The joy of a jotter

a buff cardboard covered exercise book, sometimes called a jotter

The news that my son, Leo, uses a jotter at school is not the news that I expected to move me this week. We have experienced surgery, recovery and clinic this week. It has been a lot. But it wasn’t any of the big stuff that made me watery-eyed. On a catch-up call with Leo’s teacher I found myself blinking. Leo at 8 years old has finally started to engage with classroom tasks and develop a love of learning. His developmental delay and stubborn streak have made this a bit of a challenge before. The teachers’ perseverance has worked. And the news that brought this all home to a 90s-educated, comprehension loving, stationery fiend….? He has a school jotter to keep his work in.

I wrote my first piece in months in response.


Leo does his school work in a jotter.

Pardon? A jotter? Leo has a jotter? It’s not the update I expected.

I was on a call with Leo’s teacher. The language we usually use – assistive, adapted, enhanced, sensory, specialist – precise and niche. Words that are modern, scientific, evidence-based. Words that are a marvel in this life, that provide equality of opportunity and create sparks of activity leading to potential. Words that are not tangible. Like apple. Or ball.

A jotter. A word that belonged in the dusty attic of my brain. A word that, once rediscovered, opened a door to spring classroom days. A crisp cardboard cover opened to a white, smooth page. A ruler placed neatly, a pencil margin drawn. The date precisely printed in the column and then cursive words forming a title. The first act in a new day of learning. Leo has a jotter. Leo is learning.

I knew that, of course. Leo shows me he is learning every single day. New words, new facts, new stories. Delivered in a multi-platform, rich, considered environment. An environment I can appreciate, but not really understand. This is the first page of learning I can comprehend, something I can also turn the page on. Leo has shown he can be an intentional learner this year. To find joy in a task well done. To make learning physical. How do I know? Leo has a jotter.

Countdowns and meltdowns – bolstered by a big birthday

Woman in striped jumper sits in white dodgem car with boy in navy t-shirt cuddled into her side.

Milestones can be tricky to navigate in life. Rather than markers on the road, they often become obstacles. Things to encounter and embrace, or struggle through. My own relationship with milestones in recent years has been a challenge and the casual parlance with which I used to regard them has been replaced with at best, distaste and at worst, distrust. When you have a child with a developmental delay the discussion of milestones becomes fraught and can seem hopeless. Lately, I have consigned them to a mental drawer with an incomplete baby book and a forgotten cross-stitch project. We make our own markers now and we work hard for them.

With a healthy cynicism about arbitrary milestones, I pondered my upcoming ‘Big Birthday’ earlier this year. I was drawn to thinking about who I wanted to be rather than what I wanted to do. While I think the social narrative around ageing is improving, it is true women have some biological realities to consider while also having seen enough of life to know what challenges might lie ahead.

Woman in striped jumper sits in white dodgem car with boy in navy t-shirt cuddled into her side.

As a parent carer, ageing brings its own challenges, and I am thinking about the longevity of that. While my son gets bigger and heavier, I am wary of how I move and handle him, how I keep him safe, and how I prevent injury. I need to be healthy to care and have the energy to keep up with him. I want him to access playgrounds, soft play, theme parks, fairgrounds, and leisure pools. I want to manage the hurdles of taking him abroad for therapy. I want to be resilient for the unexpected challenges that come my way. I want to be mentally sharp and emotionally balanced when I have to advocate for him and challenge authorities who have different priorities. This is not a new quest but one that is ongoing. In spring, I found myself a bit in a rut. Thanks to a great trainer, I knew what I had to do and how to do it, but I needed microfocus and a period of sustained accountability to get into a good routine. None of that sounds very ‘self-care-y’, but as I have said before, self-care is not always what you want to do, but what you NEED to do.

My biggest inspiration for doing things that feel hard and keeping complaining in check is of course, my son. Earlier this year he had a big operation for hip dysplasia and spent 4 weeks in a pretty horrendous cast. This is on top of years of inpatient treatment, surgeries and therapies. As I frequently come up against conflict with the local authority I remember what he has endured and how he is vulnerable but also, tough. Which is the approach I take to advocacy. Being strong enough to insist we can access the support we need but vulnerable enough to articulate why we need it and admit our infallibility. I have spent three years pleading with the local authority to get wraparound care organised for him in the summer holidays. Like most parents, his dad and I take two weeks of holidays, compared to his six. To be clear, the reason why this is more of a challenge for parent carers, is because holiday camps and out-of-school clubs that mainstream children can attend are not accessible for all children. Our son needs a hoist and plinth for changing, one-to-one support and staff who are trained in delivering buccal medication. This year has been worse than ever and one day of term remained before I had certainty that there would be any kind of provision.

