Tag Archives: Motherhood

Words from a newly diagnosed Forty Something Female Aspie

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I call myself a newly diagnosed Aspie because although I have self identified as an Aspie for the last year or so, I hadn’t been formally diagnosed.

Now I am and suddenly my world has changed again.

Previously, in my naivety, I hadn’t thought that receiving a formal diagnosis would make any difference to me at all.

Being as I am a woman in my forties, whose already lived through the nightmare of constantly trying to figure out the hidden rules of social interactions and failing miserably at the task, I’d thought that reaching an understanding of myself, for my own sake, was enough.

And for some no doubt this is true.

Yet I also now realize that not being formally diagnosed held me back in ways that worked to my over all detriment.

You see, I never really felt like I could tell anyone about my own inner discoveries.

I held a constant fear that people would laugh at me or not take my self diagnosis seriously if I told them.

That they would instead peg me as just another maladaptive loser in life’s lottery looking for nothing more than a convenient excuse to explain my own social inadequacies.

I know now, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that receiving a formal diagnosis has finally laid all of these internal fears to rest.

It doesn’t matter to me any longer whether people believe me or they don’t.

It doesn’t matter to me whether or not some will choose to look down their noses at me for finally openly acknowledging that I am different.

Or that I view the world in a different way to that which others do.

Or that I’d rather stay home and read a good book over going out to dinner with a group of people who leave me either constantly lost or eternally bored by their conversations.

You see, I don’t care who’s getting it on with who.

I don’t care what the latest celebrity gossip is.

I don’t care how many shoe stores person A had to go to before finding the perfect shoes to match her outfit.

And I don’t care about shopping lists, hairstyles, the latest invention in anti-wrinkle creams or the newest foundation fades.

I’ve already grown so long past  tired of having to pretend that I care about any such mundane things in order to pass as “sociable” that these days I don’t even bother to feign interest in it.

I’ve been told so many times by so many different people, that I come across as being  “aloof”, “disinterested”, “superior” or just plain “rude”, that I’ve lost count.

Truth is, that while I may indeed at times be entirely disinterested in the conversations going on around me, it’s not because I don’t care for the people who are speaking their empty words at me, often times I care deeply about those people, I just don’t know how to connect with them and they never seem to notice that I need more than idle gossip to get me through my day.

As for being “aloof” well, I guess anyone who hangs back while conversations are going on around them at lightning speed and always chooses to take the seat closest to the exit allowing for the fastest get away possible, may indeed appear that way.

Yet I am not “aloof”.

Nor do I feel myself  to be “superior” to anyone.

I mean seriously, how on earth can anyone who struggles so much to understand the invisible realms of society, ever consider themselves to be “superior”?

Truth be told, I’ve spent a great deal of my life feeling absolutely inferior to everybody else and believing myself to be “dumb”.

Going to University as a mature age student was nothing short of a huge leap into the great unknown for me.

I felt for sure that I would fail every single class in my first semester and then that would be that and I would know for sure the problems I’d been having were all indeed because I was dumb.

To my great surprise I didn’t fail anything.

Well not academically, anyway.

I discovered that my analytical and overtly logical way of looking at the world did indeed hold more than some merit.

After this discovery, I then came to the conclusion that, whilst I wasn’t dumb, I never the less  had what I began referring to as  a very low social IQ.

It wasn’t until I’d begun work on my Honor’s Thesis that I first became  aware of the traits of Asperger’s in women.

I can not even begin to describe to you the feeling of ‘coming home’ that this awareness arose in me.

It was as if someone had finally connected all the missing dots of my life  that had puzzled me so and at last I was able to see the bigger picture.

Those discoveries were made almost 3 years ago.

Since then I have spent endless hours researching Asperger’s Syndrome in Women.

How it’s been denied as existing in women  in the past.

How it’s been a constant source of almost criminal medical negligence for far too many women who have been left at the mercy of a world that’s turned it’s metaphorical back on them.

