(Wo)Man’s best friend ❣️

This is a post I didn’t think I’d write for many years to come. One I shouldn’t even be thinking of composing. It’s not right. It’s not fair but here it is.

I am also acutely aware that this ramble may be perceived as very self-indulgent. Far too many of my good friends have lost their children. I would not dream for one moment of comparing my grief to theirs. But nonetheless the sudden and very unexpected loss of our much loved dog burns white hot and I am hollowed out with sadness. For all intents and purposes, our pup was a fully paid up 7th member of the family. Well technically 8th I guess if you count the cat. (We do love her too!)

If you have read any of my past blogs, you will know some of the difficulties and battles our family has faced over the last few years.

Whilst it’s not a competition, no top-trumps fest, the day to day demands of medically complex children, the amazing quirks but also relentlessness of autism, endless appointments, clinics, surgeries, battles for and with various agencies and services takes its toll. You Buddy (or Sir Budston of Burnarrrr as we sometimes referred to you!) my wonderful little dog, helped alleviate some of those burdens.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I recognise there are many people, probably some of them reading this, who would give everything they have and then some to be facing those same fights and difficulties I mentioned, having lost their precious loved ones far too prematurely; but oh my boy, I thought we had so many long and happy years ahead; wondrous walks to stroll/pad through, delightful or disgusting (depending on your perspective) smells to sniff and cuddles on the sofa to sneak in at any and every opportunity.

Buddy, much admired by all who met you, faithful four legged companion. How can we only have celebrated your birthday a month ago? How can it be that we never even made it to a whole year of you being in our lives, in our home?

You were my birthday present almost one year ago. We had talked about having a dog for over 5 years before taking the plunge. A bit like having a child, it was never quite the right time to introduce a dog to our chaotic lives.

Enlarging the family, moving house, redundancies, working abroad, relocating and leaving the island of my birth and the only home our children had ever known followed by house rentals before finally having a settled(ish) house of our own.

Quite out of the blue and having been a steadfast, most resistant party, I’ll never forget the day my hubby, Martin, turned to me and asked if I wanted a puppy for my birthday!

Minx was about to go into theatre for surgery number whatever and was giggling woozily from the pre-op medication. I recall being so taken aback I asked him if he had actually downed the pre-med instead! I was ecstatic and not about to give him time to change his mind.

Although it had been a long time coming, I knew exactly what kind of dog would suit our family, our crazy-hectic-bonkers lives and had done quite a bit of research in the hope that one day… maybe…just maybe… we would be lucky enough to have a pooch of our own.

We saw your picture first and a flurry of emails were exchanged before THE BIG DAY: your homecoming; my 40 something birthday. The moment I picked you up, cuddled you to me and laughed at the thought of putting you in the enormous crate in the back of the car, you filled our hearts so entirely. The void you leave behind is a chasm of epic proportions. I don’t know how or if ever it can be filled.

It doesn’t seem possible that I’m writing about your passing over the rainbow bridge when we should be looking forward to so many more years of mischief and mayhem. More days fretting about what you might have managed to scarf down if one of us wasn’t quick enough to stop you – I lost count the amount of Lego I scooped up just in time; how many bits of this and that I retrieved from your doggy jaws. Your quivering nose whiffling along always seeking out, questing and foraging. You could smell a dropped blueberry from a 100 paces and hear the rustling of the treats bag in the kitchen no matter where you were in the house or garden; a pretty useful tactic when you were being cheeky and not wanting to come to us when called!

You brought so much happiness. Joy, laughter, giggles and fun. And so much poop too! Martin tells me he cleaned up 12 doggy bags worth yesterday. Considering I last did it on Saturday morning and yesterday was only Wednesday, that’s quite an achievement. Especially since you were nil by mouth from Monday night on. And you were at the vets all day Tuesday….

We joked it didn’t feel right to get rid of all the 💩; perhaps we should create some poo-based monstrosity altar dedicated to you? Your legendary pooping out an entire, intact nerf bullet still makes me smile now. (NB definitely not to be encouraged responsible readers/dog owners – the children learnt the hard way that I meant what I said if they left things like Lego/nerf bullets lying around = bin)

A lot of expectation on such stumpy little legs. Not just the 6 people in your immediate family cuddling you, loving, and petting you. So many people that had the pleasure to meet you – our favourite coffee shop by the river and all the employees therein, our lovely groomer and her dog Poppy, friends and family and the seemingly never ending stream of delivery people with medical supplies or equipment, Amazon deliveries and so forth. Always an action packed day in this wonky-old household and you always ready to greet them with a deep woof, occasional bark and a wave of your magnificent plume of a tail. We often remarked your tail was bigger than you! It looked like it should sit in pride of place on a hat worn by one of the 3 Muskateers. And now I have a small piece of it saved in a memory box to remember you by. It smells still of the grooming, pamper session you had just last Friday. I’m glad it is of that and not the clinical smells of the veterinary practice, their kindness not withstanding. Your grooming sessions over the year cost more than my haircuts!

