I'm so glad I'm not stupid.

I have had so many experiences, extraordinary ones, that I sometimes forget some of them, even though they may be so incredible that for many people they would be THE topic of conversation, THE dinner party tale, for me some of them have slithered so far back in the realms of 'I'll think about that later' that I only remember them when something triggers a memory.
I have had surgery, major surgery twice, both operations have resulted in massive complications, abscesses, open wounds, gaping, weeping holes and so many minor surgeries that I forget the number.
When Sophie was born, immediately she was born, I was stricken with the most excruciating pain I have ever known. In fact it began when I had Jordan and I remember crawling on his bedroom floor, when he was a few weeks old, feeling sure that whatever this pain was, it was killing me. It was horrific. Under my right ribs, in between my shoulder blades and it came in waves, like contractions, without the sweet baby at the end. Eventually it was decided that it was a gall bladder full of stones and surgery was the answer.
Suddenly the pain went....completely, how bizarre! Actually I was pregnant with Sophie and for the whole pregnancy I didn't have that pain once, hoorah!
SO when she was born it slammed back without warning and it didn't give me a break, it was so bad! The doctor came out to my house every night and injected me with Morphine, sweet, sweet morphine....my friend for 10 weeks.
I had the operation and came home, I went to have the stitches out 10 days later and we lived a miles or 3 from the Drs, the first one borrowed a car and dropped me at the Drs and said he would be back in 10 minutes. 2 hours later there was no sign of him so I tried ( and failed ) to walk home. A neighbour rescued me and took me home, the first one turned up another 2 hours later, seems the girlfriend I didn't know about yet was more important than me. Oh well.
I asked him if he would change the bedding for me, I had been in that bed for days and I hate stale bedding, I longed for fresh sheets and lovely clean pillowcases.
He said no.
Arse.
So, I did it myself.
Now, when I had my gall bladder out there wasn't the option of keyhole surgery, I got me a 10 inch wound from my ribs in the right to the other side of my body. Ouch.
I changed the sheets, I changed the pillow cases and then I changed the duvet cover ...as I picked it up to 'shake' the duvet down, I felt my insides 'pop' Uh oh.....the wound was closed and I climbed into bed, wept about how sad and uncared for the first one had made me feel and then I slept.
I woke at 10.30 that night and I felt ill, really really ill and when I looked at my poor wound, it was vivid red, swollen to the size of a grapefruit on the right side and it was very, very hot.
I called the first one and eventually he agreed to call the doctor even though it was a terrible inconvenience to him. ( shame)
The result was a very fast ambulance ride to the hospital and an operation, just after midnight, with NO anaesthetic. I had a nurse hold my feet, another one hold my shoulders and a doctor open the wound, scrape it out, pack it with 2 metres of gauze and someone stroking my face and telling me I was brave. I hummed really loudly as he did what he did because I truly felt that if I was quiet, I would die. Such was the pain and the fear.
I went home the next morning, with a hole that was 4 inches long and 10 cms deep ( how weird that it was inches long and cms deep! Funny the things that stick in your mind) It stayed open for 5 months, wept for 5 months and healed one week after I moved away from the first one and back to my family. Funny that.
In those months, the first one left, the boys were abducted, I moved house, gave Sophie to my mum for 5 months, got her back, cried more than any human being should ever cry and I learned a lot.
When Sophie was 3 or 4, I had a breast reduction, glorious wonderful reduction. Bye bye 38GG /HH boobs, hello little tiny ski slope bosoms, how I love you.
I came home from that operation and Dan came home, the kids had stayed with family and friends and Dan missed me, he was my shadow and always felt he should look after me so he came home so he could look after me, bless his heart, he was 8..what could he do?
My family all turned up, with friends and they brought a boob cake and drinks, they celebrated my beautiful new bazookers with me and all the while, I sat thinking how sick I felt, how hot and shaky and please go home people, I don't want a party!
Everyone went home, I put Dan to bed and I went to the toilet...as I sat down my left boob exploded...quickly followed by the right one. Through the layers of padding and elastoplast came more ooze and pus and blood than a boob should ever admit to. Oh dear.
Back to the hospital I went, and this time, thankfully under anaesthesia, the wounds were reopened, packed and left open.
There followed days or having 2 mini surgeries everyday, I became really great at the whole morphine, gas and air and getting through that torture every day. I learned exactly when it was OK for the Dr to start cutting and scraping, the nurses would fight for the chance to assist because, apparently, I was better than a circus act, when I hit a certain point, where I had the gas and air just right and the morphine had kicked in, I would raise my hand ( the sign for Dr
