Father Jack

My language is appalling at times, in fact I am The Norths own Father Jack. I use the F word far too much for my own liking and certainly my husbands, who is sometimes shocked I'm sure. 'Fecking' is a favouring adjective along with 'Bloody' so much so I really should be Australian. I am as careful as any parent not to introduce the whole thing of swearing to my kids too early on, I hope, although doubtless it's something they'll learn amongst themselves without my help anyway. So how did I become this swearing monster? Frankly even people who know me really well find it inconceivable that I am so obnoxious, its a fact I save it for those who are closest to me. Those I feel most comfortable with I suppose, those who have seen me at my lowest, most vulnerable, darkest. I guess its a verbal stick with which to beat the world and fate with, the volcanic release valve with which to go POP, because just when I think I have acceptance in my heart, it comes back and bites me hard. I am metaphorically speaking sitting at the kitchen table banging my head against it over and over and over again. Nothing changes, nothing moves on. I don't move on as I think I should. Maybe I am too hard on myself, more likely I cannot ever live up to the expectations and perceptions of friends. I am marvellous and wonderful and a living saint I would have you know. Only let me tell you now, I'm fecking bloody well not, and don't you forget it. I'm like you and your friends and your family and the person you work with and the person next door and the woman you greet at the school gates and the people you see in Tesco. I am just doing the best I can on a day to day basis. I am no different to everyone who has a private sorrow, its just that the world sees mine, which sometimes is harder to deal with.

Welcome to the Vomitorium......

....said my husband, with the look that said it all. Lets just say its not been a good week health wise. Tuesday night we popped our head round the door of our toddlers room to find him sitting in his cot covered in his own sick. It was bright red as he'd had pasta and sauce for tea. By the looks of it he'd been enjoying playing in it for sometime, so at 1pm I found myself sitting in the bath with him. But the next morning he seemed fine so I packed him off to nursery. Got home that evening, fine, sat on my lap watching the TV, when..... Bleeugh!! All over me and him, only he continued to eat his sandwich as if nothing had happened. Now one thing I have learned from being disabled is that the times when you would jump up are long gone. I have to sit and take it and say ever so calmly to myself 'Oh dear never mind its just...(insert word) 'it will wash'. This is particularly so when you are covered in sick!

So the week went on. Thursday our eldest was sent home with conjunctivitis, and spent the day at home. Friday he also threw up all over the house and kept pooing everywhere, Saturday I did the same. Only with me its worse. Oh yes its horrible, horrible, horrible, I'm not giving gory details, but diarrhoea and sickness is one of the worse things you can have in a wheelchair and live to tell the tale. So the house smells of poo and sick, the washing is overflowing, the door of the dryer fell off today so I cant dry anything, Oh and the in-laws are coming tomorrow. My cup indeed overflows.

Elephant Woman

I have really bad pelvic pain, and I mean bad. I cant turn over in bed, I cant lie on my side, its hard for me to bend down to pick up stuff. I lie in bed grunting and generally sounding like a right old moaner, its more of a habit than any reflection of what I'm really feeling to be honest, but oh my, this is bad pain which for me to say that must be bad. Like the Elephant man I am desperate to lie down on my side and snuggle up in bed, instead I lie flat on my back wishing I could move more than my arms and head. So my OT is coming bearing gifts this week. Obviously they are 'get out of bed thingies' which my scientific brain always enjoys playing with. The rest of me just thinks 'bloody hell another hospital gadget'. One of the visiting midwives suggested a hoist. 'Oh God' I thought 'not that, anything but that.' There are some things that make you feel just a bit more disabled and that's just one of them. I dont need to be reminded anymore than I already am thanks.

Pants on your head!