You were my secret keeper extraordinaire. Too many nights I muttered oaths into the top of your sweetly curling fur when dealing with the latest co*k-up from various services, be they special needs, medical bods or utility companies. So many times I poured out my heart and soul to you, you listening attentively with your head on one side, adopting the classic cava tilt that all other cavachon owners will recognise in its uniqueness. When I was saddest you snuggled that bit closer. When I was happy you were delighted that there were extra treats and cuddles and when it was all just a bit too much, you expected nothing but ensured your presence was always felt.

We joked often that you were not so much a dog – more part goat, part sloth. Your dislike of vigorous, brisk walks was the cause of much frivolity and it was remarked upon more than once that you were the perfect companion for a fair-weather not terribly exercise motivated owner such as myself. Too many times at the site of your harness and lead you would feign sleep or rush back to your bed refusing to come out, especially if it was cold. and dark. and raining. and there was a ‘Y’ in the day…..

Of course now I know my darling boy, you weren’t just faking it; you weren’t trying to make me feel better about the dislike of walking in the 4-seasons-in-1-day climate of Yorkshire. You were tired. Your little body was constantly battling a build up of toxins that in the end would be your downfall.

I try to take comfort from the fact that you are no longer suffering. That we could afford you the peace and dignity that is so often missing when our human loved ones are terminally ill. It makes a small dint in my grief.

At the moment there is too much sadness in this household. Too many reminders everywhere we look: your water bowl empty, toy box neat and tidy, not strewn all over the kitchen. Your place on the sofa vacant. I think even Tilly the Cat in her own feline way misses you; after all she can no longer take a swift munch out of your breakfast or dinner when she thinks none of us are looking.

Members on a wonderful Facebook web site I belong to for cavachon lovers have provided me with enormous support. An out pouring of love, empathy and sympathy. A stunning bouquet of flowers was delivered from them to me today. It made me cry again. But the tears were underscored by gratitude too. After all as Alfred Lord Tennyson said it best: “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”Buddy 04/10/2016 – 14/11/2017 🌈❣️

Advertisements

How do you sleep at night… part 2 😡😡

I’m a bit less ranty today but no less passionate so let’s get this done and written before I lose my impetus… never mind the will to live. 

I like to think I’m currently  channeling my inner Taylor Swift and her pals in the Bad Blood music video: 

(*above image may be subject to copy-right) 

But in reality I should be so lucky. I’ve spent far too much of the day with my youngest son on a hospital ward, wallowing, sat on my butt, scrolling social media and eating chocolate. Less Swift, more sloth;  I can feel the helplessness wanting to swallow me up; shut me down again. 

(sorry sloths everywhere who are probably outraged at the comparison) 

I’ve been extremely touched how many people have commented/got in touch or shared my previous post. Thank you. 

I wish what I had written didn’t resonate with so many but I am also grateful for the support and the sense of solidarity. 

I recognise the issues facing my family are far from unique. Judging by support groups I belong to, friends, social media and so forth, this utterly deplorable battle for services to provide and protect those most in need, those who don’t have a voice of their own, those with the least ability and energy to fight are being waged up and down the county. 

Whilst the difficulties faced may be slightly different, they all share a common denominator: the vulnerable, those in crisis, those society should be protecting and empowering. 

Forgive my Whitney Houston moment but our children ARE the future and if we don’t invest in them and secure the best possible pathway, what hope is there for society moving forward? 

I also know the elderly, infirm, mentally unwell and so on deserve their cause being championed in the same way. 

I recognise on a deeper level my attitude is simplistic and that something policy-wise, fiscally, has to give or change dramatically going forward. 

How do we achieve this? I don’t know; I never professed to have the answers as to what this should look like in terms of the bigger picture. 

