This is the first part of a two-part post on Firefly Community on the subject of blogging about disability. In this part I talk about the potential power bloggers have to effect social change:
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:
Like and follow The Odd Sock Diary’s Facebook page. It’s full of photos and other additional stuff like this:
Come on over and join us:
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:
It was Freddie’s birthday on Wednesday. The anniversary of the day he was first placed in my arms; of the day we were told he has Down’s Syndrome.
We gathered in the living room to watch him open his presents. I was so engrossed in watching his developing imaginative, or ‘pretend’ play skills, as he hatched the baby dinosaurs from his Playmobil set out of their eggs and made them squeak to the mummy dinosaur, that I lost track of time. Suddenly it was ten past eight and we haven’t even had breakfast; the school minibus comes for him just after half past.
You can’t rush Freddie. It takes a fair amount of energy and patience to coax him, step by step, through his morning routine. Though the time between getting up and waving him off on the bus is hectic, hand on heart I cannot say it is any more stressful than the one-and-a-half-hour commute to work I used to do when I lived down in that fancy London.
The easiest thing to do was to keep him off school. I have the luxury of being able to do that because I’m a stay-at-home mum. I’m not going to pretend that it’s harder than going out to work, because, for me, it isn’t – it was my choice, the life I wanted, warts and all.
My mother always advised me against having children as, she said, “there’s nothing for them in this world”. I don’t think she believed that, I suspect she just didn’t enjoy motherhood. I have friends who chose not to have children, but that is because they like a certain lifestyle that would not be possible with kids in tow. They do not dress that decision up as a selfless sacrifice made to spare any potential future child from a grim life in a hard, cruel world. They know they have a right to choose whether or not to bear children, and under what circumstances, and they take ownership of their decision, knowing that society questions childlessness by choice, and often condemns it as unnatural.
This week I have read two articles in which women have justified their recent decision to terminate a baby with Down’s Syndrome because “it was best for the baby”, in order to spare it from a life of constant pain and suffering. Down’s Syndrome does not cause constant pain and suffering, and, these days, in a developed nation, a little googling will soon bring that information to your attention. Now, those women do have a right to decide whether or not to bear children and under what circumstances, but let’s be honest about this, they made that decision in order to spare themselves from a life they didn’t want. Why shift the onus for their decision onto the faulty child for forcing them to make this ‘heartrending’ choice by being disabled? Own your decision, ladies. If you don’t want a child with Down’s Syndrome, or feel that you, personally, could not cope with one, say so. But don’t pretend you’ve done it to spare the child, because, in the case of Down’s* all you’ve done is spare them days like this:
In claiming that you ‘immersed your child in love as it died’ you insult the midwife who called me lucky, and sobbed over my child because her boy with Down’s had been stillborn. You insult all parents who have ever wrapped their born-sleeping child in the blanket they bought to take him home in, and gave one first-and-last -kiss that had to encompass a whole lifetime of love that’d they’d never get to give. Your cowardly lie insults every woman who has been honest about her reasons for terminating a pregnancy, and faced the judgement of others.
Nobody is suggesting s woman should be forced to bear a child she doesn’t want or can’t cope with, but lets not dress this up as an act of selfless love when, in the case of Down’s Syndrome, it clearly isn’t.
*Just to be clear, I am talking here only about Down’s Syndrome, and not about any other condition for which a woman might seek a termination, but about which I have no knowledge or experience.
Daddy has a new love. And it all happenend because of Facebook.
Daddy loves his cars. As I write this he’s sitting on the sofa next to me, berating the TV because the engine noise doesn’t match the car on the screen. It’s just sheer carelessness on the part of the programme-makers.
‘Everybody knows what a straight six sounds like’ (that would be everybody except me, then).
He used to drive an old Alfa Romeo, which was beautiful, but needed a major component replacing nearly every month. A mistress would’ve been cheaper to run. When Freddie came along, our immediate needs included both (a) a new house, and (b) a new car. He turned out to be the most expensive surprise 40th birthday present ever (I know Daddy said at my birthday party that he wanted to give me something really special, but I don’t think he was planning to spend quite that much). Anyway, instead of trading the Apha in for a mistress, he traded it for a people carrier that drove like a dented shopping trolley, and had all the build quality of a PoundLand umbrella. He wasn’t sorry when it got rear-ended in Wales – it was a complete write off – and to celebrate he bought a second-hand Jag.
He might as well have taken a mistress because he was absolutely smitten, infatuated, obsessed. He bought it presents, like a leather gaiter for the gear-stick, and gave it’s bodywork a rub-down every weekend. He joined a Facebook group for Jaguar owners, even though he hates Facebook. And that’s where he found out about the Jaguar Art of Performance Tour.
And that’s what brought them together.
Daddy and I don’t get a lot of time to ourselves, to be … whatever our names are … instead of just Mum and Dad. Babysitters are thin on the ground – our parents are getting on in years, Daddy’s brother and sister distance away, and our friends also have elderly parents as well as children, and other commitments, so we don’t like to ask. But by skiving off on a school day it means that my mum only has to endure Freddie’s onslaught for a couple of hours at most after home time, when some of his energy has been dissipated. Don’t get me wrong, Nan and Grandad love having him, but he is a little sod. Typical third child.
So, when Daddy spotted that the Art of Performance Tour was coming to Chalmondeley Castle, on a Friday, we jumped at the chance to spend some quality time together. Or rather , Daddy jumped at the chance of trying out the new F-Pace, and I went along for the free lunch, and a chance to sit in the front of the car a change, instead of in the back making sure Freddie doesn’t climb out of his seat. Once upon a time I might have suggested a detour through the woods on the way home, but those days are long gone, because, of course, the parents of disabled children can’t possibly do that sort of thing, everybody knows that ‘Special Needs mums’ are all dowdy sexless lumps who live in shabby houses that smell of pee (Irony Alert).
And Chalmondeley Castle is where they met.
He first caught a glimpse of her on the car park as we arrived, flaunting herself in venomous red, the slut. On reflection, booking ourselves onto the afternoon session was a mistake, because it meant we had eaten shortly before being bucketed around the section of the World Rally Championship course that runs through the Chalmondeley Estate, at speeds that wouldn’t be legal on the highway.The sedate ten-minute test drive we were expecting turned out to be a good hour’s drive on a route pre-programmed into the sat-nav. But the F-Pace that Daddy had been so excited about had suddenly lost its appeal; such was Daddy’s pre-occupation with the little madam he’d seen on the car park that he didn’t realise he wasn’t following the presecribed route until he spotted that the road signs had all ‘turned bisexual’ because we’d strayed over the border into Wales. He was anxious to get back to the estate, to grab the chance to get better aquainted before the event finished.
And he certainly did that, and he made me share the experience. Topless in November, she was ‘taut’. She ‘went like the clappers’, and ‘pulled like a train’, and when he properly got her going she rewarded him with the most arousing low,throaty, grunting noise. She was even better ‘in the flesh’ than he had been anticipating.
Because it turns out he knew all along that she was going to be there as well, and that’s why he wanted me to go with him, so that I could meet her too, and experience what it was about her that had caused him to rediscover passion: so that I would really understand his motivation. He wanted me to hear for myself the noise that got him so worked up. Oh, the cruelty! Obviously, there is no way I can ever compete.
We did take a detour on the way home, but only to the chip shop.