6 Go Crazy On A Socially Distanced Adventure…*

* a very dreadful homage to all things Enid Blyton to hopefully offer some light-relief in these challenging times….

The 6 DNTW’s have been holed up together under one roof for less than 72 hours and the wholesome, ruddy-cheeked (feckless) children are clearly feeling the strain. As are their parents.

After a mere 2 & 1/2 days of home schooling, Mr DNTW’s could be heard enquiring at what age teachers are legally allowed to retire and Mrs DNTW’s is contemplating ingesting the hand sanitiser that her very lovely, witty and glamorous (also childless therefore explaining the non-haggard visage and aforementioned glamour!) friend sent her in the post because she has read they contain alcohol.

In a time of national emergency surely it is obvious that both should be drunk not rubbed on one’s hands?! (In the interests of health and safety please don’t!)

Mrs DNTW’s knows she should be very grateful that she has thoughtful and lovely friends who think of sending her such precious things like alcohol flavoured hand-gel in these desperate times but right now she is wondering if she can drink the contents as they do in fact contain actual, REAL alcohol. She also feels it desperately unfair that Mr DNTW’s has refuted her suggestion of sacrifice that she consumes hard liquor and remains 70% proof at all times because apparently an alcohol content above 66% is necessary to effectively kill off bacteria and she is trying to protect herself from the dreaded “C” word so in turn she can nurture her family.

Unusually given the vocabulary of child number 2, it is not that ‘c’ word that she is worrying about for the time being, nor is it the BIG C but it is definitely a very unpleasant C which shall not be mentioned herewith 🦠

It is likely that Mr DNTW’s is not thinking of the health and well-being of his wife in pouring scorn on her proposal but is rather more concerned he will be asked to aid in the SPAG (spelling punctuation and grammar for those not in the know) work that has been set as part of the home-schooling curriculum by actual teachers who are laughing delightedly and rubbing their hands with glee hand-gel at those contemptuous parents who spout such nonsense as:

“huh! 6 weeks off in the summer! They should know what hard work is really like!”

In her defence, Mrs DNTW’s would very much like it to be known that she has never been one of those smug and belittling folk. In fact she thinks that anyone who has voluntarily and willingly decided, (not to mention paid out horrifyingly large sums of money for the privilege of doing so) to nurture and cherish young mind’s – other people’s children (Sartre’s quote “Hell is….?!”) – should probably be sectioned canonised.

Mrs DNTW’s has tried to instill a respect for authority, foster a love of learning and an oasis of peace and tranquility in the classroom that was once her dining room.

In truth she wasn’t very successful imparting these qualities to her older children in the past so it is unsurprising that the younger ones reject her request to answer the register, greet her politely with “Good morning Mrs Definitely Not The Walton’s” and yell “Oi Karen and BOOMER” at her periodically. Mrs DNTW’s wonders whether telling her precious off-spring that they will enjoy working in 45 minute blocks with 15 minute movement and snack breaks might have been a tad ambitious and perhaps it should have been the other way around.

After Mrs DNTW’s has spent 20 minutes surreptitiously consulting her phone for an explanation of fronted adverbials, preposition and sub-clauses, she wonders whether she ever learned anything at school all those years ago.

She and child number 4 finally crack on with the questions relating to the Harry Potter themed English work and she has been designated scribe because Minx’s hands are tired, despite the fact she has only held the pen doodling. Mrs DNTW’s is dismayed to find that they are only on question 4 and they have already spent an hour arguing over whether Hermione would have had an easier time at school if she had learned early on about the beneficial properties of argan oil and serum for frizz-prone hair.

Child 3 has left the room and embarked on his designated movement break, disparagingly retorting that it is his right to leave after 45 minutes whether he has finished his French set piece or not.

His movement break seems to have incorporated a trip back to the bedroom on to his X-box and when subsequently summoned to return, his dulcet bellows of “I just need 5 more minutes to finish this match” ricochet off the walls from the 3rd floor all the way down.

This prompts Child 2 who is “self-studying” in his room to angrily fling open the bedroom door, music blaring from the dark, fetid cave-like dwelling to announce he cannot possibly get anything done with such inconsiderate shouting around him and he needs to assume a horizontal position on his bed, encased in a furry dressing gown until at least an hour of order and tranquility has been restored. Fortunately Mrs DNTW’s is wise enough not to engage in that battle and beats a hasty retreat.

Child Number 1 who actually left school several years ago and under usual circumstances would be at work, is also now confined to barracks until further notice. He chooses this time to grace us all with his presence and wonders down to the kitchen, bleary eyed, whereupon he opens the fridge door and gazes in forlornly until the beepy noise kicks in. With much dramatic sighing on his part, there is opening of multiple cupboard doors, also the freezer and trips back and forth to the garage for essential supplies. Mrs DNTW’s informs him that “no we don’t happen to have any lovely part-baked rolls, fluffy pancakes, nor lashings of beer, ginger or otherwise” to meet his brunch criteria.

Children 3 and 4 return to the dining room class-room and survey the bits of paper, pencil sharpernings and crumbly bits of broken rubber that seem to be peppered about the place despite Mrs DNTW’s not having witnessed any usage of items that would give rise to these annoyances. Mrs DNTW’s sighs and wonders weather by some form of stealth osmosis her dining room is absorbing waste matter from the many dormant class rooms scattered over the UK, indeed the rest of the world as the “C” word holds us all in captivity. In fact come to think of it, she notices that the room seems to be giving off an aroma most usually associated with the lingering scent of school dinners, pine disinfectant, sports lockers, lynx and farting. She makes a mental note to add Febreeze to her online shopping order which is scheduled in the earliest available slot, 9 week ahead.