All I do know is a seismic shift is necessary, society is screaming out for it. How we approach this, how we can achieve it is for somebody/ies far more qualified than I. (Otherwise I probably should be standing for government….🤔) 

The demands of a large, aging population who are living longer, the epidemic of obesity, drugs/alcohol/cigarettes, the advances in medical science meaning those who once would have met their maker because of cancers, heart disease, prematurity of birth and the terrifying increase in the so far unstoppable dementia are well documented. There can be no escaping the fact that expectations and demands for provision will increase year on year. 

All the while the funding for front line services is being reduced or in some cases done away with all together. Departments asked to find millions in cost savings, balance the books and yet still pull it out of the bag, somehow. 

Morale is at an all time low as evidenced by the mass exodus of Doctors, nurses, emergency services and so forth. 

I’m not naive. I know the country is on its knees financially and floundering in uncertain times: Brexit, the future of the NHS and government but the refusal to engage, instead throwing up wall after wall, challenge after challenge means there’s less money in the pot to provide even the most basic of services. 

Is it just me and people like me that can see the irony in money being spent on disputing and denying care instead of the care itself? 

We are informed of cuts to services/benefits/ grants every time we switch on the tv, open a news paper.  The effects of austerity on all aspects of social care, health and education (and of course the ripple effect on our police force, armed forces and such like) have been hiding in plain sight for many, many years

Why is it that the major political parties seem far more invested in scoring points at each other’s expense and plotting a coup to oust their leaders than implementing change and securing services for the greater good? 

I want to believe the bean counters genuinely care, that there is an appetite for change but they have become so blinded in covering their backs, their departments and their funds, (actually the tax payers funds) they have forgotten their original purpose. The other alternative: that they enjoy the power trip, playing god and causing abject misery has to be some dystopian fantasy…. doesn’t it?…

I do know that continuing with this ostrich style approach, riding rough-shod over those of us trying to cope day in, day out and strangling us in a bureaucratic nightmare, (presumably in the hope that parents/Carers will give up) ISN’T helping. 

If as much effort and emphasis was put into providing and fulfilling services, identifying and enabling children, parents and the wider family before they reached crisis point a great deal more would be achieved. 

I can’t help thinking that in fact the overall financial outlay would ultimately be a lot less, nevermind the impact and fallout on the family which ultimately add to the spiralling costs. 

How much do local authorities spend on retaining expensive legal council, defending cases and when challenged by parents on the attack, concede a case with moments to spare? The costs in such situations are not merely financial.

Whilst I cannot go into the ins and outs of our case in detail at the moment (until we receive the decision of the SEND tribunal I don’t want to prejudice any outcome) I can relate some of the damage and the wider implications the delays have caused us so far: 

  • Inability for autistic child to access mainstream education since March 2016 resulting in high levels of anxiety, depression leading to self harm and suicidal idealisations necessitating multiple in patient/out-patient hospital stays
  • Provision of interim specialised education package with 1:1 staff ratio/on occasion 2:1 to provide up to 2 hours study per day (where possible round child’s anxiety) 
  • Child unable to access GCSE subjects/make option choices
  • Involvement of multiple agencies on numerous occasions – police, accident & emergency, CAMHS, children’s social care, Young Carers, autism out reach, fostering team and foster carers
  • Local authority (LA) assessment and review officers to prepare EHCP, take information to specialist information panel on multiple occasions, liaise between relevant parties, issue consultation paperwork to potential schools 
  • Assessment of child by educational psychologist for local authority 
  • School transport (single occupant) with escort to ensure autistic child safely taken to and from school
  • Maternal mental health crisis triggered, medical intervention required,  inpatient psychiatric care for 3 months, multiple medications and therapies
  • Community care package to support maternal mental health, crisis team management, out of hours services 
  • Care package from disabled children’s team to provide direct payments in support of care for medically complex child thus enabling sole breadwinner to continue to work 
  • Emotional support to other children in the family necessitating pastoral support, teachers from 2 separate schools reporting back on children’s well-being and attending looked after children’s (LAC) team  meetings, approximately every 6 weeks
  • All children in family requiring support and intervention by CAMHS  to address trauma and ongoing psychological fall-out
  • Family engaging professional legal team and independent educational psychologist to prepare case for tribunal
  • LA engaging in-house legal advice and support
  • LA acquiring professional legal counsel to present at tribunal
  • Convening of independent tribunal and panel member(s) in official court to hear evidence from family and LA surrounding case 

How much does all of this add up to? This is not an exhaustive list and no doubt  there are things I have unintentionally missed/forgotten but I think it is a fair representation. It’s pretty depressing reading isn’t it?  

