Tag Archives: SEN childcare

Guest Post: How Can I Make Working Work?

This post is not by me. It’s by someone who wants to remain anonymous. But the story she tells is very real and a powerful reminder of how very quickly and irrevocably lives can be changed by disability entering their lives.

I write this post with some reluctance due to the enormity of the decisions we made in 2012 but I stand by each and every one. I also want people to know how easily situations can change. You can be a working mother one year, and rely on “benefits” to top up earnings the next. You can ” have it all” –  house, 2 cars, holidays, good jobs, career and can lose everything very quickly. 

I loved my job as a science teacher. The kids were brilliant. However over my almost 10 years of teaching I saw the profession become increasingly less fun with more marking and more reinventing of the wheel. Preparation, marking, feedback, observations – all began to take over my life especially as our school went into special measures.

Yes we have 13 weeks “holiday” but this is usually spent on marking coursework and books (or pretending that the huge piles of it aren’t still in the car later into the holiday and having to do a 3 or more day intensive marking session to catch up). Contrary to popular belief you don’t whizz out the door at 3.10pm you have meetings, phonecalls, preparation and marking. You can either take it home or do it there, but it still needs to be done. 

I went back to work full time after my first child. Childcare was split between my my mother, my MIL and my husband who had flexible working. When my second child was born I had planned on taking a full year off and then reducing my hrs to 4 days a week and thus not needing to lose any of my responsibilities ( TLRs) that I had built up at work. However all of a sudden I became the mother of a severely disabled child. He wasn’t content with with just being profoundly disabled, he had many health problems too,  and would become very ill very quickly ( think resuss and you have a fair idea). Added to the mix was a probable limited life expectancy and him being classed as life threatened. I had to go back to work anyway for a set amount of time or pay back all of my maternity pay. I negotiated a further reduction of hrs to 2 days per week, gave up my extra responsibilities and attempted a return to work. We struggled financially with me working this way but those few days were difficult enough.

I left my son with 2 terrified grandparents each day I went to work. They struggled with his care and his equipment. There was a mention of 2 year funding to help with a nursery place but no guarantee of 1 to 1, and we didn’t fall into the “right” post code anyway. Even so, what mainstream nursery could have coped with my son’s needs? So those 2 days a week I sat at work panicking about what was happening at home and still had all the prep and marking that came with the classes I taught. I tried to stick appointments in for the back end of the week but those 3 days turned into a chaotic mess.

After a few months I began a spiral into depression and was signed off work sick, and then eventually handed in my notice. We were in and out of hospital with my son, had appointments galore, and had 2 grandparents too scared to look after him and no alternative childcare, what else could I do? 

We had a mortgage on a house we had already been told was unadaptable for our son’s needs and had had it on the market a while with no success. 2011-2012 was not the best time to be trying to sell a house and in addition all those debts you have and pay quite easily on 2 wages were starting to mount up. We asked the mortgage company for help- to just pay the interest on the mortgage until we sold, but they refused. 

As the bells saw in the new year of 2012 we made a huge decision. We needed a fresh start. Our son’s issues weren’t going away anytime soon and we couldn’t manage financially on my husband’s salary. We declared bankruptcy in the February and even had to borrow money from friends to pay for the bankruptcy (it wasn’t cheap at over £700). However what the courts don’t do is automatically take your house (although they did take my car). They bend over backwards to help you keep it. But it was no use to us and even without the debts the bankruptcy cleared we still couldn’t pay our hefty mortgage. After about 6 months of non payment the bank took the house. In that time we had already (just) been housed by the LA in a large house that could be adapted for our son. Getting rehoused was an awful process of begging and pleading. Quite frankly I have never felt so low as I did during this period of time. 