Perhaps Child 1 is responsible for the odours as whatever he is doing in the adjacent kitchen (the door between is firmly closed) requires a lot of banging of saucepans, running of taps and occasional expletives.

This reminds Mrs DNTW’s that she has not time-tabled any musical activities for her sweet darlings and after briefly contemplating hunting down the old recorders and music books, she gives her head a wobble and reminds herself why she hid them in the first place. She decides that an afternoon of listening to Billie Eilish over and over again with a running commentary from the Minx detailing the video montage and seven gazillion You-Tube quips will serve this purpose perfectly. Child 3 can make do with revising his spotify play list.

After what seems an age but in reality is only another 45 minutes, the children are getting fractious and Mrs DNTW’s is feeling mutinous as she made the rooky mistake of opening the door to let the scrabbling dogs into the class-room – (what fun my darlings, we can do a live biology/veterinary course!) and caught the scene of utter carnage and devastation that was once her kitchen but is now a scourge of dirty cups, burnt bits on the hob, crumbs everywhere and judging by the greasy paw prints on various surfaces, Child 1 has left the butter out which the bl**dy cat has taken advantage of.

Dismissing the class, she briefly contemplates hauling Child 1 back downstairs and bludgeoning him with a rolling pin until the sanctity of her once pristine kitchen is restored but decides actually that some TIME OUT from her children and some vigorous scrubbing might be good for her blood pressure and rising feelings of wanting to puncture things (including people) with sharp objects.

Verily as she has cleaned down the last surface and re-stacked the dishwasher so that it contains more than one awkwardly loaded frying pan, 27,000 cups and glasses (so the off-spring had indeed previously been hoarding them in their bedrooms after all!!) and single spoon, her little urchins meander their way back into view and piteous cries of “we are starving/going to faint with hunger and die of thirst” reach a crescendo.

Equilibrium restored, Mrs DNTW’s tells her children she is just putting the finishing touches to home-made chicken noodle soup which WILL BE DELICIOUS and nutritious.

The steely glint in her eye almost but not quite convinces the heckling mob not to argue with her on this matter. Protestations are stared down (Paddington would have been impressed at the hardness of stare) and Child 1 dishes out Tiger Bread with lashings of dairy free spread that should have fed the family for a week and been usable to rustle up a couple of cakes (for the home economic lessons naturally!) but apparently merely only feeds a man-child in the last month of his teens. This causes such a cacophony of noise and uproar that Mr DNTW’s appears from the garden looking concerned, holding something that looks suspiciously like it should have belonged in the clean laundry cupboard and possibly masqueraded as Mrs DNTW’s favourite face muslin.

At this point of reappearance, Mrs DNTW’s suddenly realises that Mr DNTW’s has been suspiciously absent for his part of the educational responsibilities of the morning and her voice reaches that steely tone when you are not quite sure if she is spitting a bit whilst talking (Mr DNTW’s is standing the requisite 2 metre distance to comply with BoJo’s social distancing policy so can’t be certain) Mr DNTW’s acts afronted and tells her he has been cleaning up the garden doing vitally important repairs and necessities that form MEN’s WORK and in fact she should be responding with gratitude and affection. Oh and could she possibly wash his trousers because he had forgotten when he embarked on the pressure washing etc that he was still in his favourite ones and not his old man’s saggy bum, paint-stained jeans. Even the children realise this was a mistake of epic proportions given her current frame of mind.

Lunch is served, after hands have been scrubbed red raw for the umpteenth time, in something of an orderly fashion. Perhaps the jewels of her eyes are cognisant that Mum is not to be trifled with for now. There is the merry clinking of spoons in bowls and Mum tries not to think too hard about her lovingly purchased-month-by-month flatware, in terms of economic-chippings-to bowl- basis for it is not really the children’s fault, she supposes, that she seems to have raised a gaggle of baboons. Clearly it is their Father’s.

The lively chatter around the table turns to afternoon activities. Mum thinks that it will be delightful and heart-warming to get out for a family walk, thus sticking to the new government rules of one daily activity in the open air, en famille and exercising the pooches all in one fell-swoop!

Mum is proud of her genius and plans to allow electronics to be used for the purpose of identifying flora and fauna in the fresh, sun-light filled air, thereby covering science AND exercise in one. Whilst mentally patting herself on the back, she cajoles the children to find suitable foot-wear and coats. The children are stunned that Mum has agreed that electronics can be taken on the trip and haven’t yet figured out that Mum has no intention of letting them listen to music with gratuitous swear-words and You-Tube clips of Yoda from Star Wars giving advice on sticks, bushes of love and Sea Gulls Stop It Now! (If you have a moment look up Bad Lip Reading quips like the gem below;it’s worth a giggle in these troublesome times)

Child 4 notes that it is sunny and despite living in Northern England and there having been a hard frost on the ground when they awoke in the morning, appears in Daisy Duke style shorts, flip flops and a crop top. Mum manages not to swear and instructs child to return to bedroom and re don the sensible leggings she had on earlier. They compromise on the crop top under a wooly jumper and weekend trainers.

Child 2 appears in joggers, 7 layers of tops, winter coat with a furry lined hood and furry boot style slippers. Mum asks him to take at least 2 layers off and put on sensible foot wear.

