Diary…Disabled Dad » :.Puzz1ed P1ace.:

28th February 2008

Learning a new language

This entry is part 0 of in the series, Diary…Disabled Dad.

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8th June 2007

Missing the point?

This entry is part 0 of in the series, Diary…Disabled Dad.

I know FMS isn’t easy to understand or explain, but sometimes people’s reaction and responses to things are quite amusing in a pain-inducing ironic kind of way.

Take yesterday for example. We went to Tits ‘n’ Tots at the local church, and the minister happened to be coming out as we were going in. We had a brief chat about how I was and ‘what was it again that was wrong?’. She commented on how good it was that I was walking, as the last time she saw me I was in my wheelchair. I’m all for positive thinking – it’s all that keeps me going some days – so I smiled and said yes. Really wished afterwards that I’d been a bit more honest, and explained that I was walking because the short walk from the car to the hall is just about managable provided I don’t stand in the car park for five minutes talking whilst holding baby, and that I actually have no choice but to walk since they do not have disabled access (or parking grrrr….) and I can’t life myself and the chair up the steps and over the irritating ledge of the door.

Needless to say, having stood and had our brief conversation I was in great pain and utterly exhausted. It was a great relief, then, to have a friend offer to look after Samuel for the afternoon. He had a wonderful time and I had a much needed rest. Much needed not only because of the exhaustion of the morning and lack of sleep, but because had I not had that rest then I would have probably keeled over whilst standing in their garden for 20 minutes that evening having said thanks and goodbye while waiting for the newly resumed conversation to end.

I think I need to sit in front of my lightbox for an hour or ten before I’m mistaken for Victor Meldrew…

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25th February 2007

She’s leaving me :(

This entry is part 0 of in the series, Diary…Disabled Dad.

After three years of marriage she’s leaving me. It’s all come as a bit of a shock but I guess really I should have expected it. There’s been talk of it before, but thankfully it never happened. This time it looks different though. I’m slowly coming to terms with it, and trying to look positively at just how Samuel and I are gonna cope without her here. For a whole 48 hours.

It must have been a tough choice though. Stay here with SJ and me and the leftover kids, or go to an activity centre for 3 days with most of the year group. Hmmm… Either way, sleepless nights and long tiring days are almost guaranteed. I’m not sure which is harder to look after though: us or 60 nine year olds.

Joking apart I must confess to being a little anxious about it. I’m sure we’ll manage fine, but it will be strange. Last year the other teachers went so we weren’t seperated with a newborn, but this year that excuse doesn’t work. I guess if we’d thought it through then we could have done something about it 9-10 months ago but that may have led to other problems.

We all went to look at the centre to get an idea of what space there was and what activities could be done. SJ loved it – lots of space, large lake, other kids playing football. Could have left him there for ages.

Of course, that’s always one of the biggest fears on trips like this. Losing a child. Confession time: I’ve done it! Not something I talk about much, but I managed to lose a child once in a Churchyard. Thankfully only for a few minutes: I realised he was missing by the bottom of the road, but he had no idea we’d all left. He was ok and (perhaps more importantly) so were his parents. Phew!

Reminds me of a story I heard about a Sunday School outing to the sea almost twenty years ago. There were 17 children and the required number of adults, carefully calculated by dividing the height of the tallest child by the average windspeed, or whatever the formula was back then. Being a diligent (or paranoid) Sunday School leadership, the children were counted frequently throughout the day. Every time there were 17. They had a fantastic day, no problems, no lost or drowned children, and at the of the afternoon it was time to get the train home. As ever the children were counted onto the train. As ever there were 17. They took their seats and chattered the whole way home. Just to be sure, once again, the children were counted off the train. Eighteen. In fact, it turned out there had been eighteen most of the day. A young lad had joined the group and followed them around for most of the day. I’m reliably informed that the Police reunited him with his anxious family swiftly and they all lived happily ever after.

Suddenly the thought of being on my own with SJ for 48 hours is quite appealing. It certainly seems that I’ve got the easier few days!

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18th February 2007

Shape sorter shape sorter

This entry is part 0 of in the series, Diary…Disabled Dad.

Anyone want a shape sorter? SJ never had one before his birthday, but Brad bought him a wonderful one. So did Linda. And Lilly. And…

Now that the wrapping paper is all cleared away and the holiday washing washed we’ve managed to work out that he has in fact got five shape sorters. Amazingly each one is different. One is a truck, and if you push hard enough on the driver’s head the truck shudders and chugs along. Please don’t try this if you see an Eddie Stobart driver in a service station. One is a cube that has a shape sorter on one side, a maze on another, some strange halluciogenic hollographic disc on a third, and other things that I’ve not managed to make sense of as yet. Then there’s the bus with a piano on the roof, and the one that I fell over yesterday and kicked under the sofa.