How the inability and unwillingness of many within the medical fraternity to understand and accept that Asperger’s can present differently in women and girls than it does in boys and men, has caused entire generations of women to remain either undiagnosed or completely  misdiagnosed with errant and in most cases imaginary personality disorders.

For all of these reasons I’d decided that I did not want to seek a formal diagnosis by placing my life in the hands of  a medical establishment whom history had already shown had so consistently gotten the diagnosis of Female Asperger’s so wrong.

However, my line of thinking changed when I began to notice many AS traits in my own daughter.

I had to ask myself whether or not I could stand idly  by and watch her struggle valiantly to fit into a world that she could no longer make head nor tail of?

Could I stand by and watch as  sadness and confusion began to daily fill her eyes without doing anything to attempt to change it?

No. Despite my fears of  her being misdiagnosed. I could not stand by and watch my daughter fall into the very abyss that I myself had only just managed to crawl out of some forty years later.

The journey toward diagnosis for both of us has by no means been an easy one.

It has taken over 2 years of trying to get help for my daughter, of being told over and over again that my daughters reactions to this world can be explained away by either poor parenting,  my divorce or some other hidden form of family dysfunction, and that she did not fit the criteria for Asperger’s Syndrome simply because she wore make-up and cared about her appearances.

My pleas to the contrary, that she was merely trying to fit in the best way she knew how,  went unheeded.

It wasn’t until my daughter entered High School and not long after tried to take her own life, that someone out there finally listened to my many pleas for help and began instead to try to form a genuine sense of understanding as to what  it was my daughter was actually experiencing.

No child should ever have to feel so lost within this world that  they view taking their own life as the only way of taking away their suffering.

And she was suffering.

Yet even when I’d done my best to point this out to those who were supposed to help, they continually denied my daughter even the smallest pieces of understanding and instead chose to blame the very person who was laying themselves on the line by asking for their help in the first place.

It was obvious to me that her peers had moved past her capacity to socially keep up with them.

Despite this,  no matter how many times I tried to explain my daughters predicament to the professionals that be, I found myself   ignored time and time again.

Yet my daughter was lost and alone in the playground of  what she’d been told by others would be “the best days of her life”.

It’s little wonder, given this context, that she did what she did.

Fortunately I got to her in time and she’s now being given the help and understanding she required years ago.

She has been diagnosed as having Asperger’s Syndrome.

I can not even begin to tell you how much it angers me that it took such drastic action on her part before anyone saw fit to truly listen to her, to me, to us.

It saddens me that there are so many girls and adult women out there who are still suffering from this willful form of diagnostic neglect.

In my case, as an adult, I chose not to come forward out of fear of being misdiagnosed.

Yet when I did come forward, for my daughter’s sake, we both initially had our experiences marginalized and ignored.

It is this medical marginalization that very nearly cost me and my daughter, her life.

So if you are working in the medical profession as Psychologist, a General Practitioner, a Pediatrician, or even  simply working as a counselor…… please, please, please,………..

Listen……………..

Take action……….

It’s not always about dysfunctional families and girls do experience Asperger’s Syndrome………… and it’s got nothing what so ever to do with the ability to wear make-up!!!!!!

And if you are a mother and you think you may have Asperger’s Syndrome, be brave and take the plunge toward receiving  a formal diagnosis because you never know whose life you may be saving by doing so.

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A Childless Mother, Is still A Mother. Though her arms may be empty… her heart never will.

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Mothers Day has always been an incredibly difficult day for me.

Filled as it is with  mixed emotions but not for the reasons you might think.

It’s not a difficult day for me because I have a son with Autism or a daughter on the spectrum.

In many ways their presence here helps to counteract the whirlpool of emotions that this day normally stirs up in me.

Mother’s day is hard for me because I am, or at least I would have been, had everything gone to plan, the mother of seven children.

You see, four of my lovely ones never made it kicking and screaming into the light of this world.

So every Mothers Day I sit and I think about the babies that I never go to hold.

The faces I was never allowed to touch and love.

And I wonder what they would have looked like now as strapping young adults.

I wonder what their personalities would have been like and who they might now have been.

Would they have been artists or writers?