Child 3 is nowhere to be found and when roared for, appears from the back of the car where he has been patiently sitting, wobbly of lip and wild of eye given the baying mob that are his family yelling in such unbecoming tones. Meanwhile the neighbours are wondering if contacting the police on 101 for an ASBO constitutes a genuine emergency in the grand scheme of things, especially given the “C” word crisis.

Child 1, in spite of being the oldest, is rushing around the house, whipping the dogs into a frenzy of excitement by hurling various toys at speed and excitedly yelling for them to retrieve. The dogs are delighted that FINALLY they are being given the attention they deserve and that everyone else seems to be joining in with the shenanigans, given the through traffic that is going on with various children traipsing up and down the stairs. The cat merely narrows her eyes witheringly and hopes they will all leave very soon so she can regurgitate the grass she has eaten on the parents bed. She is feeling a tad queasy since ingesting the butter.

Mr DNTW’s is BUSY doing things that involve removing all the shopping bags from the car, re-configuring seats to get the wheelchair, dog-crate and all children ensconced within. Not for the first time he reflects that he could have had a rather nice sports car for far less aggro & probably money too. He reminds himself that he is #truly blessed# & living his #bestlife though.

Everyone is now settled in the car. Although there were fisticuffs over the calling of shotgun, Mrs DNTW’s resisted clipping child number 2 round the side of the head (what would the neighbours think?!) and fought her corner so he resorts to sitting in the back, flicking his siblings randomly to annoy them and plotting 17 different ways to disembowel his mother.

Mr DNTW’s goes to start the car. However in a bid to be more ‘eco aware’ the family have recently purchased a hybrid vehicle which is still plugged into the outdoor charge point so is going nowhere. Frankly perhaps their green credentials might have been more impressive if they had resisted the urge to procreate all together but as Mrs DNTW’s is fond of saying “that ship has long since sailed!”

Sighing with effort and exhaustion from his earlier MEN’s work and the ear-splitting levels of bickering about who is breathing whose air, who has more leg room and other such scintillating snippets of conversation, MR DNTW’s climbs out of the car & disengages the charger. Having returned, clicked the seat-belt & started the engine, Mr DNTW’s is alarmed by the frantic arm waving exhibited by his good-lady wife (she is now on her mobile phone) and wonders whether she is demonstrating one of the latest on-trend dance crazes or having a fit of the vapours, when he realises she is indicating that he has left the hatch open on the side of the car where the charger had been connected. With bad grace he exits the car again to close the hatch.

Sarcastically asking the tribe if we can go now, Mr DNTW’s realises he has left the dog poo bags in the kitchen drawer so bad-temperdly goes back into the house to retrieve. When he returns, the car smells of farts which all are blaming on the poor dogs whilst Child Number 2 sniggers.

The engine is once again switched on and the family car begins creeping down the drive. Mum has now finished her phone call and asks if anyone brought the dog lead. There is an awkward silence. Mr DNTW’s is muttering viciously & attempts to re-enter the house, having forgotten the house alarm has been set. He finally emerges complete with lead, muzzle, dog-treats, gaffer tape, rope, Stanley knife and vaguely serial killer-esque grimace.

The DNTW’s collective make it onto the road and drive to the very beautiful, natural park for their uplifting outing and commune with nature. By the time they arrive, one of the dogs has been car-sick and 2 of the children are no longer speaking. At least this means it is relatively serene…. for the time being.

The dogs are let loose from the lead & promptly spot a RIVER. This is indeed a most excellent adventure and before Mrs DNTW’s has time to enquire whether anyone remembered to pack a towel, the dogs are happily wading in the shallows, ignoring the human’s instructions and proving that the doggy obedience training classes they attended really were a waste of time. Mum is reminded that there is NO SUCH thing as a BAD DOG only a BAD OWNER. She also reminds herself that since she failed dismally to train the children, it is hardly surprising that the dogs are feral and witless too.

Not THE river but a fab great big puddle anyway!

After 5 minutes of walking, child number 2 moans that he has had too much fresh air, he is hungry, he is thirsty, he is tired and he doesn’t understand why he had to leave all his bl**dy gadgets in the car, especially as all of nature is just 💩.

Child number 1 is as excitable as the throughly bedraggled and soaking dogs and has been reminded by his father that if he too enters the river, he will have to walk home. In his underpants.

Child 3 steps in something unpleasant. So does Child 4. There is much wailing; not just by Mum. The wheelchair wheels are also covered. Dad begins to wonder if nature is taking the proverbial. The dogs, now muddy as well as wet, debate rolling in the thing that their humans seem to be covered in. It might be fox 💩 which is definitely a favourite.

Child 2 asks whether he can buy a drink at the shops. And an ice-cream. Mum tuts and reminds him they are “socially distancing” and will not be frequenting the shops, especially as this does not constitute essential supplies. She retreats when he withers her with laser-eyes.

Child 2 asks if they have at least bought a picnic with jam sandwiches and slabs of cake, plus fizzy pop since this is what all good books detail as “essential” picnic food stuffs. He is unamused when Mum explains that the daily exercise allowance rules expressly forbids such tomfoolery in the time’s of the “C” apocalypse 🦠

The walk continues, punctuated by Mum’s squeals of delight that she has spotted a white flower, a yellow one & a big, twiggy-blossom-covered bush. Unfortunately, despite balancing on one leg, leaning precariously at an angle and dancing widdershins round a fallen log, she has no internet coverage and is therefore unable to identify any of the pretty flora.

