The vilification of bottle-feeding mothers really gets on my tits. So I wrote a thing that will no doubt get on a few others. All I ask is that you read to understand, not just to respond:
My latest post on Firefly is a recipe (yes, really) – and, for once, not one for disaster: Noodles For Knackered Mothers. Whoever let me loose in a kitchen?
Stoke-on Trent suffers from a bad press, but here at The Odd Sock Diary we are in the business of challenging negative stereotypes, so we are introducing Freddie to the culture and heritage of our home town – and we’d like you to join us.The Potteries Museum and Art Gallery has the biggest collection of fine ceramics in the U.K. – even better than the V&A. Mind you, they almost had one less – moments after this picture was taken, Freddie was in the display and all the alarms were going off. It’s a good job I’ve got nerves of steel and a brass neck! #thinkagain #sot2021
#proudtobestoke #culture #downsyndrome #post40blogger #SENblogger #mummyblogger
I’m on the Firefly Community Website today, considering why so many parents feel defensive when meeting with professionals:
We talk about ‘a woman’s right to choose’. Eight and a half years ago I exercised my ‘woman’s right to choose’ to the fullest extent. I chose to continue with my pregnancy knowing that my child would have Down’s Syndrome.
I am a rational adult. Given accurate and balanced information (that’s another story in itself) I am perfectly capable of evaluating the data and weighing up the pros and cons of any situation or argument. I made a conscious, rational choice in the full knowledge of what I was doing.
I made my choice knowing that I would not have to sacrifice my life, because nothing feels like a sacrifice when you have made the right choice.
I made my choice knowing that my son would not be a burden to me; he would be my child. Yes, I would have to look after him for longer, and he would always need more help than most, but he would bring me just as much joy, and love, and pride, as his brother and sister.
I made my choice in the knowledge that my son need not be a burden to you, the taxpayer, when he grows up (let’s face it, that’s what you mean when you talk about a burden on ‘the state’ or ‘the NHS’). We, his parents, are rational adults – we would plan ahead for his future, for when we are no longer here. I made my choice in the knowledge that my family also pays its share of tax (we don’t begrudge extra care to others who need more than we do, not even those who have smoked, drunk, or drugged themselves into an early decline – everyone has their frailties. And while we’re talking about cost to the state, let’s consider how few, if any, adults with Down’s Syndrome will end up in prison – it’s a valid point).
I made my choice aware that my life would not perfect: it never has been, but then, whose is? Life does not have to be perfect to be happy. When you make the choice that is right for you, it is much easier to find moments of contentment day-to-day: this is the root of happiness.
So, if you see me and my son hand-in-hand in the supermarket or at the park, please accept that this is what a ‘woman’s right to choose’ sometimes looks like.
Because a ‘choice’ where only one alternative is deemed acceptable, is no choice at all.