I’m going to say this very quietly, otherwise I may come under a hail of heavy missiles from my fellow parents …
We didn’t get up until ten o’clock this morning.
We (that is, Daddy and me) went to a wedding reception last night, leaving Freddie in the care of his big brother and sister, who are almost 21 and 18 respectively. They are both perfectly capable, and legally old enough, to look after him, and he is happy and confident in their care. In fact, big sister got him tucked up in bed and asleep before we left the house. We had a very pleasant evening; I danced for a whole ten minutes before my knees began to complain (with somebody young enough to be my son, but unfortunately Daddy didn’t notice – he was too busy with his duties as an elder, advising the Groom that he must now knock out a couple of kids as soon as possible, because to carry on living a carefree existence now that he has joined the ranks of married men simply wouldn’t be fair to all the others). We got home just after eleven, bearing milk and bread we had picked up on the way back (marital responsibility is never really very far away).
Freddie woke up at about 7.30. this morning. I made sure his stool and toilet seat were in place, fetched him a drink while he went to the loo, then got back into bed. He came in for a snuggle, and then amused himself quite happily while we snoozed (whether or not we will be happy with the way he chose to amuse himself remains to be seen, however — we’ve come down to find faces drawn on lampshades before …)
In our house we are close to declaring Christmas a Festival of Hibernation. Daddy usually has the whole week off work, but you won’t find us taking rictus-grinned selfies of ourselves engaging in regulation ‘Quality Family Time’, festively hurling missiles of compacted ice at each other in the local park (though it is much more tempting to visit when you can’t see the dog poo for the snow): or savouring the luxury of a crowded restaurant where your drinks come diluted with waitresses’ tears, because the kitchens can’t get the orders out fast enough: or enjoying the pay-through-the-nose priviledge of listening to a hundred or so other kids screaming and tantrumming at the Panto, while Freddie looks on, clearly mystified, perhaps wondering in his head if that’s how people are supposed to behave when they’re in a theatre. I know, I know, you shouldn’t complain about other people’s children, after all, kids will be kids, and they’re only young, and so on … unless it’s obvious that your child has a disability of some kind: then everyone and anyone has the perfect right to complain about your child, loudly, in your hearing, or even in your face, apparently. I say ‘apparently’ because I know many, many parents who have experienced this, but I never have myself. This is not because I am especially competant or especially blessed in some way, but more likely because I have been cursed with a case of Resting Bitch Face so bad it would make Medusa jealous. Nobody who didn’t have an active death-wish would bloody dare. Maybe this face is a blessing after all.
It’s not that we can’t go out and enjoy Quality Family Time, but because, at this time of year, we can’t be arsed. We really do just nestle down in the house for a whole week, enjoying the comforts of soft pyjamas, fleecy blankets, hot chocolate, films, books, and FOOD. I wish we could do that right through till March, to be honest. I’m sure I have evolved from some sort of hibernating species.
Actually, there was a small flurry of fully-dressed activity on Boxing Day (was that Tuesday?). Daddy put on his DIY clothes and built a Lego Triceratops with Freddie (well, you can never be quite sure how these things are going to turn out – even the most innocuous craft-type activity with children can easily result in the need to repaint walls). Lego seems to be very good for promoting the development of fine motor skills and concentration. In my day, though, we didn’t have all these fancy sets designed to build something specific, you just got a big tub of assorted components that required you to use your imagination to decide what you wanted to build. And, very often, even more imagination to see the resemblence of the finished model to the thing you intended it to be. I love Lego. there’s bound to be someone out there with an objection to Lego, but I love it. I think we should do more Lego with Freddie, especially through the winter months: living just a couple of miles away from an area knkwn as ‘The Marsh’ it’s unlikely that we’ll be able to use the basketball set before May, although I could probably run a profitable side-line in illicit mud-wrestling contests — you know, like underground bare-knuckle fights, but with swimwear and no skull fractures. I’m sure my neighbours wouldn’t object (especially if I gave them a discount).
This Christmas has been marked by a noticeable absence of plastic tat. Freddie has received mostly books (non-fiction, about animals), Lego (plastic, but not tat), and die-cast vehicles (also not tat, Cars 3 merchandise – therefore mainstream-interest, and yes, he has seen the film, at the cinema, with other kids). I stand by my unconventional choice of lamb for Christmas dinner, because all the leftovers have been eaten – very finely chopped the remaining meat made a tasty Shepherd’s Pie, something Freddie will eat till the cows come home (but obviously not till the sheep come home, because they’re not going to be coming home, are they…)
I know what you’re thinking: this is supposed to be a blog about Down’s Syndrome, and I haven’t mentioned it once.
That’s how little it has impacted on our day-to-day lives this Christmas. It’s true he has been on antibiotics for a skin infection, to which he is prone: but this is a far cry away from the promises the doctors made when he was born – that we would spend every Christmas at his bedside in hospital while he battled dire chest infections. Touch wood, he hasn’t yet been an inpatient since he was six weeks old. We’ve had only one major outbreak of stubborn non-compliance, when I forgot to warn him in advance that half-way through the morning he would have to stop playing, put on his coat and get in the car so Daddy could drop me off at the dentist, but that was my own fault for not following procedure.
Oh, and I was inordinately pleased to see actor Daniel Laurie appearing again in Call The Midwife on Christmas Day.
Footnote: a few days before Christmas my daughter announced that she had read that Brussels Sprouts are now being selectively bred to taste sweeter. This is not good. I like the distictive taste of sprouts, the fact that if you put a sprout in your mouth blindfold, you will know without question that it is a sprout and not anything else. Why should everything be made to taste sweet? Why do some people want the world to be forced into some endless parade of bland, homogenised conformity?