Mc Scrapeitout to begin) and then, I am told, I would start laughing, a loud, infectious, belly rocking guffaw that would last as long as I had that mask in my grip and the mouthpiece in between my teeth. They could do what the liked and I laughed, they cut and poked, packed and irrigated and I would laugh.
All the Drs and every one of the nurses knew that I knew what I was doing, they waited for that hand in the air before they began and I almost looked forward to our twice daily drug induced raves.
One day, a week after the wounds had popped, I was told that the dressing would be changed by the registrar because the consultant was on his way and he wanted to see the wound, check it's progress.
When the time came, they pulled the curtains around the bed ( rather than wheel me to the treatment room) the registrar came and he gave me a shot of morphine....I told him that I needed 10 minutes for that to start working, he said we didn't have 10 minutes. The nurse brought the canister of gas and air and explained that I was a pro, that all he had to do was watch my hand, when I lifted it, he could begin and all would be well, in fact I even heard her say " you'll enjoy it..she is extremely funny, it's the highlight of our day"
He replied that HE was the expert and HE knew what he was doing and didn't need anyone to show him how to do it, or tell him when to do it. I heard all this because the silver film hadn't descended yet, I was still very awake, I was breathing and gulping and was round about the stage where I felt sick and was totally aware of what was happening but not able to make any sense.
And then he began.
Dear Lord and that was what I prayed for 40 minutes, while I gasped for breath, trying to gulp enough of that magical gas to take this pain away. I SCREAMED at the top of my lungs...and I am told what came out was a pathetic whimper and the occasional " oh dear God" I felt sure I was kicking out and trying to punch that sadistic barsteward. I felt every single second of red hot agony as he stuck scalpels in my poor wounds, the terror was indescribable and it seemed as though it would never end. Suddenly, just as the pain was so intense I prayed to die, I was somewhere else. I was at the beach and it was so peaceful, I rode waves, I went out on the wave and came back on the wave, I took such deep breaths of cool air and I was so relieve to be away from that pain but what was that noise? Who IS that screaming? Who is shattering this blissful silence...someone shut her UP!
It was over, at last, someone took the mouthpiece away and whispered ( I am so sorry, he wouldn't listen) I came out of the fog to see that smarmy faced git of a man, I grabbed his arm and hissed with every ounce of menace I could manage " you hurt me...you ever touch me again and I will hurt you back...don't you ever come near me again!"
When the curtains opened I saw the other 3 women in my little room of 4 beds, wiping tears away and taking deep breaths. They said they could hear my pathetic whimpers and hear that man telling me to be quiet and let him get on with his work. I told them I had been screaming and swearing at him, that I thought I Was punching him and kicking him, the nurse said I hadn't moved but the whimpering was heart rending and everyone knew that he was hurting because he had literally ripped the wound open with his hands and dug around with his fingers and then the scalpel.
It is his luck I suppose that everything that was going on at the time took precedence over suing his mean self for everything I could take. I was so beaten down by the first one at the time, who had spent 3 years by this time telling me I deserved everything I got and was wasting my time because no amount of surgery was ever going to make me worth looking at...I was rotten to the core, how's a bit of plastic surgery going to help that? I believed him then and the fact that everything had gone so horribly wrong proved it..didn't it?
Of all the things I have learned in my life, learning that he is a stupid, nothing of a man who will die stupid, is the best thing ever.
I learned, though it took me years, that he is so insignificant as to not make a mark on anything or anyone no matter how he tries, everything he does fizzles out, everything he tries leaves him feeling dissatisfied. He has 4 children and none of them have an ounce of respect for him. He still has nothing, still enjoys the fruits of other's labours, is still searching frantically for what I have had all along.
I learned all that one night, I woke up, who knows why and one thing after another came back to me, every mean thing he ever did, every twisted thing he ever said I remembered and after every recollection, I puked the misery away. All those things I had listened to, believed, felt, cried over came back in that one night and I have never vomited so much in one day in my life....and when I was done. I was done.
I woke up the next day feeling the way I do now. With a complete and utter surety that it is HE who has the problems and that everything he had done and said was an effort to make himself feel better, bigger, more important.
How sad that there are people in this life that never learn that the only way to feel good, is to BE good, the only way to feel important is to do important things, the only way to be truly happy is to make others happy, to love and serve each other. Do unto others etc etc.
I am so glad I'm not stupid.