It is fast becoming apparent that the children are merely a hares-breath from shoving one another & possibly their parents as well, into the river. The lovely walk turns into a break-neck speed hike back to the car in an effort to get the whole farcical adventure over as quickly as possible.

All breath a sigh of relief when the car is in sight, apart from Mr DNTW’s who realises that transporting this motley crew home, will render the previous days car-valeting that he spent many hours performing and perfecting, null and void. Ah well, when he gets home, as Mrs DNTW’s has had a lovely afternoon off, she can resume educating their precious darlings whilst he gets out his stellar assortment of cleaning products and cloths, especially the very nice, soft one he found in the clean laundry pile …..

In the blink of an eye(roll)…

It’s arrived. I always knew this day would come but I don’t think I expected it to be so soon. 😫 Or so sudden.

It probably wasn’t – that sudden – but it feels smack you-round-the-face-excruciatingly-so-upon me. Sigh.

I thought I had years to go, many more eye-rolls to bear (how exactly can one, fairly diminutive 10 year old convey such soul-churning disdain in a mere upward flick of one perfect eye brow and simultaneous roll of said eye-balls?!) but in the way of the cliche, time has sped up & my ‘littlest’ is not so…. well ‘littlest’ I guess. However petite she may be in stature, make no bones, this girl is growing up. F.A.S.T.

Of course as parents that’s what we want. ❣️ Of course it should be the natural progression of life and indeed, I am starkly reminded to be humbled and grateful in contrast to far too many of those we have known along the way whose children will forever remain but 4 or 5 or X amount of years young.

I’m full to the brim of love that Minx is following in the trajectory of ‘tween’ girls the world over, especially given the at times mixed prognosis of her youngest years and some of the curve-balls she has thrown at us latterly. I think really she just wants to keep us on our toes, never a dull moment and all that. But at times: whoosh, a sucker punch to the gut.

I digress. What has ‘come’ that I alluded to at the beginning of my rambling?

ATTITUDE!

In spades. Big time.

I shouldn’t really be surprised I suppose. She comes from a long line of family members who know how to speak for themselves, fight their corner & generally not take ‘no’ as a complete sentence. (No finger-pointing please!)

Secretly a (very) teeny tiny part of me is enjoying this new territory, the minefield to navigate of what she will wear, what is sartorially appropriate (or not, depending on which one of us you are speaking to!) the determination to do it (or not) her way. But by Lordy, it is tiring at times! And the girl can argue….

Minx embracing “Break The Rules Day” at school recently

Gone is the elfin child so pretty in a plethora of pink & purple, ribbons and sequins , frothy trappings of Monsoon, Accessorize et al. Replaced by a love of glitter but of the sparkly eye-make up variety – the contents of MAC shop, Urban Decay make up or a bath-bomb (or 5) Her clothing choices now consist of darker hues, bigger and baggier, less ‘girly’ more quirky and sassy.

When she said she wanted to ‘go to the theatre in tattoos’ this wasn’t quite what I had in mind….

In place of the (long past) nursery rhymes, Disney tunes and Nickelodeon, a fascination with Billie Eilish, weird-pranking You-tube families, LD shadow Lady and Roblox (parental controls on) has emerged. She spends hours watching make up demonstrations or bizarre things you can make out of recycling crisp packets, how to make tiny working copies of day to day stationary – one inch perfect replica glue stick anyone?! 🤔

In a rehash of my Dad asking me what on earth I could possibly need to speak to my school friends so urgently about given I’d only been out of school for an hour and off the school bus for 10 minutes max when I rushed in from school to pick up the phone, Minx /bounds (*slightly* too strong a word . usually knackered after school but you get the picture) straight to her bedroom, door firmly shut before she giggles away to her friends via face-time or school group chat. The peels of laughter, the loud shushing and use of code-words (and shouting) if someone inadvertently enters her room without knocking (I’m looking at you here Big Brother G!) as well as the general disarray of her bedroom (despite my best efforts) all serve as reminders that my affectionately known little Millie Minx is maturing.

I’ll admit to slight trepidation, a bit of panic. I’m not ready for my little girl not to want me or need me. I’m not ready to stop kissing the top of her head & inhaling that fresh-from-a-bath-scent before she goes to bed (or the sweet-not yet-sweaty-smell when she wakes of a morning) I like still reading bed time stories, the books I loved as a child.

Since Minx is the youngest of our children and there are most definitely NO plans to have any more, I’m unsure whether my reluctance (fears?) stems from that letting go of the ‘baby’ stage or whether it’s down to the medical issues and difficulties she has faced (& will continue to) in the years to date; somewhere between the 2, I suspect.

But importantly, most importantly, she is ready. Wanting to strike out on her own, arguing it’s fine to go out in just a t-shirt & cropped leggings despite it being single figure temps outside (Mum: I’m sorry I remember us having those arguments when I was her age! 😫) her Dad asking incredulously if we had actually paid good money for the jeans with the rips in and why we couldn’t just slash some of her other things with an artfully wielded pair of scissors.