In the last three years, I have been off work (ironically) in May or June with the stress/stress-related illnesses of sorting all this because it raises some pretty tough emotions, memories and pretty depressing thoughts. Even my most tried-and-tested coping mechanisms are withered and worn by it. This year has been different. Because I set myself a challenge in April that I would complete in May and June. I embarked on an ‘8 week lean’ programme at a local and independent gym. It was recommended by the brilliant trainer I mentioned earlier as the gym she would always trust to send clients to. Getting ‘lean’ was a side effect of what I was looking to achieve. I wanted to make habits that would build a good routine and see me physically and mentally thrive in the hardest part of the year. I wanted more energy, clarity and stamina and yes, I wanted the changes I made to my activities and diet to change my shape physically to a body I was more confident in. So how did I fare?

This year, I stayed in the lean programme, stayed in work and despite so much uncertainty remained pretty resolute and focused on my goals. My energy levels are better and so is my motivation. The lean programme has created a good routine. I have managed and wanted to keep it going for myself in the most challenging part of my year. Daily measures include calories, nutrition, exercise and steps. Daily check-ins build a cohort and momentum. The gym itself offers a challenging but supportive environment. The first sessions of feeling shell-shocked were soon replaced by an appreciation of the process and progression in exercises.

The fitness industry talks about ‘non-scale victories’, signs that whatever changes you make to your lifestyle are helping you beyond numbers on the scales. This might be losing inches in your body measurements, clearer skin, lifting heavier weights, having more room in your clothes, sleeping better etc. These can be more impactful and realistic than a weight goal and for some people, more meaningful than being stage or photoshoot-ready. I was clear that my programme would not have before and after photos, but energies.

For a long time, my focus in training and looking after myself is being the best possible parent carer to my son. So I can lift him, carry him into soft-play, change him, take him abroad for swimming therapy and be mentally and physically up to the challenges and provide opportunities. I want to be fit enough to do this for many years to come as long as it is safe for us both. Turning 40 is a pretty big reminder I can’t take that fitness for granted and I wanted to celebrate while feeling at my best. I imagined how I wanted to feel on my birthday and I wanted energy and strength. In the two days before my big birthday I took my boy swimming, carried him onto a fairground ride, drove him around in a dodgem, lifted him into a swing and introduced him to his new holiday club which started this week. Tonight we tucked a tired and happy boy safely into bed and being able to do that for a long time is my biggest motivation.

Note: I am aware having a gym membership and making this investment Is a privilege not accessible to all parent carers, nor is the time to go. Having two adults in the household in employment is less likely in households with a disabled child. We both remain employed due to the kindness (and relative fitness) of our son’s grandparents who collect him from school on working days. We have understanding employers and job roles that can adapt when needed. This is due to having established careers before our son was born. This arrangement currently does not have a back-up plan and the only out-of-school club offering the care he needs in our whole city opened only this week and is funded for a fixed period by a charitable trust.

Not before time, drawing a line, this next year is mine

It’s late February and I finally feel a change in the season. I have woken up to blue skies and a calm mind. Something has shifted and I feel that the trust I had in better days ahead is revealing its promise. I have been floating over the surface but now I feel present. Which is handy, because I turn 40 in less than six months and I plan on having a good time for my big birthday. I want to make changes and so I really hope my luck is changing too. Even if I don’t really know if I believe in luck.

Prelude to a (probably not ancient, or indeed existent) curse

It has been a bit of a year, if a year was 18 months long, and felt like a decade. In the summer of 2022, we reluctantly put our house on the market. With sadness at the circumstances but certain we were doing the best thing for a positive future for our family and they kind of home we now needed. At this point some kind of ancient curse, as old as the local Property Centre’s operating system, seeped into our unsuspecting lives. It might have been a hex, bad karma, poor manifesting… or just a series of unfortunate events on a personal, regional, national and international level.

We were teetering about on the closest we get to an even keel at that point.

Following two years of pandemic-related stress and disruption. Within a period of professional abandonment of statutory provisions for our boy. On a foundation of much worked family wellbeing as we recovered from a myriad of trauma that comes with having a child with a rocky start to life and profund and multiple additional needs. We were getting by so we chose thatmoment.

The decision to sell our home was the starting gun on a period of such unlikely disruptions, that are not individually remarkable, but collectively a massive headfuck (and I really did look for an alternative word here but nothing else works).

A note on sharing stories

I won’t share all of our challenges, they are not all my stories to tell. Not all of the things that impact us are our own troubles, but are often the side effects of loving others, having the courage to be vulnerable and existing in a society that lacks compassion. We cannot always understand or control what hurts us, we just know that we feel hurt.  

I always share stories when I am on the up. When I have the energy. But also when I have a message of hope. When I have found the positive. I wonder if that is a disservice to how I practice writing. I wonder if I feel too vulnerable in the moment, too overwhelmed, too worthless. Maybe my next step is to tell the stories when I don’t know how it ends. I don’t know what the point or the learning is. Not that we ever do really. We can close chapters but there is always more story. I do know I am compelled to share this one now.