Has what I’ve detailed shocked you? We are just one family in a cast of thousands, dare I even say millions. 

Unless you or a loved one need to avail yourself of services, you assume it happens to others; not to people like us. 

We are now the others. 

How do you sleep at night?… part 1…

Heads up, a warning: I am enraged. White hot, scalding anger that is making me vitriolic and bitter. 

I know it’s doing me no good and I should channel some inner zen but there’s no yin in my yang and frankly I need something else to focus on; some kind of drive to power forward instead of zoning out passively. Time to create a stink. 

I don’t as a rule swear very much. Mainly because I have spent and continue to spend a great deal of time round small folk, be they my own or other people’s and the fact that mummy has a potty mouth is not the kind of accolade I want to be renowned for.  It doesn’t mean I don’t think in creative Anglo-Saxon oaths but I try to restrain myself from actually launching into a tirade that would make a sailor blush. 

Over the years, it’s been quite amusing to find substitute words for the things that have nearly slipped out & turn them into something socially acceptable before the offspring absorbed it as their latest word du jour. 

Try to teach them please/thank you/hello/goodbye in polite company, you would think I was attempting to teach them the full works of William Shakespeare… in Flemish. Yet one *almost* expletive of a wangdoodling, cowbunkerling f-bomb amd such like and they have absorbed it by osmosis. 🙄

Tonight however. I make an exception. I am angry. So fucking angry. The fact that fucking just autocorrected to ducking as I typed it, has incensed me further still. 😡😡

I feel sweary. I feel ranty and shouty and full of words my Dad would get cross with me for using (even though he taught me most of them) I’m even tempted to use the ‘c’ one (& I don’t meant Christmas) – sharp intake of breath.

But I can’t have a good shout, unleash a stream of invective because yet again we are in-patient on Hotel NHS and there are a lot of very small people around whose parents would quite understandably be distinctly unimpressed.

So I’ll do my ranting, raving and effing and jeffing here on my blog; after all I did start my musings some years back in an effort to make sense of it all. Life that is. It’s been cathartic to brain fart away.  Download and dump the crap (d’ya see what I did there?!) 

Half the time I start a blog post with some vague notion of what I want to write about but no idea what will spout forth. I usually feel better by the end. I’d love to be all coy and twee and say I don’t care if people read it or not but actually that would be a lie. I do care. I suppose I need some validation. 

Tonight however I REALLY need you to read it, share it, spread the word. Because I’m sick of the powers that be getting away with it. Letting down vulnerable children. Leaving families in crisis, drowning in despair and fracturing already fraught and taut relationships. 

3 weeks ago today we took our local authority (LA) to a special educational needs tribunal in an effort to secure an appropriate, residential school placement for our high-functioning autistic son.

This was a culmination of 18 months of fighting and battling and relentlessly dealing with the stalling, the hoop jumping bureaucratic, bean-counting process. 

Our 14 year old who should have chosen his GCSE options last school year and commenced this September term on the pathway forward to achieve his future potential has been entirely let down and cast aside by THE SYSTEM.

Would it shock and surprise you to learn he’s received less than 2 hours education per day since March 2016? I know it does me. 

I also know if we personally elected he only attend school for this woefully inadequate amount of time, over such a long period, we would have been threatened with fines and imprisonment by the education department. But this situation is not of our making so apparently that makes it legal, ok, just tickety-boo and we can all smile sweetly, nod and wave because they are trying THEIR BEST. Except they are not. 

The powers that be are far more concerned with covering their departments backside, zealously guarding their pot of funds so they don’t actually have to put it towards what’s in the best interests of the child. 

 I hasten to add this is NOT the fault of his current school who have done everything and then some to support him and us as a family in providing him with a suitable education whilst time ticks on relentlessly. But they don’t have the resources or specialist autism knowledge to support the style of learning and can’t provide the low-sensory low-stimulating environment he needs to facilitate his learning.

Even so his mainstream school have strived to do all they can; he has 1:1, sometimes even 2:1 sessions in an area well away from the hustle and bustle of the main school. They have come up with creative and thoughtful ways to stimulate him;  to forge a kinesthetic approach that captures his imagination where they can. But it’s not working. 

On that at least the LA are in agreement on. But that’s pretty much where it ends. 

I knew I should have smelled a stinking, great dirty rat when the  placement panel convened in October last year and agreed that our son did indeed require a specialised educational establishment. 