I’m reminded of that beautifully written, perfectly summed up quote from Nanny McPhee but I think it’s rather more for my own benefit now than hers:

#Parenting Advice 101#

And without going over all Darwinian/survival of the fittest, over the years I’ve been privileged to be a mum (& I’ll be honest, there are many many moments it hasn’t felt like such a privilege!) I’ve come to the conclusion that the very best you can hope for if you have done a reasonable job of parenting is that your child(ren) will have confidence enough – ideally in leaps & bounds – in their own abilities to strike out on their own; that they will seek to carve their own way, flee the nest to live their best lives and all that jazz. That the mistakes they will inevitably make are small enough to learn from but not big enough to endanger/hurt or ruin life (theirs or another’s) and that is more than enough **

Offspring however, if you are ever reading this: a visit to your old mum & dad in their dotage, the occasional cup of tea and a desire to spend some time in our company that doesn’t involve gifting you data/food/money/combinations thereof , wouldn’t go amiss….

*Either that or you’ve fu#*ed it up so badly, they have fled for the hills at the first opportunity. Cold comfort. You’re welcome. 😉

The sky’s the limit…

I make no apologies but I am going to be *that mother* – you know the one that clogs up FB (& therefore anyone else who reads her posts, unless you have set me to silent or similar!) with proud, perfect first born posts & rambles to anyone who will listen how talented/amazing/Einstein’s veritable protege etc her child(ren) is/are.

Bare with me on this one though ‘cos I really do think I deserve (well not really me as such but I’ll get on to that bit in a minute!) to have at least 5 minutes of proud glory hunting on H’s behalf.

There are so many reasons I can wax lyrical about H’s virtues: the love and support he gives to all his siblings, (and us of course) the practical care he has voluntarily been trained in to provide for Minx so he can give medications via her gastrostomy, set up her pump feeds (and now G’s too) and aid and assist with various other aspects of personal care; his verve for life, his 100% commitment to anything he puts his mind too, his enthusiasm to embrace every day no matter what it throws at him, volunteering for the local Young Carers; you get the picture: I could go on ad nauseum.

However, the last 2 weeks give me even more reason than normal to shout from the rooftops: H started his private pilots flight training on Monday 23rd July 2018.

On Thursday 26th July 2018 he did his very first air-flight – SOLO!!! Given that he’s only ever had a trial lesson aged 13 prior to this, I think that’s pretty bloody impressive!!! So shout it from the roof tops I will 😊

Just call me Maverick! No first day nerves – Well H didn’t but I did!

From a very early age, H demonstrated a love for all things plane related.

Not necessarily surprising given his Dad’s job (airline pilot for those who may not know) and watching him hero-worship his Daddy flying his little die-cast planes through the sky at death-defying angles, accompanied by lots of engine nnnnnneeeeewwwwaaaahhh type noises (apologies for very poor sound description!) was very sweet.

By aged 3 he could identify most aircraft in the sky or at an airport with spectacular accuracy and had a vast collection of little plastic aircraft models on display stands from various different fleets. Very fragile, a nightmare to dust around and definitely not compatible with younger siblings clumsy hands!

He could fly the simulator on our home computer and his idea of a top day out was sitting in Jersey Aero Club watching planes coming in and out of the Island for hours at a time.

Stealing Daddy’s safety tabard for doing aircraft walk round!
Captain Beaton & First Officer La-La at the helm

Since the age of 4, he’s talked about being a pilot. Initially we responded with a laugh; how many of us said things when we were pint-sized about future occupations and how many of us actually do those particular jobs? As far as I can tell the world isn’t overrun with spacemen, nurses, ice-cream taste testers et al (Incidentally Mr DNTW’s wanted to be a dustbin lorry driver or the night porter on a sleeper train!) Over the years however, H’s convictions only grew stronger and 3 or 4 years ago, recognising that he was serious, we began scrabbling down the back of the sofa for the purported thousands that Brits are supposed to have scattered in loose change (I suspect this is collectively as I only found about 2p, a chewed piece of gum no doubt stashed by one of the offspring for safe-keeping 🤮 and a partially eaten nerf bullet)

The sofa search having proved fruitless, I went to investigate the mystical money tree that lives at the bottom of the garden. Alas, there’s a straggly looking bush and a peeling- paint-bit of fence but nowt else.

We started looking at flight schools more closely and after I had scraped my jaw off the floor cognisant of the fact that it’s very unlikely we have a spare £100,000 + just waiting to be spent, H and hubby had more serious discussions and investigations as to how H could realise his end goal of becoming an airline pilot.

The plan is for H to train just like his Dad did: get a job in the real world to pay for exams, flight training, hour building etc over the next 2-3 years. It’s not the easiest route but it’s a considerable saving on dedicated flight schools and his sense of achievement ultimately will be enormous.

H has also been extremely fortunate that due to the generosity of grandparents he’s able to do a ‘crash course’ (definitely not a good choice of words but can’t think of a better one!) and do his private licence over a month this summer. He’s taken 8 of the 9 ground school exams, passing a number with 100%.

Given that between revising for a-level exams he read through the 9 tomes of aviation law, navigation, radios, meteorology etc for ‘fun’ and relaxation, he’s already showing dedication and determination beyond his tender years. (NB, have made a note to talk to him about his understanding of the word fun!)

Already in the face of adversity, H has had to overcome some hard times. Last September when undergoing his very important application for a Class 1 Aviation medical, he very unexpectedly hit a huge brick wall: despite being merely 17, seemingly fit as the proverbial butcher’s dog – he cycles regularly, goes walking for fun(!) and hikes in the Dales, tests showed an issue with his heart.

Initially he believed it was an error on the machines part (youthful exuberance) but further investigations revealed a progressive heart condition. He was devastated as were we.