Getting on with my ‘annus horriblis’. A term often associated with the late Queen Elizabeth II. It’s interesting she pops into my mind because her truly terrible year was absolutely cushioned by privilege, but not without pain. And sometimes we are guilty of not feeling compassion when we don’t like someone’s circumstances. Like there is some kind of criteria for compassion.

The annus horriblis

Events include:

Successfully completing the sale on our home on the third set of buyers after two failed to settle, one week and then one day before the deadline.

Not knowing whether we would have funds to complete the purchase of our next house.

Which was then delayed by seven months in a process where we were never given a clear timeline of events or any kind of accountability/ recompense/ acknowledgement of the challenge.

Some devastating personal news that broke my heart and foundations, while I did not have my own home but did have somewhere I was loved and welcome.

Rebuilding my fragile but spiralling self-esteem.

Dealing with painful abdominal symptoms while awaiting surgery.

Having surgery and not being primary caregiver for a while.

Battling with services to access statutory provision on two fronts – short breaks and wraparound care.

Completing the purchase of a house and discovering it was far from ready and needed a fair amount of investment, while recovering from surgery.

A long wait and anticipation for my son’s major, essential and potentially life-changing surgery.

Supporting an incredibly vulnerable and necessarily resilient child through surgery and supporting afterwards to lead a life even more restricted than usual.

Dealing with the painful aftermath of restriction and then rehabilitation.

Learning

Throughout that period that has been joy too. And we are better placed now to soar. We have rebuilt our nest, we have secured our home and our family, we have plans in place for productive and HAPPY events. I have been learning too. I have learned about not needing a reason to find something hard. Not needing permission to be sad and sit with the sadness. Not finding the bright side straightaway. Being compassionate to yourself, feeling all the feelings and when you are ready, taking action. Not leaping up so quickly you risk more injury. I can be pragmatic. I can take decisions in stages. I can lower my standards. I can hold myself accountable but still summon self-compassion. This is my big old ugly cry.

I know there will also be challenges. I believe there will always be learning too. I have been pulled apart, my pieces are laid out in front of me and i am going put them back together again with new skills and insight, hoping that my new form is malleable to however I want to shape it in future. When I am in flow. Because I am molten. Golden. I want to shine. It’s time to hit my prime.  

Juggling: stuff the rules and rule the stuff

I asked on Instagram recently if the people who watch my stories have any blog subject requests. A sole suggestion was made… ‘juggling everything [exploding head emoji]’. I could almost feel the overwhelm through the screen. I know this woman has three children and I suspect ‘everything’ in this context is about being a mum, a wife and her own person. So here it goes… Spoiler: I don’t have the definitive answer. But I think it begins with challenging some assumptions.

Mum calendars

Every year the ‘Calendar Stall’ appears during the run up to Christmas in our local shopping centre. Year on year, the number of ‘Mum calendars’ appearing on the racks seems to increase and for me, this feature of kitchens everywhere sums up the overwhelm pretty well. Titled ‘Supermum’, ‘Do-it-all-mum’ and ‘Mum’s Busy Day’, the pages are illustrated with cartoons of frazzled women and have text in ‘fun’ fonts. The calendars have a column for everyone in the household, sometimes even pets! In the calendar world, mums exist to make sure everyone is in the right place at the right time with the things we need and ultimately… they are responsible for no one ever forgetting anything. Ever. ‘Cheery’ wall calendars are sold as the project management tool of choice for unpaid work done by a workforce of women increasingly feeling overwhelmed by the mental load. Perpetuating the idea that this is our job. Whether you are a man, woman, put-upon child or anthropomorphic pet, IT IS NOT YOUR JOB TO DO EVERYTHING WHEN YOU LIVE IN A HOUSE WITH OTHER PEOPLE. Or at least, it doesn’t have to be.

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Things parents of children with special needs knew before coronavirus

I am watching the world around me confront a new reality brought by the COVID-19 pandemic. Every life lost to this virus is a tragedy and the scale of loss is devastating to the entire global community. I realise the worldwide severity of this illness and I, in no way, would or could ever rationalise or minimise that devastation.  Today, on the 22nd of May, the number of lives lost is 333,000 with over 5.1 million people found to be infected.[1] One-third of a million families grieving a loss due to COVID-19.

I am watching this unfold in Scotland as a parent of one of the one billion people[2] in the world with a disability (and as a big sister to another). I have seen my life change dramatically as a result of steps our Governments have taken to limit the loss of lives and prevent overwhelming our NHS. For one billion people who were already coping with the challenges disability created in their everyday lives and their families, things have become even harder. Until this point, I have been fortunate enough not to have anyone in my immediate family become ill or lose their life to coronavirus. That is the one thing I focus on when people ask how my family is. Commenting anything other than “well” can feel indulgent. Despite the fact we are without nursery, therapies and clinics, not to mention the circle of supportive family and friends we usually have around us, it does not occur to me to complain. It’s no one’s ‘fault’ and we work around it.