I’m sure there is a positive side to having such a rich veriety of shape sorters. When SJ’s older we can use them to teach how each of us is different, or some other important lesson. Until then, though, we’ll enjoy the rich variety of sorters for what they are. A damned nuisance.

For just as each sorter is different, so too is each shape. Yes, yes, I know that’s the point. Children learn that the square thing goes in the square hole and all that jazz. My problem is that the square thing from the bus won’t fit in the square hole on the truck. I hope you get

the picture, for to list all the shape/block/hole combinations would almost definately result in life-long problems in the shape of RSI.

Should any toy manufacturers be reading this, until such time as the beloved European Union standardises shape sorter shapes and sizes – as I’m sure one day they will – my plea, for the sake of my sanity, is thus: please can we have a shape sorter shape sorter.

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4th February 2007

Where’s it gone?

This entry is part 0 of in the series, Diary…Disabled Dad.

No, I’ve not lost my wallet again, and SJ’s not hidden the phone… for a change. I’m referring to the past twelve months or, to be more grammatically correct as that would require the title to say ‘where’ve they gone’, the past year.

This time last year I was about to give birth. Well, my wife was really, but I don’t want to sideline myself in the first diary entry: I’ve got the rest of society to do that for me.

Life was fairly normal back then. She worked, I worked, and we spent time together too. I vaguely remember places called ‘cinema’ and ‘pub’ though quite what they are seems to escape me now. We’d recovered from Christmas – it was spent moving house – and were all ready for the big day. Any day now… maybe…

One of the worst things you can do to a perfectionist and control-freak is make them wait for something without telling them exactly when it will be. You’d think after nine months of waiting she’d be used to it, but apparently not.

Here we are waiting again. Well, I am at least. Anytime now SJ will wake up and ask for milk in his usual eardrum-shattering way. We were told at ante-natal classes that there are two ways to bring labour on. One is curry but the midwife was too embarrassed to tell us what the other way is. She just said we’d all done it before. Similarly there are two ways to bring on the cries for milk. One is to make so much noise that everyone in a half-mile radius is woken up (anything quieter will not wake this baby). The other is to turn off the laptop, switch off the light and settle into bed. Guaranteed. Of course there is a very slim chance that he won’t wake for milk. Maybe after his three birthday parties this afternoon he’ll just sleep all night. Three parties! I think I’ve only had that many in my 32 years, yet alone in one day. Still, he loved every minute of it and kept going all afternoon without getting too grouchy. Until about 5.30 when he just got up, walked to his bedroom and waited for us to put him to bed. If only every night was like that.

It is quite alarming how quickly the last year has gone though, and how much has changed. A year ago it was just the two of us. Well, sort of. A year ago we both worked, I could get about without using a wheelchair and didn’t rattle from taking numerous tablets in the vain hope some of them might help me get through each day. The washing machine was used a couple of times each week rather than a couple of times every day, and we played playstation rather than ‘name the stain on the carpet’. A year ago the house was tidy, everything was packed and ready just in case, and we were waiting. Now? The phone’s in the bath, I’ve lost my wallet as well as my marbles, the house is a mess, but the waiting’s over. We’ve got a fantastic baby boy…. who wants his milk.

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1st February 2007

Diary of a Disabled Dad – a brief Introduction

This entry is part 0 of in the series, Diary…Disabled Dad.

Welcome. Pull up a chair, pour yourself a coffee (or a glass of wine if you prefer) and enjoy this little window into my world. Why is it being written? Well, why not?! There are numberous accounts in magazines and online about mums and their experiences, but what about us Dads, eh? Let alone disabled ones. OK, so my disabilities are quite mild compared to some people, but they affect our lives nonetheless.

Who knows, maybe one day a parenting magazine or publisher may want to share the lonely ramblings of a Stay-at-home-Dad with the wider world and I’ll make my fortune and acquire some fame. But, back in the real world…. no one takes any notice of me now as it is – either cos I’m a bloke, or I use a wheelchair, or something – so why should this be any different?

That’s not what it’s all about though. If this ‘diary’ helps shed some insight into the life of a Stay-At-Home-Dad; facilitaties reflection on attitudes towards disbility, parenting, and family life; or even just causes a wry smile to be shared, then it has done what it needed to do.

So, drink in hand, this is our diary…

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