Would they have had that same broad grin that my middle son wears like a badge of honor?

Or those same amazing amber eyes as their sister?

Would they have been as tall as my living eldest son or more on the shorter side of life like me?

I guess it’s normal for mother’s like me to wonder and occasionally let ourselves dwell in the mystical land of ‘what could have been’.

I guess some would even say that I’m still grieving their loss and I yes, in a lot of ways I probably am and always will be.

I know that it has gotten easier with time.

Yet I will always remember that the awfulness,  of breathing my way through  every single Mother’s Day that left me unmarked and unacknowledged as a mother, during those years of enduring loss, were some of the most pain filled days I have ever known.

During those days I often used to wonder what to call myself.

After all what do you call a childless mother?

Common sense would say that there can be no such being as a childless mother and yet, there I was, every single Mothers Day for four years, struck numb by being exactly that  which logic dictated I should not be.

A childless mother.

Despite that I  knew, that even though I was a childless mother, I was still a mother.

Though my arms may have been empty, my heart was always full.

So to all the childless Mothers everywhere, I honor you, I recognize you and I declare with all my heart that;

You are now,

And you will always be,

Mothers,

Worth celebrating.

 

 

 

 

 

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Crappy Parenting is a Spectrum Disorder

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Reblogged from Laughing Through Tears:

Click to visit the original post

Dear Random Internet Strangers:

Please stop telling me that I don't love my children. It's sort of judgmental, considering how you've never met me. And while you're at it, please stop telling me that I'm a bad parent. That's just a given.

April's been a harsh month. It felt like everybody with an internet connection decided to honor Autism Awareness/Acceptance/Ambivalence Month by gracing us with their opinions about how badly we're ruining our kids.

Read more… 719 more words

This post is similar to the post I wrote a few weeks back......http://seventhvoice.wordpress.com/2013/05/01/love-me-or-hate-me-this-is-my-response-to-a-comment-that-to-me-tipifys-the-worst-aspects-of-the-autism-community/
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So why all the animals ?????? This post is in honor of my middle son…… I really do see you my lovely young one.

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I rarely write about my middle child.

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My youngest son who  so willingly engages,67935_541838245867555_1087220439_n Within in his own silent and peaceful universe.

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The universe he’s created to escape the lack of attention he receives  from me when ever I’m busy dealing with either the needs of my eldest son or the melt downs of my youngest daughter.

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I know sometimes he thinks that I forget to see to him.

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That I forget to listen to, or hear him.

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Or that I forget to think of him and his needs amidst the daily jungle of our lives.

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I’d like to say that he’s perspectives are neither accurate nor true,

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But,

11744_548751435176236_736055841_nIf I’m honest,

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I know that sometimes he’s right.

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So in order to show him that I do see him,

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That I do listen to him and think about him,

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His interests and his needs,

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I’ll often search the internet for amazing wildlife photos of the animals  I know he loves and adores.

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He is a child of nature.

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And he loves all creatures big and small.

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This is his way of coping.

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And I love taking the time to  see, appreciate and understand the sense of wonder that still exists within his precious soul.

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So this post is for you my lovely young lion.521850_543994382318608_1741177800_n

And this is your mother’s way of saying she’s watching over and loving  you just as much too <3

 

An Update on Daughters, Dishes, Cats, Banshee’s and Reality Blogging

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English: What a smiley looks like when thinkin...

Sadly, for all concerned, the cats did not grow opposable thumbs and solve our dish washing dilemma for us.
Instead, something even more amazing happened.
My daughter did the  washing up…….
Yes, she finally caved…..
Seems she hates the taste of “plasticky” (yes I know it’s still not a word)  prepackaged salads even more than I do.
Mind you  her efforts were accompanied by a constant tirade of complaints.
Her favorite and most often screamed statement during her time of need was of course….
“I hate you for making me do this”……..
Many such statements were soon followed by a rather disdainfully yet surprised quip……
“Porridge?”
“Really guys, porridge?”
“That’s disgusting…..”
“Yuck”……….”
 