Tears before bedtime.

Today was a dreadful day. The last day of the school holidays, sun was shining, I got up and thought that we should make the most of the day and take the boys out.
Dressed and ready for an adventure, we left in the car and headed out for the day, Seth complained all the way about how long it was taking and where were we going, he is like chinese torture on most days if he isn't in control.
We arrived in beautiful Brixham, where there is a for real pirate ship, parking was hard to find and we ended up in a car park 15 minutes from the town centre, by the time we reached the harbour, I was ready to throw all 3 of them in and feed them to the seagulls and crabs....I am at a loss as to why these boys behave so poorly, I sometimes wonder if maybe I am too hard and expect too much, if I nag or say no too often. Last time we went out I was feeling as though I made a mistake using such nice names as Seth, Isaac and Eli and should have gone with OI! YOU! and RIGHT! Just as I was at my wits end and thinking that the sound of my voice must be grating on every other beach go-ers nerves, a lady sitting next to us said " You are SO patient!"
I was flabbergasted, PATIENT?? How so...well it would seem that most of my ranting and screaming is done inside my head, and in reality I don't actually say out loud things like " So help me if you little shites don't start behaving like human beings, I am going to tear you limb from limb and buy a kitten!" I say things like " Stop what you are doing and think please, do you suppose this lady likes having sand thrown in her face?"
Instead of " OI! Pack it in you little buggers!!"
I say " Listen, if you do that again, and know that this is the last time I will say this, we are going home"
Who'd have thought?
Well, today was one of those days and I do know that on our way into the town center I did lower my voice a few times and warn, with as much meaning as I could muster, that bad behaviour would not be tolerated. For all the good it did me or anyone else in Brixham. ( and that would be NO good, at all, not an ounce, none at all, just so you know.)
They had crisps and a chocolate chip cookie, I had a chicken sub from subway ( oh so delicious, sweet onion sauce and low fat at that!) As we sat and ate, a family walked past with a little boy in a wheelchair, he was terribly disabled and hunched over, his tongue was protruding and he was on the receiving end of many stares. As he got level with us, Seth pointed and said, very loudly
"What was THAT?"










Yes. He did... and then Isaac laughed.




I froze for a millisecond and then I made them cry, I made them cry again when we got home and I made them cry again when I told H what had happened. I wish I had had the presence of mind to run after the family, to talk to them and ask them about their boy, to ask what he loved and what his name was and then to ask them in front of the boys if heir son had ever said or done anything in his whole life to make another person cry. Had he ever done anything to another human being that resulted in them, as parents, being so ashamed that they cried?
I would lay money on what the reply would have been.
I made them aware that this boy was some one's precious son, that he was loved and perfect that what they had said and done today would stay with that family for a long time, that their day out had been spoiled by their thoughtless actions and words.
I pointed out that we have disabilities in our family, that we have known how sad it is to have people point and laugh.
Then we went home, without my speaking to them again, at all.
We drove home and I told them that it will be a good while before I feel like taking them anywhere again. I think they got it.
It's hard to know what Seth gets as far as feelings go. He cried more than the others but I'm not sure if it was shame or just the fact that I wouldn't let it drop.
When we got home, I showed him a video that DID get a message across because it is about basketball, which always hits home. When they had watched the video ( thanks Marilyn for emailing it to me) I explained that no matter what someone looks like, what they are ale or unable to do, whether they can speak, hear, see , walk, play. There is not a person born that is not worthy of being loved and given the respect they are due.



I have cried a lot today, I just pray that these boys have learned a good lesson, that it wasn't all for nothing.

Feelings......