So now we are 2 years on and my son has started school! He has a full time placement at an amazing special school expert at dealing with complex needs. However he’s rarely there all day as we have so many appointments. I had hoped to consider returning to work once he started, but with 2 or 3 appointments per week who would have me? I considered supply teaching, although it would pee me off in a way to be “at the bottom” but more importantly who would care for my son before and after work? I can’t change career as we have no one to look after our children in school holidays.

What do I do? 

 
How can I make working work? 
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The Invisible Woman: Working with a Disabled Child

Invisible Woman

We are largely invisible. When we do get on other people’s radars, we are sometimes met with looks of amazement, admiration and pity. More often, in my experience, we are met with disbelief and dismay. We are are a nuisance. We are judged frequently and are often founding wanting. Because we are the working mums of disabled children. We are just not supposed to exist.

Most of us thought and expected that we would be part of the 60 per cent of mothers who work at least some of the time once our children were born. But suddenly our lives altered in ways that none of us could imagine back in those happy days. And now we are some of the staggeringly small 16 per cent of mums with disabled children who work.

We are a subcategory. With the emphasis very much on the sub.

For us, work is many things. It is a necessary evil to keep a roof over our heads and get the bills paid. It is a way to meet the extraordinary and unexpected costs of providing for a child with additional needs, from specialist feeding and seating equipment to major house alterations and house moves. Work is our sanity saver, a place to gain a bit of head space in a life that is often good but also utterly exhausting in ways I never understood before the birth of my son. A life where everything that matters most is on the line. But work is not respite, by the way. Don’t get me started on that. Work may give me a break from my caring responsibilities, but it is hardly restful.

Work is a way of clinging on to a piece of ourselves, the bit of us that isn’t fully accounted for by the name ‘Mrboo’s Mum’, by which the army of thousands that are involved in my son’s care call me, much to my irritation. Work is a bit of us that isn’t defined by our role as carer, the name we are assigned at our children’s birth and that insidiously robs us of the right to call ourselves plain old parents.

And work is a battlefield. We rely on employers understanding the benefits (to them as well as us) of flexible working, just as they rely on our competency. And let me tell you, looking after a disabled child is a daily and never-ending boot-camp in training us to achieve perpetual efficiency, multitasking prowess, and research skills that most PhD graduates (I know because I am one) don’t have. Take it from me, you want us in the workplace. We have skills in abundance. And we don’t have the luxury of being able to remember how to waste time. You’ll get your money’s worth out of us, I promise. Just as the state does. Many times over.

We also rely on, even if we sometimes give up hope for, the understanding of the NHS and other relevant service providers as we get handed with a day’s notice appointments at 11:00 on a working day. We rarely get this understanding, however. The assumption is that we must be full-time carers. (This is never assumed of our male partners, unsurprisingly.) How could we be so inhuman to be anything else? I do care for both of my kids full time, by the way. I just happen to be at work sometimes while I’m doing it. The assumption is that we are perpetually available for appointments and reviews at the convenience of others. Sometimes, we are even expected to be in two appointments at once on different sides of the same building.

I know this, because I have been told and experienced all of these things. I have been pulled up for being a working parent so many times since having Boo. I have been told by a receptionist that it would surely be better for me and my son if I did not work. I have been told by a support worker that I was ‘so brave’ to work when clearly ‘brave’, judging from the disapproving look on her face, meant ‘irresponsible’ and ‘derelict in duty’. I have been told that I am ‘unhelpful’ when I said that I couldn’t take a cancellation appointment at 24 hours notice that they needed to fill for what was a non-urgent routine review for Boo. (Incidentally the same thing happened three months later when I turned down a similar offer of a cancellation appointment that clashed with my daughter’s nativity play at school. Apparently not giving preferential treatment to my disabled child above my neurotypical daughter is another of my maternal faults.)