Well yes I did have to agree with her on that one….
Sadly the remnants of porridge, when left in a bowl for 4 days, does  have a rather strong propensity for setting like concrete and  becoming even  more difficult  to remove…… and…. yes of  course lest I forget….. also for  becoming  “disgusting”……
Not long after making her declaration of disgust, she abandoned the dish cloth completely…..
Flinging it half way across the room and  began  working solely on the dishes with a long-handled dish scrubber thingy that had lain unused in the back of the cupboard for years……
Which trust me, at that point in time, I became extremely grateful for the knack I’d developed over the years  for buying seemingly ‘useless’ kitchen thing-u-ma- jigs.
Not so useless anymore  now are you long-handled dish scrubber thingy?
At one point during her whole ordeal I swear she even began shrieking like a Banshee………
 
And I had to resist the temptation to step in and take over the task for her……..
But I held firm.
Heck, I’d waited four days for this.
This was nothing short of  some sort of  teenage Aspie miracle unfurling before my eyes.
So who was I to step in and get in the way of all things  mystical and magical?
No, not I.
Even if it did mean putting up with a bit of ear-splitting Banshee wailing.
No one ever said that miracles have to be quiet.
So now the dishes are done.
The cats took the news surprisingly well and at first appeared to be completely indifferent to the changes taking place about them.
Although they did make a bee line for the nearest exit as soon as she began the whole shrieking like a Banshee business and I haven’t seen them since.
But they will be back.
I have cans of cat food just waiting to be opened for them.
My daughter on the other hand, is still recovering……
On the couch…. TV remote in hand…. Glazed expression in her eyes.
So as a thank you to her and to show her how much I appreciate her efforts, I went out and brought her several new tubes of paint for her art work.
To which she glared at me when I presented them to her and said…..
“You don’t seriously expect me to do art work now do you? My hands are too tired from all of the dishes you made me do. Which by the way is still child labor. I’m going to report you.  I hate you.”

Johann Heinrich Stürmer Köchin

Oh my darling girl, how I love ,that everything is so different about you.
Is it wrong , do you think, to admit that, despite all of the drama, there is a part of me that actually feels good about this ?

 

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Autism Does Not Equal Sterility. Combating the cruelty and ignorance of the words of others.

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My son was returned home to me, pale and extremely subdued, after his weekend visit at his dads on Sunday afternoon.

 

I could tell instantly that something was very wrong, but when I asked him about it he just said that he wanted to go to his room.

 

So he after he’d been in his room for a while I went in to check on him.

 

iamsam3He was crying and watching the movie “I Am Sam” on his computer.

 

The movie “I Am Sam” has always made my son cry.

 

Yet he continuously watches it because just like Sam, he too dreams of becoming a father one day.

 

His desire to become a father and experience the joys of raising a child has always been on the top of my son’s wish list for as long as any of us can remember.

 

Even as a child, he’d continuously express his desire to hold and care for babies.

 

His little hands would always be awkwardly reaching out toward the nearest person smaller than himself.

 

Anyone who truly knows my son also can’t help but know this one very important fact about him.

 

Because of this, I am the first to admit that my son’s relationship to the movie “I Am Sam” is a complicated one.

 

He loves to watch it because although it upsets him, it also fills him with the hope that fatherhood for him need not be an impossible dream but instead can become a reachable reality.

 

He relates to this movie on such a deep level because it is the only movie of its kind that portrays an adult, especially a man with an intellectual disability, as being capable of genuinely caring for others, of having a sexual relationship with another special needs adult, and most importantly, of becoming a loving and devoted father despite his own personal circumstances.

 

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My son is clearly smart enough to know, that the story line contained within the movie, is not beyond the realm of possibility.

 

For this reason, he fears that one day, when he does become a father, there may be someone out there who will try to legally remove his baby from his care, as was done to Sam, by claiming that his status as an adult with special needs makes him an unfit parent.

 

Usually my son will watch the movie, cry and then come and seek reassurance from me that I will never, ever let anyone take away his baby when he has one.

 

This time however, he wouldn’t come out of his room and talk to me.