There are times when you catch yourself doing something and think, I must be stark raving bonkers, so its no surprise that with 3 under 5s running riot around the house I find I'm doing this more and more. When you have boys you end up doing little boy stuff. Our 5 yr old has discovered lavatorial humour in the best Carry On tradition and his brother who is only 18 months is even worse when it comes to toilets. We do the hilarious lets-pretend-to-poo game, the who's-farted? game, the whats-that-smell? game, and the bodily-parts game. Oh yes its a laugh a minute! So when I found myself sitting on the floor on Saturday night surrounded by toys, dogs and boys, I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to find I was also wearing a pair of boys pants on my head! For this was the infamous Is-it-a-hat? game which my boys absolutely adore. Basically we find lots of odd things, plonk them on our heads and shout 'Is it a hat!?' At which point everyone splits their sides laughing and I start thinking, 'I cant believe I'm sitting here with a pair of Y fronts on my head' and 'yes I must be absolutely crackers.'

The serious side of this is its a way of engaging with my children. Generally I suspect that disabled parents have to work harder at the whole parent thing. I cant run round the house after them, I cant do as much physically as a whole and I certainly cant resort to physical punishment. The whole thing relies on verbal skills, both mine and the children, so Ive found that humorous games such as these actually allow me a lot more control over my children's behaviour usually, and of course it's taught me a huge chunk of patience. Not a bad thing for sure.

A turn of phrase

Ive noticed I pepper my conversation with the following phrases;

• Ive been running around all day
• I havent had chance to sit down for a minute
• I'm going to take a walk up to......
• stand up and be counted

and my current favourite

• I'm on my last legs, and so on and so on.

At this point casual acquaintances tend to do a bit of a double take, and give an awkward smile as they aren't quite sure how to react. Tell the truth I don't even notice I'm doing it most of the time, to me its just a turn of phrase that's all. I don't think Ive met anyone who starts a sentence with, I was rolling up the road the other day, when... it just doesn't work. We stick with the conventions of English. I have a blind friend who is forever telling me what shes watching on TV and that she will see me later. As it happens she cant see a thing but that doesn't mean the conversation has to suddenly change. So next time you see me, don't suddenly start thinking about how you say things, I wont notice at all.

Up the hill

Today I went to a new Dentist, cos I need a crown, thanks to pregnancy no 3. Anyway I knew it was on Battle Hill in Hexham, but as Hexham has more than its fair share of dentists I wasn't sure where exactly, but I had an idea, sort of. Only i had it confused with 2 other dentists all on the same road, but I found out finally it was at the top of the hill. All I could say to that was ******** as I puffed and grumbled and groaned all the way up, hopped over the kerb and up the step, small though it was. On the one hand I'm fitter than I thought and feel satisfied that I did it after many months of inactivity but I also realised that my chair isn't set up that well and I need to get it adjusted. As its not mine technically, it means I will have to make an appointment with wheelchair services so that will be another morning gone. Ho hum.

Breast Buddies

I am, or was woman-least-likely-to-breastfeed. Oh no not for me thanks, such was my determination not to do this the midwives hardly mentioned it because they knew they'd get short shrift from me on that one. Soooooo once Baby Abey was home for a few days, bag of hormones that I was, I decided to breastfeed. Well you could have knocked every health professional in the district over with a feather as shocked doesn't even sum it up. I was pretty flabbergasted by this myself actually, but hey I decided to give it my best shot and see how it went. So far its about 50% of the time which I think is pretty decent by my own standards. In fact last week I went to the local breastfeeding group which is full of wonderful ladies all doing the right thing, yes I feel pretty hopeless at it all really. Now there is one problem. I cannot get in the building on my own without some considerable help. There is a high kerb to get up followed by a not insignificant step up into the building. Fortunately I had checked this out and took my long suffering husband along, who kindly got me in and then sat in the car reading the paper for an hour. Now I'm irritated and thinking I wont return, its sitting in the bag of my head worrying away at me. Should I make a fuss about the access or just shrug my shoulders, given it probably took months to even find a a venue in the first place? Shall I decide not to go as I don't want to burden my husband? I'm trying to smile and say 'Oh well never mind it doesn't matter, I didn't want to go anyway',but in my heart, I can feel it does and I did really.