No amount of consoling that at least this had been detected early could reassure him. For H, it potentially meant the end of his dreams in pursuing a career in aviation

As a mother, all I could think was how, why and what happens now?? Your heart is a *fairly* important bit of kit….

The cardiologist we consulted was excellent and there followed a round of extensive medical testing to find out how serious things were (are). Sleepless nights for me at least whilst we waited for results.

The good news is that whilst the condition is progressive in nature, he should have years ahead of him, symptom free.

He will be regularly monitored and scanned and eventually medication will control the symptoms. Based on present medical knowledge he will at some point need surgical intervention but we are talking far in the future and with medical knowledge, procedures and equipment evolving at lightning speeds, who can say what the future will bring.

Nonetheless, H was rejected for a Class 1 medical and caveats issued alongside this meant he couldn’t even pursue a private pilots licence. H has always been a positive person but this knocked the stuffing out of him.

After taking time to let the news sink in, we decided not to take this as a fait acclompi. H and Mr DNTW’s consorted with aviation medical and legal experts.

I’ll spare you the ins & outs but it became apparent that if this hadn’t been H’s initial medical licence application, he could have been issued a licence with restrictions (no flying with anyone over 65 or a fellow pilot with medical restrictions) so effectively, the refusal to issue his licence was penalising him for something that hadn’t happened and was/is unlikely to be an issue for many years to come!

As ‘luck’ would have it, another would be pilot had been declined his medical for a different condition for issues that are unlikely to be problematic potentially ever. He was in the process of pursuing his case at the court of human rights.

The Civil Aviation authority agreed to concede before it got to that level and thus opened the floodgates for others in similar situations. H was advised to appeal the decision and after a nail-biting few months he was issued a licence with restrictions.

He is under no illusions that this does complicate matters a little but if air travel and the airline industry continues to expand as predicted, there will be a shortage of airline pilots in the years ahead. (Brexit of course is an unknown, unquantifiable potential source of concern – & not just to the Government! 😏)

So H has made the decision to pursue a flying career and if all goes as it should will have achieved his private pilots licence in the next 2 weeks!! Eek.

As I type, H is preparing for his last exam, another day of navigational flight planning and cross country flying. He’s earned his first set of ‘stripes’ – epaulettes – and is proving that he’s a force to be reckoned with!

First ‘stripes’ … a while to go yet before the airline version First Officer, then Captain someday?

I have no doubts that H will achieve his goals professionally and personally in the years to come because of his hard work, determination & drive to always do his best. Now if only that could also be applied to ironing his uniform…..❣️

Tonight Matthew I’m going to be……

An adult!

Strictly speaking I ‘adult’ every day, albeit some days more successfully than others.

Yesterday however, I ‘adulted’ myself to the nines.

So that you can feel comfortable continuing to read and for the avoidance of any misunderstandings, I should reassure you that this post is perfectly respectable and I won’t be revealing anything x-rated or of a delicate nature. You can all breathe a sigh of relief and resist the notion of poking out your own eye-balls/resorting to mind bleach for fear of dodgy pictures and such like!

I don’t know about you dear reader but the majority of the time I don’t feel old enough, responsible enough or even qualified enough to do the “adulting” parts of life. Certainly not with success and authenticity in any event.

Apparently however, being married having children, dog ownership (he might dispute that as pretty sure Milo thinks he owns me) a mortgage and all the other infinitesimal accoutrements of life plus being over a certain age means I automatically qualify as an adult… and there’s no resignation option (well unless you ‘check out’ entirely but that’s generally speaking a bit drastic)

Over the last year particularly, “adulting” has been a part of my life I’d quite like to have run away from.

Somehow wherever I hide, no matter how precisely I have chosen the deepest, darkest recess or how carefully I stick my fingers in my ears and shout la-la-la, the necessity for “adulting” always has a way of finding me….darn it.

And even before last years ‘annus horribilis’ I must confess that I had very often felt like a player in that game “Hedbandz” rather than a real adult.

For the uninitiated, the game compromises of a plastic head band device with a slot in which you stick a card in which states the object/word/profession and the wearer has to ask a series of questions to try & work out what or who they are.

For added ‘fun’ you can do a timed session so they have to guess in a specific time period or a specific number of questions. Adding alcohol into the equation for the ‘Adulty’ version I’m sure can only enhance the fun 🙄 But never in a million years would any card ever depict me as an adult; in fact I think I’m possibly only marginally up from a lemming….

Anyway, what I mean by my ramblings above is, in theory I suppose I should know I’m an adult but the actuality is very different and frankly I really don’t feel I’m quite mature enough to make life or death (somewhat over dramatic!) decisions on a day to day basis when I can barely decide what to cook for dinner!

So now I’ve long-windedly explained that, I’ll get to why I ‘adulted’ properly yesterday.

For those of you who have followed my blog for a while or who know me in the ‘real world’ you are probably familiar with my involvement in SWAN UK.

SWAN stands for syndromes without a name and it is the only specialist support network in the UK dedicated to families of children and young people affected by a syndrome without a name.

Having 2 children who are classified as SWANS – they are both medically complex and although they have multiple diagnosed difficulties/needs, we don’t have an over-arching diagnosis that draws everything together – getting support from SWAN UK over 5 years ago made a huge difference to myself and the whole family. In fact, if we had not joined SWAN UK (its free!) we would have had no idea where to even begin to think of living when we moved to the UK some 4 years ago.