 

Despite my best efforts he chose to remain within the solitude of in his room all night.

 

This morning when he woke up, he looked even paler and refused to eat his breakfast.

 

Yet he insisted on going to College, as he’s just met a girl that he really likes and he said that he wanted to be near her.

 

Okay. So we get ready and we’re driving in the car when he suddenly breaks down again.

 

Only this time he’s not just silently crying the way he was in his bedroom the night before.

 

This time he’s physically dissolving into great heaving sobs of sadness as he sits in his seat right beside me.

 

I pull over and take him in my arms and ask him again what’s wrong.

 

It is only then that the awful truth finally comes tumbling, haltingly, out of his mouth and the cruel gravity of what’s been said to him whilst at his father’s house, hits me like a red-hot arrow straight to the heart.

 

408967_10150524201273318_535028317_9097053_1821249456_nOn Sunday, whilst they were alone, his father’s new wife took it upon herself to tell my son that he’d “never ever be able to have children of his own because he has Autism and his genetics are all wrong.”

 

He said she then told him to “stop talking about it because she was tired of hearing it and it’s never going to happen anyway so just get over it.”

 

Her words must have felt like bullets to him.

 

Delivered as they were in such an incredibly cold and cruel (and if I were a lesser person I’d also say a deliberately well calculated) way.

 

The impact they had had on him had quite literally cut into the very core of his being.

 

I kept my own sense of rage in check as I tried to calmly reassure him that ‘her’ words weren’t true.

 

Then I remembered that I had a letter from my son’s geneticist still in my bag from the week before. I grabbed it out and read the last line of it out to him……

 

“As we discussed in our previous visit, I look forward to seeing James again when he decides it’s time  for him to have children as there is no reason why his desire to become a father should not be realized.”

 

Fortunately for us, we had seen the Geneticist in November of last year and James had asked him whether or not he would be able to have children.

 

Though initially taken aback by the question, coming as it was from a 16-year-old with Autism and a chromosome deletion to boot, the geneticist answered my son by telling him that there was no reason why, with due care, he could not have children.

 

He also told him that the best way forward with having children would probably be to look at some form of IVF so that they can check any future embryo’s to see if they are carrying any chromosome deletions before implanting them.

 

The whole issue of IVF took quite a bit of explaining later at home, but I still remember the smile that almost split my son’s face  in two once the penny had dropped and the realization that he could truly become a father without causing any genetic harm to his baby finally hit home to him.

 

I tell you, never have I felt so pleased to have doggedly persisted in chasing down the necessary genetic screening tests for my son and never have I felt so relieved to have fallen down on my self-appointed task of judiciously filing away all of James important documents, as I did today.

 

My son sobbed some more as we sat there in our rain splattered car, then slowly, he lifted his head and warily glanced in the general direction of my face.

 

“You promise me I can have children?” he asked me.

 

‘Yes I promise’ I told him. ‘Look here it is in writing. In good old black and white. And you remember don’t you how happy you were when the geneticist said that you could have children?’

 

He nods and blows his nose. His tears slowly stop falling.

 

“So what she said isn’t true?” He asks one more time.

 

“No it’s not true. This,” I say waving the letter in my hand toward him, “this is true.”

 

“But she’s a nurse. She said she knows about this kind of thing”.

 

‘I don’t care what she is. She’s is wrong.”

 

Finally, as a parent, I had the ability to not only answer my son’s questions but to also defend his truths and validate the personal worth and integrity of his dreams against the erosion of harm and doubt that other people’s words of ignorance had caused him.

 

To prove it I hand him the letter.

 

He looks at it as if he’s reading it but I know there’s no way his vision is clear enough to read such small writing.

 

Never the less, he smiles.

 

Folds it up and asks if he can take it to College with him.

 

Normally I’d say no. Not till I’ve made a copy of it.

 

But today……?

 

Today I say….. Yes.

 

YES!

 

Because if nothing else, he needs a yes after enduring God knows how ever many hours of the cruelty of ignorance he’s forced to endure at his father’s house.