Not for us the refusal to assess for an education health care plan (EHCP), not for us the refusal to grant such a plan and not for us the dispute over main stream or specialist placement. So I should have known. It had all come to us far too easily.

Having had the benefit and heartbreak of reading other parents accounts of the lengths they have had to go to even just to get their  LA to agree to assess, I knew we had been extremely, for want of a better word, ‘lucky’ 

But really that’s where our luck ran out. It’s much harder than you think to find appropriate, specialist education. There are a myriad of schools out there meeting complex and varied needs but how do you narrow it down?

In actuality your LA are supposed to help you with this too. They paid lip service to it so I ended up resorting to google and a pick and mix approach, narrowed down by area of expertise and geographical location. 

I’ll spare you the laborious ins and outs of the very lengthy and exhausting process. Suffice to say, after panel sat in January 2017, they decided they didn’t have enough information on our case to make a decision. Sigh.

In February 2017, although all the information from the 3 schools we had received provisional offers of placement from (we had approached more than 12 by this point who couldn’t meet our son’s needs) the panel asked to consult with yet another 3 schools. Of course if they had read the case notes properly they would have seen that 2 out of the 3 had already been approached by us and felt unable to offer a place. The remaining school was full and wasn’t suitable for reasons I’m not at liberty to go into. It would be an understatement to say I was fuming.

The assessment and review officer (ARO) acting for the LA tried her best and wanted to expedite matters instead of making us wait till the March sitting. She was new and fed duff information from people higher up the food chain who left her carrying the can after dangling false promises.

The people with THE POWER don’t like taking your phone calls. They are it seems unable to respond to email, even when you have their direct email address. Their phones must also be unable to make out going calls as they never call back and mysteriously all voicemails go awol. Or something. 

Apparently they can reply to your local MP if he/she gets in touch after you have involved them and made them aware of your dissatisfaction  but only with vague promises that matters are in hand and will be dealt with. A word to the wise: don’t hold your breath. 

So March 2017: to our dismay,  panel named a wholly inappropriate day-placement school some hour or so away from our home which they expected our son to travel to and fro on a twice daily basis.  

Having previously viewed this particular school, I had submitted a lengthy explanation highlighting why the establishment, the cohort of students, the academic remit (or lack thereof) and lack of opportunity to promote our son’s social/emotional development in a holistic over-arching approach to his education were not just incompatible but potentially very damaging and in the worst case scenario likely to exacerbate his anxiety, self harm tendencies, suicidal idealisations and more extreme behavioural difficulties. These concerns were also backed up by his psychiatrist and psychologist from CAMHS (child adolescent mental health) in 2 separate letters. 

It will hardly comes as a surprise that the school the LA had selected was the cheapest option. 

I was swiftly reminded that the LA only have a duty to provide an education for my child and if they can prove that is enough, it doesn’t matter what we know to be in his best interest, what has already proved dividends in students with a similar make up, what’s in the best interest of society over the long term in aiding him to achieve his potential, thus ensuring he contributes economically, socially and attains independence; to negate relying on the state for benefits, or support services. The school we have found and the costs associated with it are ‘incompatible with the public purse’ and therefore they can refuse to provide it. 

They accepted the school we had found is superior in every way; they accepted it could meet need and that  like on like it would (based on past performance of students very like our son) offer him the best opportunity and chance of success going forward. Indeed The Judge at tribunal was very clear on all these points.

Yet the LA refused to concede. They have played dirty; suggested we have stalled the case by refusing to ask for an earlier tribunal date – although fully aware that the independent educational psychologist we had asked for input from couldn’t assess until the end of June. Paradoxically, once the extremely enlightening report had been shared with the LA and we suggested moving up court proceedings, they couldn’t accede to our request. 

Although the statutory dates for submission of evidence were clearly set out in writing and which both parties agree to abide by, the LA suddenly found a pressing need for their own educational psychologist to assess our son, although they hadn’t deemed it necessary since the previous visit a year ago. Funnily enough they then asked for the revised report be admitted into late evidence.  

Surprisingly they also suddenly discovered a letter that had been ‘misplaced’ from our son’s psychiatrist (and which we had never been party to even though we have always been copied into all other correspondence to date) which were counter to 2 previous letters she had written supporting the need for a residential specialist school and expressing her grave concerns to him being placed in an environment such as that outlined in the LA’s chosen school. How very curious indeed that all this information had only just come to light…..

To be continued…. 