There are times, when living with Apergers syndrome is exhausting. Married to it, mother to it, daughter to it, you think I would be pretty much on the ball and 'get it' by now. For the most part I do, I really understand H's inability to understand emotion, Isaac's inability to speak to people, Seth's inability to accept that there are indeed opinions that differ to his ( What? How so!) My dad's dislike of hugging and demonstrative shows of affection were touching to me and ignored.
I have adapted remarkably well to my bizarre life and we muddle along quite pleasantly,usually.
Of late, Seth's attitude has become increasingly irritating to me, he has always been way ahead of the game and so at 7, he is ( to himself) an adolescent, he behaves as though puberty is behind him and speaks as though, just like a real teenager, he knows it all.
*yawn*
I have tried various methods of explaining to him that he is 7, he is a CHILD and as such there will be times when he is going to have to obey instructions that he neither likes or even understands. I have failed miserably. Lately I find myself sinking into a pit of apathy, I feel my weary head switch off as it tells me that it is tired of smashing itself against the unrelenting brick wall and oh, please just ignore him, let him whitter on and on and try to make stupid me understand why HE IS RIGHT! The mother in me panics and says " SOPHIE......He will be another SOPHIE, You are doing it again and you will have to face all that again but this time you will be OLD and he is SO smart and you will be TOAST! Stop it now.....do it NOW, save yourself and HIM."
So we try again and sometimes we get somewhere and sometimes, we don't.
Today is H's birthday, tomorrow is Isaac's birthday ( I am so booooooorrrrrrrrrreed with the birthdays will they be over soon, will they?) As always money is tight and H, bless his heart could care less about birthdays and so we can ( and do, yes we do) skip the presents and the boys make lovely cards that he actually opens because they are made, if I were to buy cards, I would find them in the unopened envelope behind the sofa, weeks later ( because I don't move the sofa every day and sweep, this post will be full of confessions, you may take notes and hate me for them later, there's a doozy coming really soon) I stopped buying him cards, I fought for a long time and gave up, he doesn't like cards unless they are homemade and poorly spelled.
He loves a good dinner and a splendid dessert ( rib eye steak, garlic mushrooms, salad and trifle for dessert, Happy birthday, all was perfect)
Isaac is 7 tomorrow, sunday, which could pose a problem because we don't do so many things on sunday and we do do some other things like go to church.
So we decided that the Isaac fun would be today. He could choose what we do. He wanted to go to a local pizza cafe for lunch, aha! thought I, if daddy takes him, we kill 2 birds, or even 3, with one stone, cheaper than everyone going, special because the boy gets a one on one with daddy and daddy gets to have a treat on his birthday too.
Great plan except Isaac, while no-one was looking made himself and then ate a pile of Peanut butter and jelly on toast....at 11am.
I am doing the best job at stretching this out, could be a long blog post, to make up for the days I have fudged by with pictures and youtube clips.
Back to the drawing board, I know, bother the rain ( relentless and beginning to feel personal, shall be taking affront any day now) why don't we tale all 3 boys to a brand new indoor play place. Cages of safe play climbing stuff and a table for mummy to sit and read and not have to clean up later, splendid.
Off we went, leaving daddy to have a whole afternoon of Olympics and a nap and whatever he chose.
I took snacks, we bought fries, bought a jug of juice and all was well.
They played long and hard....really really hard.


Yes, that hard.

Isaac and Eli would come over every now and then and refuel. Seth..no chance, food and drink to Seth are an aside, when all else is done, he eats what he needs to get through the next bout and off he goes again, he isn't about to interrupt the important stuff, like dodge ball with big kids in a cage with a real ball for something to feeble as food.



We stayed 4 hours and were thrilled when we saw that Gemma was there with cousins Sam and Joey and Jamie, who is 15 months and so wicked you could eat him on toast.


Jamie don't play with the babies, he has big brothers and he would escape the baby enclosure and make a bid for freedom every 3 minutes ( making me so happy to have huge big boys of 5, 6 and 7) Gemma would drag him back and put him with the toddlers in the safe bit and he would scale the wall and dash for fun again...at one time he was in the big boys basketball spot, right next to the front door and I swear he stood, face pushed against the netting, chewing at the net like a hamster trying to eat its way out of its cage!
Anyway, after 4 hours it was time to come home, Isaac was ready, Eli was ready and Seth started. He was hungry, well he did n't EAT any of the snacks or fries of treats and so NOW was the time to buy him some, now...right NOW. He didn't want to put his shoes on, he didn't care if it was raining ..SO?? SO?? Why should he put his shoes on, is he a girl? IS HE?
Well, all this was taking a long time, in a crowded place, that was hot and humid, after 4 hours of being there, after 4 hours of sleep.......on and on he want while I tried to reason with him, by now, well we were outside and it was REALLY raining and he still had no shoes on and still, yes still he was trying to get me to answer him. And I did. Indeed.
For that fleeting moment I forgot that he i s a 7 year old, he made me feel as mad as I could possibly feel and I do this thing where I shut up, I bite my tongue, I breathe deeply, I count to 300, I hum in my head and then.....well sometimes the devil makes me do it.
" Well..AM I A GIRL?"
"No, you are an idiot"
Yes, I said it and not in my head. To the 7 year old, right as a happy family with nice children and a patient mother walked past.
Oh bloody hell.
We drove home ( after he had asked me if MY mother would EVER have called ME such a thing and I had told him of course not because I would never have been so rude to MY mother etc etc)
I dropped him off with H because darned if I was taking him to buy dinner.
All the way around Asda ( whose manager called today to offer Sophie a JOB a real JOB and we aren't even thinking about what she is going to say about the Lime green uniform of a non flattering nature because its a JOB and she will have MONEY and she will even have to give ME some ! ) I was burning with shame and imagining how on parenting boards all over England people will hear about this mother with the sweet pixie little boy who was so CUTE and just walking beside her and she called him an IDIOT..for REAL, what would YOU have done? Would you have stopped her and told her how she was damaging that poor little soul for life?
I imagined how he was probably sitting in a dejected heap at home, in the hallway or even in the outside toilet, heart torn asunder because his mother....you get the picture. Anyway I knew what I had to do and I could turn it around and use it as a learning tool.
When I got home and found him on the sofa, with a plate stacked with all manner of delicious things, watching the Olympics ( anyone have a bent fork I can poke my eyes out with?) I asked him if I had hurt his feelings when I called him such a mean name.
The look on his face said it all.
What.are.feelings?
That's the root of it all. HE doesn't get feelings at all, when he does what he does, he is, in his eyes, trying to make me understand how things are, see it all HIS way because that is the ONLY way. There is nothing personal in it, he isn't trying to crush me, he doesn't get any of that. He is right.....he thinks it is his job to make me see that and he has no idea of the right way to put his opinions across.
What a huge task.
I have no idea where to begin to teach this boy that there are ways and means and it DOES matter how you speak to people, it does matter that in life, we must think of others and accept that there are times that we will have to do things we don't like, we cannot have it all our own way. For now we will be spending more time together, his world revolves around H, they discuss everything, they are one and the same mind....he is very rarely disrespectful to H because he sees him as important and worthy. Somehow I have to get him to see me as more than the maid who strokes his head at night time.
Small steps and huge prayers.