 

And as we all know, ignorance is the curse that those with Autism are far too often forced to deal with every day in our society.

 

The curse that follows you home and invades not just your outer space but your inner space as well. Silently shedding its doubts on all of your personal thoughts, your hopes and your dreams, long after the echoes of the words once spoken have disappeared.

 

Do Parents With Asperger Syndrome Parent Differently?

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An icon illustrating a parent and child

One thing I’ve been wondering a lot lately, is whether or not parents with Asperger’s Syndrome actually  parent any differently to Neuro-typical parents?

It may seem like a bit of a silly thing to even ask but considering that the question so often thrown around within the Autism community these days  is whether or not Neuro-typical parents can understand their non neuro-typical children, it strikes me as  rather odd that nobody’s actually thought to ask parents with AS how they feel about parenting and whether or not they think their own level of Autism (or non neuro-typical status) affects the way they parent or understand their neuro-typical children?

I strongly suspect that there are 2 very good reasons why no one has as yet asked the question:

1)  Because it would be blatantly politically incorrect to do so.

2) Because the answers aren’t cut and dried  in either direction.

I know from my own experiences that at times I’ve felt as if I have a greater affinity with my eldest son than some, but by no means all,  neuro-typical parents of children with autism, that I’ve met.

Given this I’m not at all sure whether  or not my affinity with my son is simply due to the fact that I share in some of his responses and reactions and so can therefore understand them, or whether this sense of affinity arises simply because as a parent, I’ve always tried to put myself in his shoes and view the world through his eyes.

Equally, I  know many fantastic neuro-typical parents who  are also always trying to see things from their child‘s perspective in order to help and better understand them.

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And I know that many Neuro-typical parents  feel as deeply connected to their Autism Angels as I do.

So you see,  I can’t say with any degree of certainty, whether or not being an AS parent  has necessarily    made me any more in tune with my son than I would otherwise have been if I weren’t an AS parent.

My daughter, on the other hand, is an entirely different story.

We clash at times as if we are diametrically opposed concepts.

Each heading directly at the other and and each holding no space for  the shades of gray in which other parents and children make their nests of  compromise out of the soft blanketing which enables peace.

Neither my daughter, nor I, are able to hold on to the comfort of intangibles.

Sometimes I think it’s  the fact that we are both  Aspie’s that leads us to being at logger heads with each other.

There simply are no shades of gray on her emotional radar. Ever!

And if I’m honest, on certain subjects, there are no shades of gray on mine either.

So because one of  us must always be right, the other must always be wrong.

But then, on the other hand,  I know that many NT parent’s go through similar stages of being at logger heads with their children, particularly their teenage daughters.

But that at the end of the day (and in the beginning and middle bits too) we parents are all the same. We all love the socks off our children. Teenage girls included.

This makes me wonder whether  our clashes  occur not just because we are so alike, but simply because she’s a teenager and I’m a parent.

In that case, no matter which parental universe  you are looking at it from, teenage girls and mother’s are always bound to be diametrically opposed and explosions are always going to be immanent. Neuro-typical or not.

Six Degrees of Autism: From Discover Magazine

So do I parent differently?

I don’t know.

I would love to hear your thoughts on parenting with AS.

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On Being Doctor Who’s Wife…..

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Doctor Who Experience

Yesterday my daughter stared at me for several seconds and then said rather thoughtfully……

“You know mum,………….. you look like you could be Dr Who’s wife.”

After hearing her words I looked down at my outfit and began silently ticking off a quick check list of similarities in my head.

¾ length coat. Check.

Long scarf. Check

Vest. Check.

Trousers. Check.

Hat. Check.

Yes, I thought, I do have to agree with my daughter on this one.

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I honestly hadn’t realized that I was dressing like either a fictional Time Lord or his wife.

Oh Well!!!!!

It seems  that my love of androgynous clothing often sees me swathed in outfits that could be interpreted as being somewhat reminiscent of the many incarnations of Dr Who’s characters. (Think Tom Baker and beyond.)