Moments like these are too numerous and horribly predictable to list in their entirety. Right now, my heart is beating fast with anger as I type them out. But at the time all of these things were said to me, I confess that they made me sob uncontrollably. I’m not a crier by nature, but I can’t swallow the tears when my love for my child is questioned. Maybe I can’t take it because the fact that I use the full flexibility in my job to be as hands on in Boo’s care as I can and therefore work 5 out of 7 nights every week, often well beyond midnight, means that I am perpetually exhausted. Tiredness and steadiness of thinking are not happy bedfellows. Maybe I’m just so ground down by battling the systems, getting appointments, accessing equipment and sorting nursery provision that I have lost my sense of perspective. Or maybe the reason I get so upset, is because the criticism is so unjust and, frankly, offensive.

For all this, I consider myself lucky. My employer is understanding. My job has a degree of flexibility built into it, as does my partner’s. We have battled for and successfully obtained 1:1 support for Boo at nursery. It is not enough, but the nursery and we work around it as best we can. Many are not so lucky. Of course, many mums of children with additional needs don’t want to work. I completely understand that. But I also know of at least a dozen mothers through my immediate circle of acquaintance that have been forced to leave good, fulfilling and important jobs for lack of adequate or affordable childcare or because they were denied access to 1:1 funding. I know many, many more of these women through the blogosphere.

And, as Sarah Collins, of First Touch NNU, a charity that supports families with babies in special care at St George’s London, notes, even if you have an ‘accommodating boss’ and work for ‘a child focussed’ company, things don’t always go to plan for parents who want and try to work. On only her second day back in her job in a children’s theatre, Sarah’s 18 month-old daughter was rushed to hospital with a seziure. ‘It began to dawn on me that paid work was not an option at that point in my daughter’s life’, she remembers.

We have been busily talking about the challenges and benefits of being the working mother to a disabled child on Twitter, Facebook and blogs for some months now. It’s a conversation that came into sharp focus in a wonderful interview Hannah Postgate, founder of Rosy and Bo, gave on Woman’s Hour recently. This has inspired a bunch of us to get together a round-up of our blog posts on some of the issues we face as, what our blogging friend at Areyoukiddingney calls, WMOADC (Working Mothers of A Disabled Child), from the prejudice we are routinely subjected to to the difficulties of accessing what we are told is within our children’s basic human rights: inclusion and education.

Enough already. We may be the minority, but we are not silent. We are not content to be talked at or about. We can speak for ourselves. And we want and need to be heard.

Please take time to read and comment on some or all of the posts below and if you know of others on this subject please email me (premmeditations@gmail.com) and I will add them.

Blog Round-up

Returning to work is tough after kids, full stop. So Hannah almost felt a bit of a fraud bleating on about this topic, until she considered one of her children has autism and learning disabilities. Disabilities, hospital appointments and appropriate childcare all play a part in the difficulties mother’s like me face getting back to work. But there are also the barriers we face from employers, not to mention the sheer exhaustion and strain making it an impossible prospect for many mothers.

This is not something we can continue to leave unsaid, as Hannah writes. We need to talk about it, air it and try to change it.

How Can I Make Working Work?

This powerful and moving post appeared as a guest post on Premmeditations and was written by an amazing woman who wants to remain anonymous as she relates how the birth of her son left a family who had it all – a career, cars, a house – losing it all terrifyingly quickly.

Nice Work if you Can Get it from Areyoukiddingney

Not only does she have one of the best blog names out there, but she coined the acronym WMOADC. If you have no idea how working mothers of disabled children are sometimes treated by those who help us to look after our children then wait for the scales to fall from your eyes in this moving post.

Working Mum, Disabled Child, and the Myths Inbetween from Complicated Gorgeousness

With a combination of wit and pragmatism that only Alison possesses, here’s a post about how it can all work when you go back to work. And how it could be a whole lot better.

‘A Full-Time Mama’ from An Early Start

If you were thinking that the difficulties of returning to work and finding appropriate childcare when your child has additional needs are a British problem, think again as this lovely post from An Early Start, which chronicles the life and adventures of the amazing micro-preemie Jax, born at 23 weeks, makes clear.

