes will be made.
I can laugh and joke about it, I'll spin it and try to see the funny side, but under the surface I'm stressed, overwhelmed, and increasingly anxious. What if my children grow up hating me and resenting Luca, because our lives revolved around everything he was unable to do? What if social services knock on my door, see the mess and decree I am indeed a crap mother who doesn't deserve to have my children?
I mean, I could jump in with both feet and say that the mothers who are out every day doing amazing things, and making scrapbooks to take in to school come September to show everyone what wonderful memories they've made, are clueless, and smug. But I wouldn't say that. I say you're lucky. Lucky that fun is possible. Lucky that while you may have the odd day of whining or arguing and proclamations of how boring this all is, for the most part, you'll be loving the time together and thinking it's going far too quickly.
I just have 1 request. Don't judge others based on what you are able to do. Making me unable to express how tired, or stressed, or overwhelmed I feel, denies me of the opportunity to hear other mothers say “me too" or “hang in there, not long now" so that I know I'm not alone. In short, you make the not so “good" mothers feel even more isolated.
Believe me, we feel rubbish enough as it is.
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