Yet funnily enough, I don’t think I’ve ever particularly dressed like anyone’s wife, let alone  Dr Who’s wife.

So given that there was nothing wifely what so ever about my outfit in and of itself, and that I haven’t been anyone’s wife for a more than half of my daughter’s lifetime, her reaction to my androgynous clothing left me wondering why my outfit, in her eyes at least, automatically cast me in the role of Dr Who’s wife instead of in the role of a Dr Who type person myself?

Did she cast me as Dr Who’s wife simply because I’m her mum and therefore she knows I’m female?

If so, does being female in her eyes at least, automatically equate to only being seen as holding the potential for becoming the wife of someone interesting instead of holding the potential of becoming someone interesting as a female herself?

Such troubling constructions of femininity are worrying me more and more as I watch my daughter enter into an adolescents where coolness is rated by the amount of “Selfies” (photos taken by oneself of oneself) that can be posted on Instagram or Facebook on any given day, and her personal self-esteem is to easily being measured by the number of “likes” such “Selfies” generate.

Sometimes it seems as if our young girls are becoming their own profitless pimps giving away images of their innocent selves so blithely to the digital world.

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And they are doing so all in the name of popularity.

So just when does this hideously artificial construct of femininity that states that girls should be seen and not heard, first start leaving its nasty little footprints all over the minds of our daughters and how on earth can we even begin to combat it when even androgyny must first be given a gender in order for it to be understood?

I can’t help but admit that some days (actually more days than not)  I wish that my daughter would take a leaf or two out of my own book and start wearing long coats and trousers instead of singlets and skirts.

I’d love to see her dressing like a cool teenage version of Dr Who herself.

Or even Captain Jack would do the trick.

Anything to get her out of this mindset that the only way to be an interesting female is to either wear half a ton of makeup and skimpy top or to marry a man who’s interesting enough for the both of them.

Any ideas???????

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Body Clocks and Brain Fog

by

Tackling Circadian Rhythm Disorders

Dear Body Clock,

Please try and understand that 3 Am is not an appropriate hour to finally let me fall asleep.

I’d much prefer 10pm, 10-30, 11pm or if that’s just too much for you to handle, I could see myself settling for 12 am at a push, if I really have too.

Seriously body clock, it’s time to give it up before I lose all sense of comprehension.

You see the milk doesn’t belong in oven, nor the car keys in the sink.

Clearly we simply cannot go on this way.

I can’t continue to let you lull me into drifting my days away on the sea of  hapless brain fog  that your fun and games are creating  for me.

It’s time to put the milk back in the fridge and the car keys back on the hook.

As school is returning in less than 2 weeks, and whilst I have greatly enjoyed relaxing into your unwholesome descent into island time, quite honestly, right about now, I need my sleeping life back.

So please body clock…… what do you say……how about tonight we give 10 o’clock a try?

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Holding our children’s hands

by

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This morning I brought you new shoes,

To go with your lovely new dress,

This afternoon I spent hours with you,

Curling your hair and doing your make up,

This evening I walked so proudly beside you,

As we entered your Leaver’s Dinner,

I let go of your hand at the door way,

And as I watched you form a distance,

Making your way through a throng of faces,

I realized that this is how as mother’s,

We all begin,

Ever so slowly,

To understand the changing shapes,

Of our children hands,

Tonight was one of those times,

I knew I’d been blessed to have been able,

To stand back,

To look and to recognize,

That your hands have indeed grown,

As has your heart,

As has your soul,

And at the end of the night,

When it came time to collect you,

I found that I struggled at first to pick you out,

From amidst the sea of teenagers surrounding you,

But then I saw the child within your face,

And in that moment I knew,

You,

And no matter how much you had grown,

When we made our way out to the car park,

It was still my hand,

That you chose to hold.

So I know now,

That no matter how big you grow,

You will never let go.

As I write this poem my thoughts and my heart go out to all the parents who will never be able to hold their children’s hands again or to watch on with love and pride as those children grow into lively teenagers along the way to becoming lovely young adults.  Tonight I know how truly fortunate I am to have had this moment in time with my daughter.

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