‘Working with A Disabled Child’ from Itssmallsworld 

How getting back to work for the parent of a child with disabilities is made all the more difficult due to lack of governmental forward thinking and understanding. And thank goodness for some local common sense.

Dr Mr Gove (& Assorted Pals) from Gingerbread and Sunshine

If nothing else persuades you of the injustice and financial fuzzy thinking that lies behind the government’s policy towards families of disabled children, this post will. Let’s hope it wakes the MPs up, too.

Those Who Can, Do from Little Mama Said

No one is immune from disability hitting their lives suddenly and without warning. This moving post from Little Mama Said explores the irony of being a special needs teacher, not being able to teach after having a child with special needs.

‘Did They Allow Your Special Needs Kiddie into Nursery?’ from Mama Lewis

Mama Lewis shares her experiences of returning to work after the birth of the lovely May.

We Work! (We do. If You’d Let us) from Mama Lewis

A second and equally brilliant post by Stacie Lewis that poses some provocative questions that should be blissfully easy to answer: ‘Why is it less important that I work full-time than it is that my husband does? What does being May’s mother mean? Does it mean my life is not worth as much as hers?’

How Can Work, Work? from One Off Ordinary

A thought-provoking post from a fabulous mother of two (one of whom has additional needs and is now at school) on the logistics of trying to get back to work.

Let’s Talk About Work, Baby from Orange This Way

She tells us to sit down and have a cuppa to read this. But if this post doesn’t make you want to stand up and do something when you’ve finished reading it, nothing will. All you need to know about being a working mum to a disabled child, and much more besides.

‘The Chaos of SEN Childare’ from Premmeditations

This year new funding sees many disabled children able to access government-funded childcare for up to 15 hours per week. But have they thought this through? Here’s my experience of the battle for 1:1 care for our son at his nursery.

‘Nursery Provision for Special Needs – The Good, The Bad and The Ugly! from Tough Little Cookies

Can you only get a place for your little one if you know who to ask, how to ask and how to ask again (and again and again) if you are told nothing is available? For every working parent who manages to secure a nursery place for their child how many have to give up their job because adequate nursery support does not appear to be available? These are just some of the questions the mums of the Tough Little Cookies ask in this hard-hitting post.

Working it out

There’s a post I’ve been meaning to write for a while now. But every time I consider doing it, I take a step back and decide against it. It’s not that I’m frightened of writing it or of people’s reactions to it. I am a big girl and have the courage of my convictions, although I have a sometimes crippling worry (beneath it all) of offending people or of being thought to be in the wrong. I’d say I’m a walking paradox, if that didn’t make me sound more interesting than I am.

No: it’s not fear that’s prevented me from writing this before. It’s that I don’t want to be misconstrued. I don’t want people to think I have all the answers. At the moment, quite honestly, I feel I don’t even know what all the questions might be.

But like all of us, I have made certain choices in my life, and like all of us, I have been taken to task about my choices on many occasions and have been asked to defend them.

When I was younger (greener, more shy, less sure of myself) I used to find these moments threatening. As if people were trying to find me out or expose my weak will or hypocrisy. I usually swallowed my fears and tried to speak up for myself behind ever-reddening cheeks. Like all those endless conversations I had from the age of 12 when I became vegetarian. Wasn’t it irresponsible to have made this choice? What about the environmental impact of my decision (get me started on that one now at your peril)? Didn’t I know God made animals for us to eat and therefore I was a blasphemer? And anyway, wasn’t I a hypocrite as my shoes were probably made of leather (despite the fact that I haven’t worn a pair of leather shoes from that day to this)? Honestly, all these things have been said to me and many more besides. I used to take it all personally. These days I couldn’t give a stuff. When this happens now I am genuinely more interested in why people feel the need to quiz me so intensely. Surely it says more about them than me.