Not always the way it seems.

So, the great news is that we have the house, pretty much for certain. Sally the lovely agent was good to her word and she called to say that all our paperwork came back great and as long as the landlord hasn't changed his mind, it's ours 28th Jan, just over 2 weeks. New home.

The less great news is that because I didn't listen to my mum ( and you know we should unless they are stupid and not real mums) we made one mistake that has pretty much ensured we can't sue the slumlord, I mean landlady. She wins. For about 3 seconds.
We will lose that £750, which means we are about £400 down on the money we need to move into the new house. I think I may have sold the trampoline which brings it down by £100.
We will have to struggle and worry and be a bit poor for about a month. Then we are done. New house, new HOME, new start, new landlord, new beginnings.
We will have a clear heart and a fresh page.
Landlady will have £750 of our money, just once more. Then? Well then she has another empty home, another unpaid mortgage. Another house that no-one will want because she hasn't taken care of it.
I felt unmentionable rage for about 15 minutes when I discovered that if we proceed with court action, it will mean as much trouble and misery for us, as her. Life sometimes just isn't fair and for that short time I honestly could have pummeled her face if I had been anywhere near it.
Then, well something took over. Upbringing. Teachings and examples and lessons about integrity. About how money is great as long as it lasts and as long as it is used to the good. As long as it has it's place and doesn't become too high on your list of important things, money is just great.
What money isn't worth is losing your good name, your self esteem or your dignity.
The feelings of resentment and anger were making me miserable, now I feel better.
Landlady is much more worried than I am. She has lost more than I have. She has less than I have. She has, because of greed, slid into a huge hole and every time she scrabbles to get out, more dirt falls on her. She is grabbing at people to try and stay above ground and momentarily she hurts us as her nails dig in..then she falls a bit further and she has to let go. Until she learns that to get on in life you have to treat people well, you have to have integrity.
When we are in our new home, paying less rent, saving money on utilities and petrol, when we are back in the very area that made us feel so safe and content, she will be worrying about how she will cover the costs of another empty home, another house that she owns that is rotting and losing value.
In the summer when we are enjoying the sunshine and our new life, she will watching several gardens become overgrown and more unmanageable.
She is not to be envied, not at all, for the price of £750 she lost another family that could have helped her.
All my life I have been taught about forgiveness, about letting go of resentment and how important that is. Today I learned it for myself because I really DID let go. I stopped caring about what will happen to her, what I can do to make her sorry, how I can make her pay for all she has put me through. It feels great, like getting out into the fresh air after being stuck in a stuffy room.
The whole time I was angry at her...she didn't know, it wasn't hurting her at all. It was eating ME up inside.
Also I learned that we have responsibility here too. We should have said No.
No to leaving the barn.
Absolutely NO to living here.
NO to doing repairs ourselves.
NO to cleaning other peoples' mess.
No to ANYTHING that wasn't signed, sealed and above board.
Just stick with the tenancy agreement, do what it says on the paper and say NO to anything else. If it seems too good to be true, it probably is.