Mr Def Not The W’s was allocated Leeds as a base when he joined his new airline but we knew nothing about the area, about hospitals, schools, housing and services and so it was to my trusty network of online friends that I turned to to seek advice and guidance in helping us formulate a plan.

Of course SWAN UK’s services go far beyond the things I mention above. You can read more about the vital support they provide here: http://www.undiagnosed.org.uk/

Over the years, the advice, reassurance, sense of belonging and community not to mention the family days out, coffee mornings and get togethers have been a huge source of comfort, support and a wealth of experience for me.

Back in 2013 it became apparent that holding down a job, even working from home as I had done since 2008, in a role that I could fit around my children, was no longer viable.

I eventually found that in order to keep on top of work I was in a seemingly endless cycle of being up very early, going to bed very late and working all the hours in between that weren’t occupied with the needs of the family including weekends. Something had to give. It was *almost* my sanity.

Although I don’t miss the crazy relentlessness of those days and we are fortunate in that we can (just about) manage for me not to work (and are hugely grateful at times to our parents for stepping in when an unexpected bill/costs rears their ugly head) I do miss that feeling of achievement and accomplishment.

So in September 2015 I decided I would like to try and do something useful with my life and if possible, give a little something back.

I recognised that combining this with (at the time) 3 children with extra needs was going to potentially be problematic. (Turns out we now have 4 children with additional needs, although our eldest is almost 18 and would revolt against the use of the word child!)

I decided to volunteer to be a SWAN UK parent representative for North Yorkshire…. if they would have me! And they did.

In fact, this was absolutely perfect because recognising that caring for medically/physically and or cognitively complicated children can mean life doesn’t follow the best, most carefully laid plans, SWAN UK are happy for parent representatives to volunteer as much or as little of our time as we are able to give. They also understand that sometimes we have to drop everything with little to no notice and have always made it clear that the needs/demands of our children, wider family and ourselves are paramount.

Over the years of being a SWAN UK parent representative, I have spoken at a Rare Disease conference about my experience of being a parent of undiagnosed children; I have contacted my MP about being part of an APPG (all party parliamentary group) to discuss and raise awareness of being undiagnosed and the implications that has on families as a whole, not just the affected individual. I have visited Parliament and spoken to a wide variety of professionals about the difficulties of living with the unknown and unexpected as well as assisted in organising days out to celebrate Undiagnosed Children’s Day (last Friday in every April) arranged coffee mornings and fund-raising events.

I don’t want to come across as holier than thou but aside from (hopefully) raising awareness and sign posting SWAN UK, it did make me feel useful and purposeful again.

It gave me an opportunity to step outside the role of parenting my own children’s medical management and hopefully gave a voice to others in a similar situation.

Anyway back to the reason behind the recent adulting: after something of a hiatus in 2017, I attended a professionals meeting at our local hospital.

Having contacted the Harrogate and District Hospital administrative team (via FB messenger no less!) I pretty much threw myself on their mercy. They kindly directed me to the Head of Paediatric Nursing and The Head of Paediatrics and we set up an appointment Gulp.😳

The fact that the head of paediatrics is also my children’s consultant was not lost on me and was more than slightly daunting.

Somehow, seeing me in a different role to G Man or Minx’s Mum felt strangely discombobulating; at least in the run up to the meeting itself and I was plagued with disconcerting dreams that I would somehow disgrace both myself and SWAN UK.

Nonetheless, I asked SWAN HQ to send me some literature and armed with this, my trusty, very bright pink SWAN UK bag, business cards (get me! I’m posh!!) and a lanyard, I put my big girl pants on (erm figuratively you understand, I haven’t gone totally Bridget Jones yet) and my “grown up” clothes on.

Being only 5ft almost 3 inches, adulting clothes usually involve heels for me. Fretting that I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard or heading out for a slap up meal, I opted for heeled boots, a patterned skirt & top, with a bit of jewellery and a swish of eyeliner & lippy.

On the inside I may have felt about 5 and was quaking like a jelly but externally I *hopefully* projected confidant, knowledgeable and approachable….

Obviously I couldn’t really ask those present at the meeting if I had successfully captured that but my audience were enthusiastic and receptive. They were keen to read and then display the literature I provided and told me that they would be disseminating the information to fellow colleagues, the Paediatric ward, Child Development Centre, Parents Room and Paediatric clinics. I also got agreement to have a stand in the foyer of the hospital to coincide with Undiagnosed Children’s Day in April. So all in all, I think it went well.

I came away feeling positive and uplifted and like a real-life proper grown up for the first time in a very long time. I’m pretty sure I didn’t have my skirt tucked into my knickers at any point or commit any other embarrassing epic social faux pas’s so all in all winner winner… I hope…. 😊

A work in…. progress??

I’ve been truly over-whelmed and grateful for all the messages, emails, texts, visits and all round offers of support in the last few weeks. 

If ever I needed a kick in the backside and a reminder why I am actually privileged beyond all doubt, the last 9 weeks have galvanised that thought process entirely.

In the most utterly dark, dismal and scary places I’ve inhabited over the last few months (both literally and figueratively) there have been sharply crystallised rays of light, a beacon if you want lighting the way and guiding me in the darkness. Cliched? Maybe. True? Certainly, at least for me.

It is well documented that the very worst of times can bring out the very best of people (I refuse entirely to dwell on the paradox that you may also see the utter waste of inhumanity and degradation) and from those that have stepped in at short notice to ferry the kids about, entertain them, help hubby in anyway possible, iron, wash, cook, clean, shop; family, friends, acquaintances newly made (rapidly turning into firm friendships)and friends of old both in the wider world and closer to home in Yorkshire, I am humbled and grateful.