But there’s a new lifestyle question (I wish there was a font to inject irony into that horrible phrase I have just typed) which has totally supplanted the vegetarian one now. And to my great annoyance, I can’t brush it off our let it go. It runs too deep.

Sometimes it’s not phrased as a question, more as a statement of disbelief. But it can be summed up in two words, which are often uttered with a mix of facial expressions from the sad, through the patronising to the shocked and disgusted (not a word I use lightly) and in tones from the disbelieving to the downright condemnatory: ‘You work?’

As a parent of a disabled child, I’m horribly aware of the need to categorise people. The human desire to put things in their metaphorical boxes is indiscriminate, it seems. It affects those with and without additional needs, those without kids, those with them and their children. In my experience, mothers seem more susceptible to this kind of pigeon-holing than men (although that’s increasingly happening too, I think). So we’re not just mums, Moms, or mothers any more. We’re working mums/moms or WPs (working parents), SAHMs or WAHMs. There are subcategories of each and many others besides. Many of us choose to embrace these labels wholeheardtedly and wear them as badges of honour. Others are more troubled by them because for many, the label they wear is not adopted by choice but by circumstance. For others again (in which number I would probably count myself) we walk a fine line between choice and necessity.

My mum was a SAHM. It was the 1970s and it was what people like my Mum did. She loved bringing up my sister and me and was and is the best mum you could wish for. But she could never hide the sadness that giving up work or rather what came with it (a bit of financial independence, a modest social life) brought her. She and we lived off a few ten pound notes my dad would put in a purse in my mum’s underwear drawer every month. And because he was rubbish at financial planning, she would have to underspend each week and lie about it so that there was money to buy us birthday presents and clothes. In the end, even that wasn’t enough and she ended up taking a part time job when I was 10 for a couple of hours a day and spent every penny she earned on Christmas because were we up to our eye-balls in debt and there was no money for stuffing let alone the turkey (I wasn’t vegetarian then). My father was embarrassed and ashamed that she’d done this (that she’d had to do this) and would never admit to anyone that my Mum had a part-time job. Many years after they have retired it’s still the elephant in the room in my parents’ house, that is when you can actually get them to sit in the same room together for more than a couple of minutes.

No prizes for guessing, then, why I felt compelled to get a good job to support my kids from such an early age. My life would be different, I remember thinking when I went with my Mum to help her open a bank account of her own for the first time in her life when I was 16 years old and she had been married for 18. I would strive to be like my mum (the best mum I could imagine) but I would also work. I couldn’t stomach the kind of dependence she’d had to live with. Of course at the time, I didn’t know that relationships could and should work very differently from my parents’. Isn’t it weird how you think the rest of the world works like your household?

But old wounds run deep and all that, so it’s hardly surprising that not-working was never something I ever considered. Not when I had Sissyboo. Not when I was pregnant with Boo. Not even when he was born prematurely (he’d grow out of that, right?). No? Oh well, I’m sure he’ll just be delayed then. No? Life-long disability? Right. Cerebral Palsy? OK. Epilepsy? Crap. 3-6 appointments a week (holy moly). Yeah… hmmm… I’m still gonna work. That’ll be OK. Right?

The answer is I still don’t know. Life is difficult. Sometimes it seems downright impossible, like last night when I worked till midnight only to be woken 45 minutes after I’d gone to sleep by Sissyboo who had wet the bed, who then woke up Boo by putting her clothes in the laundry bin with creaky hinges, who then thought it was play time. Or when I am rushing back from a meeting 65 miles from home to squeeze in 30 minutes of standing frame time for Boo before his bath knowing that I’ll have to write up the notes when he’s gone to bed and all I want to do is sleep.

But I don’t ask for pity. To be honest, I don’t feel like I have much choice about the whole working thing. If I lose my job, we lose our home. In order to have a house that would meet Boo’s needs for equipment storage/layout and cost us less, we would have to move areas and schools. I won’t do that to Sissyboo. She has had to deal with too much change.