Comfortably numb…

Life, at the risk of sounding self indulgent and more than a little self pitying can best be described in the title above. At least for the time being and that’s ok with me. Comfortably numb sits comfortably. 

I have loved this amazing song for many years but, you will forgive me if I defer to the Scissor Sisters version and the soothing warbles of Jake Shears than the sanctimonious, anti-Zionist (read anti-Semitic no matter what he may say) Roger Waters opus. 

It’s a song I have sang along and danced to in the past. Briefly thinking on the lyrics only in so far as much as trying to remember them for appalling, impromptu karaoke. 

But of late, they are strangely soothing and a fitting discourse of this time in our lives.  

Urban Dictionary’s top definition: http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Comfortably%20Numb

Doesn’t that describe the perfect “safe” place? Removed from the sharp stabs of real life, set apart from the disappointments, the difficulties, the knocks and the scrapes. And if that is so, then comparibly the edges dulled off the fun, frivolity, light and laughter?

Does this make me melancholy? I do not think so. Does it make me less able to participate, share, enjoy? Perhaps. Nonetheless I will gladly settle for this numbness. There is little that can surprise me or scare me in this half life. It allows me to maintain a sense of glass half full. 

I realised on our journey to hospital this morning that my benchmark for stress, nerves and worry is very different to what it once was. 

Not to take away from any parent/carer watching their loved ones suffer or go through scary, frightening procedures but this is our norm. Different child, different hospital but largely the same. 

Did I appear to the nursing staff cold, unfeeling? The soft “are you alright Mum?” after the anaesthetic had been administered and my not so little boy’s head gently laid back upon the bed, a kiss on his still baby-soft skin , barely registered. I was dry-eyed and calm. I have walked this walk, talked this talk more times than I can recall. Is that admission in itself shameful? Should I know, unbidden, which child, what number anaesthetic? Why? 

I find myself waiting, pausing for a beat, attuned for updates. News of medical tests, results, tribunals, social care, and so forth; the envelopes received with post-marks from various hospitals, the no caller ID flashing up on my mobile, the ping of an email: I am both strangely alert – a cat on hot bricks and yet not really surprised by the lack of information.  I’m a bit bored of it all. Blanketed by ennui. 

So for now I will embrace the numbness, float along. The bumps are smoothed out. Temperate but equally obdurate. 

Tick Tock

The clock relentlessly ticks & chimes. It is insistent but dull; a constant in the background, a drone of bees.

When I wake there are moments where I cannot recall what or why but the fog lifts and I am jabbed, sharply. Ouch. 

Why is time so tritely passing in the blink of an eye yet we remain standing still – limbo – maybe even going backward?

I am wading through sticky treacle & the dust motes settle in and on with the weight of a thousand tonnes to every pace, trying to break my stride, drown me in the quagmire.

Yet we hurtle on – faces, landmarks, dates and days a blur. I cling on desperately, a rollercoaster reaching the summit then: free-fall. The drop in your stomach ever present 

I have so much to say, shout, lambast angrily even but I must bide my time, guard it zealously. I remain gagged, tight-lipped…until, until…..

For now anyway we have reached an impasse.

In time, when the momentum stills, one way or another there will be much to reveal. It will be make or break in that I have no doubt, but for whom is as yet undecided. 

50 Humorous Top Tips For Cleaning Up Vomit…affiliated with BAD HOUSEKEEPING…

OK, who am I trying to kid? First off, there is NOTHING humorous what so ever about vomit, nope, never, not even slightly….especially if I am anywhere in the vicinity of said chunder and particularly if I have to be involved in the clearing up process 😩

Secondly, who in their right (or wrong, very wrong) mind could even think of 50 separate ways to clean up puke (don’t flood me with ideas, I really DON’T want to know) unless you are some weirdo with a peccadillo for emesis (posh word for barf doncha know). If you fall into the latter category and have a predilection for all things vomit relating/inducing, I can’t decide whether you should move in next door to me so I can call on you in times of desperate need or whether I would like you to remove yourself from my blog readers 😉 I’ll ponder this further after a very strong coffee to reconstitute myself after this morning’s endeavours which as you may have succinctly deduced involved clearing up the outpourings of a poorly G Man.

Despite being the mother of 4 children, the oldest of whom is now 17 and started out his life as a prolific refluxer plus various nauseous pets over the years, I am spectacularly bad when it comes to the whole shenanigans associated with dealing with THAT bodily function – see I have to carefully allude to the literally stomach churning matter since even discussing it starts to make me feel more than a little queasy.