There is so much I want to say about our “bigger picture,” what led me to the depths but for legal reasons I can’t. I’m sorry if that sounds a bit obtuse (I hate those annoying fb posts where people say something really leading, enough to pique your interest and then leave you dangling  – probably because I’m nosy!!) but at this point in time, I do not wish to jeopardise our issues going forward (again, note the optimism; I cannot entertain the thought that things could crumble and leave us wading and wallowing in the 💩again….) Hopefully in due course I will be able to elaborate further and end with “and they all lived happy ever after” type scenario.

For now, and because frankly I’ve been a bit rubbish in the last few weeks at replying to people, I thought I’d try and sum things up a little – I guess this is the blog equivalent of either the (depending on your perspective!!) loved or loathed round-robin Christmas letter.

I think I mentioned a few blog posts ago that I was struggling to answer how I was feeling. I wanted to say what people wanted to hear. I know that with the best of intentions those closest wanted to hear “I’m fine” and see a steely grin of grit and determination. In truth, I was more of a soggy mess and I haven’t dared wear mascara in a very long time (way before my admittance) as even waterproof would have given in to the torrents of tears. 

Fast forward to present day, I am testing out a proper reply to the question of “how are you?” During some points of some days I could honestly answer that question with “I’m fine, good even!” And I wouldn’t be lying. Other days, other moments it would be a more honest answer of “not so good” and you may end up with a wet shoulder if you proffer it for me to cry on.

I haven’t started ‘proper’ therapy in here as my team believe that the best place for that is once I’m home. So for now, I guess the best answer is I’m a work in progress. But an evolving one, striving to move forward and embrace myself imposed motto: if the glass is half empty, there’s always more room for wine! 

Of course I’ve barely had a drop since I started on this road! Obviously you can’t on the ward but even on the occasions I’ve been out for meals or gone home for a night or two, I’ve only had a small glass, mindful that alcohol is both a depressant and doesn’t go well with hard core medication. (NB – I’ve checked with staff and I can have a little glass if I want!!)

I’ve not had huge epiphanies whilst I’ve been an in-mate but I have had moments of clarity and realisation. I’ve absorbed some of the comments from the psych team; turned & twisted them, then embraced them even though they do not always sit comfortably with me. Prickly truths and all that.

I’ve been shocked at times how devious my thought process has become in the months that I hit my all time low. Moments where I feel almost as if I’m an observer of myself. Distanced and looking on at the crazy woman who pontificates how she could sneak tablets and other items to harm myself back into the  hospital, avoiding the inevitable bag searches (FYI, I haven’t, mainly because I’m more worried about other patients who may be even more fragile than I and the potential dangers I could put them in if they went through my stuff) when I return to the ward. Then appalled as my mouth seems to disconnect from my brain and share these thoughts with the psych team. The brain is screaming “shut your mouth!!!!”at full volume whilst the gob goes spouting on and I tell them the numerous and awful ways I could do various things. For obvious reasons I won’t elaborate on those. I’m told however by the team that the fact I’ve been honest with them is a good sign so I’ll hold on that as a win. Lisa 1…. depression/anxiety,/deviousness well if not exactly a 0, at least not wholly defining me.

I know I have a long way to go. I’m not naive enough to think that once I go home everything will be magically sorted and I can bounce back, go straight into full on mode as I had been doing for so many years. I am a realist. And I’m aware that being back at home will bring the stresses and strains of the real world and I may have blips. But that’s ok. With appropriate support, therapy and remembering not to run before I can walk (I’ve never been a running fan anyway unless it involved shoe sales or last orders) I’ve begun to accept that I can regroup, rebuild and restablish myself. 

I know inevitably there will be days I can’t listen to the salient, sage advice – be that by necessity of stuff HAVING to be done (& there is a definite difference in what HAS to be done and what I would LIKE to accomplish in an ideal world) for with a medically complex child and one with autism there are always needs that are imperative and have to be addressed. But I also will acknowledge that if I don’t unload the dishwasher there and then, it’s unlikely to be a deal breaker, the world will not stop turning and the biggest issue I might face as a result is no clean tea spoons (where do they all go? Along with Tupperware lids and single socks that I know went into the machine in pairs!) 

I’m a do-er by nature. It doesn’t sit easy with me to kick back, leave things to others (control issues? 🤔) and not organise, create, or be involved.

Guilt even now is a constant companion. Guilt knowing that Martin is (awesomely) juggling a stressful job, home, kids etc; guilt that those around me are having to pick up the slack; guilt that my loved ones are worried about me, my frame of mind and whether I can cope; guilt when Minx cries after a lovely weekend spent together but I have to return to the hospital. Guilt that I can’t read bed time stories or provide in person encouragement to our son doing A-levels. Enormous, crushing, at times all encompassing, over powering guilt that I can’t wave a wand and enable our autistic child to access not just what he deserves but needs in order to meet his potential.  Even guilt that the poor dog is on his own for large parts of the day if no one is able to be at home with him.

However, guilt is not my friend and it is self destructive. So instead I choose to remember that I have made it out and about, home at times,  walked the dog, (even if it’s been late in the day) cuddled my children, kissed tears, sore knees and sent messages, spoken words of support and suggestions of help and for now that is enough. 

I am after all a work in progress ….