And you know what? I need to work. For my sanity. I need something else to occupy my mind, even if I interrupt tasks to take calls from therapists, attend meetings with consultants, write emails and source equipment.

My life has changed beyond all recognition, but I haven’t. I’m still me, the same girl who went with her mum to the Halifax to help her open a secret bank account in 1992. But as I’m slowly coming to realise, perceptions of me have changed dramatically over the past 20 months. And I find that hard to deal with sometimes.

Boo’s disability seems to give others the right to judge me. You know how when you’re pregnant random people feel they have the right to prod your belly, or stare at your swelling boobs, comment on your radiance (even though you know you look like crap because you haven’t been able to sleep for a week) or tell you about their episiotomy? It’s like that, but in some ways worse. Because now people don’t comment on my body. They comment on my choices. My life. Me.

Like the receptionist at our local hospital whom I had to phone on Friday to rearrange two of Boo’s appointments. When I gave Boo’s name, she remembered me. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to re-book appointments. Not by a long chalk. And she knew I worked. Because I wasn’t there in person and therefore she couldn’t roll her eyes at me (though that happened in wheelchair services on Monday when I was asked by someone else whether I worked or not) the receptionist just had to say something about it didn’t she? It wasn’t the first time I’d heard the words, but they didn’t smart any the less for that: ‘Don’t you think it would be a lot easier for you and your son if you didn’t work?’. If she’d added the word ‘dear’ to the end of the question it couldn’t have been more condescending. Or hurtful.

Never mind that I wasn’t rearranging the appointments because of my work. One appointment was a double booking. The hospital expected us to be in two places at the same time, which the computer didn’t see as a problem because (stupidly) two PCTs operate out of our hospital and we had a clashing appointment for a service out of each of them. Never mind that I was cancelling the other appointment because we’d had a letter from audiology saying a follow-up wasn’t needed until March and the appointment we’d been given was in December.

No: I was being awkward because I worked. Worse: I was clearly a bad mother because I work. She is not the first person to have said as much to me. I know she won’t be the last.

I said nothing. Because I was stunned. Because I was upset. Because we have so many battles to pick to get Boo what he is entitled to and needs, and my feelings can stand it. His needs are more acute.

I am not always the parent I want to be. My failings are numerous and varied. But I love my kids and I work harder than I could ever have imagined for them in my paid day job and as cook, cleaner, provider of cuddles, PA, speech and language, physio, occupational and hydrotherapist and ….

You know what? I’m going to stop here. I’m not going to defend myself any more. This is my life and these are the choices I’ve made. Others have made different choices. Some, sadly, as the many emails I’ve received from parents battling to get their disabled kids nursery or childcare places indicate, have no choice at all. I pass judgement on no parent when it comes to their decision to work or not work and would back anyone in helping them to make any preference they have a reality. The biggest con in modern politics is that people in this country have a right to choose the life they want to lead. Choice may be a fundamental human right, but it is a privilege extended to too few, in my opinion, at this present moment. And these choices contract immeasurably when you or a loved one is disabled. I’m one of the lucky ones. I know that. I have an understanding employer (for now) and a flexible contract that has enabled me to make decisions I know others can’t.

My decisions might not be to everyone’s taste (to put it mildly), but they feel right for us. For now. And if and when they cease to be, rest assured, I will revisit them and make others.

But let me say just one thing. The thing I should have said to the receptionist, before deciding it was one battle too many last week.

I’m not defined solely by the fact that I work (though my work is huge part of my identity), just as Boo is not defined by his CP. We are two people with complex existences trying to make the best of this life we’re living. Lots of things would make this easier. Understanding and kindness are two of them.