I’m not quite an emetophobe but probably not far off it. For example, there are many, many memories accrued over the years that I could recall in technicolour detail that involve vomit which really shouldn’t be the defining high point (or rather low) of the recollection:

The journey to school aged 9 when my brother and youngest cousin were playing some game in the back of the car involving bogies which prompted my brother to be sick all over my cousin, my cousin was then sick all over me and my dear Dad (he of the famed what goes on in the car stays in the car” quip) instructed yours truly to clean everyone up!! This made me sick which then made Dad sick… you get the picture!!

Then there was the time hubby and I (pre kids/marriage) went on a fabulous trip in the Florida Keys on a glass bottom boat – totally marred by the cutest little girl shouting “mommmeee, mommeee, I blew chunks and look the fishies are eating it!!”..and sure enough the glass-bottomed and partially open viewing platform was no longer such a relaxing mix of cerulean blue and darting fish… cue me having to run on deck and gasp unattractively for air, hand flapping, rocking and muttering oaths.  Unbelievably hubby still chose to marry me less than 2 years later…I know right? #whatacatch#

There was the flight home post an amazing sun-baked, cake and booze fuelled relaxing holiday in Eilat with hubby, kids and my parents when my eldest, then aged 10 and Minx, 14 months, were unwell (an understatement!) Poor H perforated an ear drum mid-flight and the pain made him upchuck prolifically, all over yours truly and Minx unable to swallow her saliva, having difficulties with increased secretions and oxygen saturations because of the reduced air supply eventually managed to bring everything up all over me.

That particular trip culminated in being met by an ambulance airside at Luton and being transferred with 2 poorly children to the local hospital clad in linen trousers, wispy thin short-sleeved blouse and flip-flops covered in the UNMENTIONABLE from head to foot. I had managed to grab our passports but no handbag or warm clothing so coming back from 30+ degrees heat to a miserable late night in Blighty in single figures temperature wise was never going to work out well anyway but quite how I persuaded the poor gentleman in the taxi to take us to our hotel once the kids had received appropriate treatment, medications etc, sporting ‘eau de vom remains one of the great mysteries of the world….

Then there was a Christmas Eve morning that still makes me shudder: Martin had been at work on an early shift but was due home mid-morning. Imbued with the festive spirit, (and I don’t mean having drunk it!)  I decided to make a Bouche Noel (fancy way of saying chocolate Yule log) as a last-minute dessert.

 

All 4 kids were occupied, seemingly playing nicely (probably should have foreseen that as a clue!) so when hubby called me to say he had landed and was off to pick up his Mum, did they need to come straight home or could they pop to the shops, I gave a tinkly little laugh and assured him that all was under control. Oh how that would come back to bite me on the bum….

Festive songs on the radio, fridge fit to bursting, I set about with the flour, sugar, eggs & whisk… Shortly after I had prepped the mixture on to grease proof paper ready to pop in the oven, feeling smugly all Nigella, the shrill, panic-stricken tones of G Man yelling  “Mummmmmmeeeeeyyyy” shattered my ear drums from 2 floors above.

All parents recognise the particular siren call that indicates real TROUBLE and possibly DANGER so I high-tailed it up the 2 flights of stairs half expecting to find a severed limb or child dangling from the ceiling light and whilst my initial reaction was relief that this wasn’t in fact the case, it very quickly turned to revulsion and then to despair when I realised Martin wouldn’t be home for some time to assist.

A bit of context: Minx being strong-willed had decided in the October of that year, before she was 2, that nappies were a no-no and with an early glimpse of the determination that has gone on to be both a blessing and a curse, set about the valiant efforts of toilet training herself (and with my reluctant support) with remarkable aplomb.

So on this fateful Christmas Eve, G-Man being ever helpful and adoring of his little sister had ‘helpfully’ brought her Peppa Pig potty in to his bedroom on the top floor of the house where they were playing with Lego.

Whilst I’m sure most of us would agree that our own poop doesn’t exactly smell of roses, it should be noted that Minx was taking numerous medications, several of which meant she emitted an especially noxious odour in matters of toileting.

Thus it was, eyes watering, ears ringing and nose almost bleeding, I greeted a truly horrific scene: Minx still astride her throne, 4 pieces x 2 squares of toilet paper that G had thoughtfully laid out in front of her. G sitting atop his cabin bed, Lego scattered far and wide… and copious amounts of vomitus. But to add to the awfulness, G having retched at the potty odour from on high had proceeded to be sick all down the side of his cabin bed, on the Lego… and worse still, atop Amelia’s head!! 😫😫 She then & I guess understandably in the circumstances, had also let loose.