I have observed how the people around me, and the wider public have behaved through the emergence of the virus and the lockdown. I have seen my own thoughts and behaviours metamorphise as we move through the weeks. I have been shocked, saddened, angry, moved, thrilled, delighted, bored, frightened, grateful and exhausted. Like many carers, feeling all of these things in a week is not that unusual.

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Helping people when they have a child in hospital – 14 practical things you can do

Seeing your child ill in hospital is one of the most difficult things you will encounter. Whether a premature baby or a teenager approaching adulthood, seeing your child dependent on the expertise of a hospital team to save their lives is the most vulnerable you may ever feel. Your priority is their recovery and wellbeing. Your waking thoughts are focused on charts, stats and test results. You measure time in doctors’ rounds and nurses’ handovers. You may be going home to sleep, creeping into parent accommodation or camping out on a folding hospital bed. You get through it, because you have to, and your child needs the constant in their life to be well, constant.

If you are lucky, like I am, then you will have people around you in life who want to help. People who want to support you and make sure you are fit and well for your child. They will check in on your child’s progress, but they will also be concerned for you. Unless they are medical specialists, there is often little they can do to actually help the child.

If someone you care about is currently spending time with their child in hospital, you may not know how best to help, even if you really want to. You might be worried about causing offence, appearing nosey or interfering. Imagining yourself in the situation might provide clarity. There are things that have undoubtedly helped me. I am fortunate enough to be able to share a list of kind things my friends and family have thought of. I want to share them – as a resource for those facing spending time with their children in hospital, for their loved ones and as a reminder to me, should any of my friends ever need the same in return.

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Parent or friend: can we be responsible parents and liked by our toddlers?

It was Sunday afternoon and I was stressed out. I was overwhelmed, and Leo was crying. He was looking at me like I had utterly betrayed him. I cuddled him and told him I was sorry, I was just trying to help him, but I had got it wrong. How had this dramatic scene come about? I had taken him to a baby swimming class.

Leo had not been swimming this year until we went to the hotel pool last month. He had been ill, and we had been busy at weekends. He hadn’t enjoyed the hotel pool – it was cold and noisy. I knew swimming was very good for him – the water would support him, and he would enjoy greater physical freedom than he is used to. I was determined that we would get back into swimming with him.

A visit to our local leisure pool went better and I was looking forward to the swimming class. It takes place in a hydrotherapy pool which is great for his muscle tone and there would be no older kids jumping around and shrieking. I had a vision of a lovely mother and son bonding moment in a cosy pool while Leo grew confident in the water.

The reality was 30 minutes of fast-paced activities, feeling like I didn’t have enough hands and a very upset Leo. I felt quite stressed trying to keep up and I felt very guilty that Leo was having such a rotten time. At the end of the class, the stress subsided, and I felt very upset. First of all, I felt very bad that I had put Leo through such a miserable time. Then I felt disappointed that I had failed to find the right class for him. Finally, I felt demoralised. I had acted with the best of intentions and I had upset my son.

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Autumn: reflecting on summer and looking to the months ahead

I am what you might call a ‘summer person’. I love light nights and going out without a coat. I used to feel dragged into autumn kicking and screaming. Wishing for one more day dashing about in flip-flops. But not this year. While autumn always felt like the end, this year it feels like a new start. Like a new term, but for family life. While I used to crave excitement, now I like order, routine and knowing my plan from one week to the next.

Our transition from spring to summer was sheer relief. Leo spent eight weeks of spring in hospital and he was discharged in May. He had been gravely ill – more so than I would allow myself to reconcile with at the time – and were just so grateful that he was well enough to go home. I looked up and noticed that the trees were full and green, the sun was higher in the sky and the grass was regularly overgrown.

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Say after me, “I’m doing the best that I can”

I was feeling a bit frazzled this morning. I don’t know how getting two humans out the house feels like such an ordeal, but most parents would agree it’s a challenge. Leo was up too early, and he had to entertain himself just a little bit too long when I did unreasonable things like having a shower, drying my hair, tidying up, putting the washing on, getting all his stuff together for nursery and packing the car. His little toy giraffe was shouted at and the poor wee wooden animals were decanted from their ark. I do a lot of singing in the morning to keep the entertainment going while I try and sort things out. Leo’s little applause at the end of each song keeps me going.

Despite being up for more than two hours, I left without time for breakfast. That wee emoji with the steam coming out, that was me. As usual, once we are in the car, we both calm down. We chat about our day, sing songs and practice animal noises and arrive at the nursery. We are always greeted with a cheery welcome and Leo brightens further when he realises a fun morning awaits.

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