Moving on Up

Monday was a big day for the Boos. Sissyboo had an inset day (or an insect day as she insists on calling them – I wonder what she thinks the teachers get up to…) and so I took her to Chessington World of Adventures for the first time. We had a great time, bumping into half her classmates (great minds…), looking at the animals and going on virtually every ride there. She is just 1.2 metres now, which means that almost all the rides, including some terrifying ones, are there for her to try. And Sissyboo is a trier (like me). Unlike me, however, she is also a daredevil. So when she begged me to go on Dragon Falls, a log flume type thing with a massive drop at the end (how is it safe to drop from a great height in a plastic box on water?) I said  ‘OK’ in my best ‘Me? Scared? Never!’ tone of voice.

I spent the whole ride waiting for the drop at the end, heeding the Chessington guide’s advice to put my arms round Sissyboo and get her to hold the empty seat back in front. (The park was so quiet. If half of her school hadn’t been there, it would have felt like Westworld). Anyway, I held her about as tight as I could reassured her (unnecessarily) that it would be OK and not to be scared (she wasn’t) until we plunged at great speed to get soaked in the name of fun. And you know what? It was. Although it wasn’t so much fun that I would agree to her pleas we did it again straight away, I enjoyed it. My little girl is not so little after all.

Back at home Boo was making a plunge of his own. Monday was Boo’s first full day in the Toddler Room at his nursery. Until now, and despite being much, much older than all the other kids, Boo has been in the Baby Unit. It makes sense. No developmental consultant will put Boo past 8 months physical development because he can’t sit independently. Most of the other babies in the Baby Unit can stand before they leave there; many can walk. Boo can’t do either and may never do either, but he is speaking a little and even though he finds them difficult to manipulate, he wants to play with toddler toys: pop-up toys, puzzles, shape sorters. Cognitively we won’t know exactly where he is for some time, but at the moment he seems to be where he needs to be.  Which means, as his physio pointed out, that he needs to be with kids his own age. Toddlers. Even if Boo can’t toddle

The nursery has prepared themselves, Boo and us for this well. Staff from the Toddler Room, including his new key-/one-to-one worker visited him in the Baby Unit and observed him doing his daily physio several times. He did lots of visits to the new room. I went in for a meeting with the room supervisor. Boo’s physio went in to talk to the staff in the new room about Boo’s needs and demonsterate his exercises.

But it still felt like such a huge deal. His difference is so visible there. When we dropped him off for the first time, one of the girls welcomed him and made him giggle but looked at us quizzically as we just stood there for a minute. She was waiting for us to put him on the floor and let him walk over to a toy like the rest of the kids, then she remembered this wasn’t Kansas anymore and let us pass Boo to her so she could decide where to put him safely.

When he came home he seemed a bit more tired than normal, but very happy. But I couldn’t shake off my doubts and worries. It’s one thing to be lying on a playmat in a room of babies, quite another when they are running at break-neck speed to the water tray. What would the other kids think of him, I worried? Would they not want to go near him? All I could see was a life-time of difference rolling out in front of him. And it left me sobbing at my desk at work despite the nursery sending happy pictures of him home to us in his daily physio/activity book.

But then I went to pick him up yesterday and saw for myself how Boo is getting on. As I walked through the door, he was giggling furiously. Another little boy (who apparently adores him and brings him toys all day) was blowing him kisses. Another was saying his name respeatedly. They showed me some pictures of what he had been up to that day. He was standing at the water tray, holding himself up on his own by propping.

He was standing up, people! (Ok, he was using the tray like a standing frame, but we’ll take that.)

Then they showed us pictures of him dancing when they were singing earlier in the day. He looked so happy. So at home. The other kids looked so comfortable around him. And then I remembered, 18-month-old children don’t have enough sense of normal to know anything about what’s different. I hope knowing Boo will mean that some of them don’t associate different with bad or defective when they’re older.

So today, when I dropped Boo off, I found myself behaving like I did at Dragon Falls on Monday. My nerves were still there, but I put on a brave face and held on tight until the moment I knew I could let go.

Because my babies are growing up. I will never stop protecting them, but we all need to take a plunge sometimes and I need to let go sometimes, too.