By this point, the combination of aromas in that room were making ME gag. I threw open the velux windows as wide as they could possibly go & screeched at the elder 2 to avail me of plastic bags, buckets, disinfectant, paper towels and baby wipes STAT!!

When they arrived duly laden, they also began to heave. Major flaw in my plan so yelling afresh, I got them to leave the immediate vicinity of hell and set to work cleaning up.

If you’ve never experienced the heinous task of gathering up vast amounts of sharp, multi-coloured pieces of plastic of varying sizes and shapes covered in vomitis (and why would you?!) let me be the first to tell you it proposes a logistical nightmare. How to scoop, run and get to sink without creating further devastation??

If I didn’t have the littlies to bear witness, I would have cheerfully disposed of the lot in bin bags, nary a thought of the cost of those pesky bricks (and to be honest after 4 kids we had enough Lego between them to construct our very own Lego land anyway!!) but their beady eyes were following my every move and frankly I couldn’t face the thought of adding crying and snotty tears to the already over crowded bodily fluids in that room so I (ahem) sucked it up (not literally!!) and used a bath towel to traverse back and forth to the bathroom until the vile task was done.

Of course it wasn’t over then because I still had kids, floor, bedding etc to clear up. And so it was that Martin returned home some hour or so later to find me lying on the floor alternately sobbing and swinging from the cooking sherry, muttering dementedly. Even 6 years on, that has to be up there as one of the nastiest events of my life!

So without further ado, let me share with you some if not exactly cunning and mind-blowing tips, useful pointers I have gleaned over the years:

Make yourself reeeeeallly reeeeallyy bad at clearing up vom – but only if you have some (sort of) willing partner/friend  sworn enemy around to take over the clean up, in the hope that you will botch it all so badly, they will tsk tsk at you through clenched teeth and insist you GET OUT OF THE WAY AS YOU ARE JUST MAKING MATTERS WORSE stylee….. *whistles nonchalantly*

Pay someone else to deal with it. Extravagant? Undoubtedly but worth every penny if you are phobic.

Napalm – if in doubt and with no willing helper/employee annihilate the fall out zone… NB best to evacuate anyone nearby, (even if you don’t get on with the neighbours) check your home insurance policy wording first and see what your mortgage lenders T’s & C’s are if you have one.

Haz-mat suit – chemical showers and self-contained oxygen supply …. for obvious reasons… although difficult to come by…

Sell your house immediately and if news reports are to be believed, do it quick before we all end up in negative equity (be prepared to take less than market value anyway unless the buyers have a cast iron constitution on viewing the vomity areas)

Give your house away/to charity.…less likely to be fussy/complain and more willing to clean up.

IGNORE, DENY EXISTENCE, CLOSE DOOR, ACT SURPRISED,  upon discovery with a n other present then revert to point 1….

Drink yourself into oblivion – preferably alcohol rather than any old household products, then tackle the task… NB careful judgement needs to be used to ensure you are the right side of not giving a hoot and merrily tipsy rather than blind drunk which potentially may see you adding to the mess…

If all else fails and you really have to do the clean up, arm yourself with gloves (plastic/rubber/latex NOT woolly!) plastic bags, kitchen towel, baby wipes, antibacterial spray, pet soiling clean up spray (it breaks down the enzymes and gets rid of that lingering sick smell that’s so difficult to get rid of) and mentholated vapour rub (e.g. Vicks/Karvol or similar) and smear liberally under your nose, septum and philtrum (medical jargon for the bit between your nose and top lip!) I decided to try that little tip after reading a book about how bad dead bodies that have been in water smell and the pragmatist of the story attending a post mortem using  Anyway, I digress… Throw windows open as wide as you can for added ventilation (assuming there are windows) and leave the top off the mentholated vapour rub for emergency sniffing if it all gets a bit much. If you happen to have a room spray of some description, give the room a good blasting – even LYNX does the trick although I’m not sure that’s what the manufacturer intended it for 🤔 Once you have removed the worst of the offensive matter, carpet cleaner, preferably in the form of a dedicated machine rather than something you spray or sprinkle on is your friend.

So there you have it; not 50 tips but maybe, just maybe something that might make you giggle…