Tied to the apron strings? I think not!

Last weekend my daughter went on Brownie Camp. This was her first time away with friends, rather than staying with grandparents or for a sleepover. Her mother (that is, me!) was all fretful and concerned.

She bounced into the place they were staying and squeaked and squealed with excitement over her bed, the drawer and shelf she could put things on. (She does have these things at home as well!) She was delighted to be sharing with some older girls and another girl in her year. She rushed around, finding out about the facilities and showing the girls who arrived just moments later what there was available.

I decided to leave after she ran past me at great speed shouting, "Bye mum!" with barely a glance. I know when I'm not needed!

Being mum, I did spend much of the peaceful weekend without her worrying. Was she okay? Did she talk with friends? Would she manage to keep up with the other girls? Would she be laughed at, teased, ridiculed? Did she eat what she was given? Has she cried herself to sleep or (for that matter) has she slept at all?

She almost paid attention to me when I returned to pick her up, although chatting to her roommate was more interesting than helping me pack and collect everything. Eventually I got a chance to talk with her.

"I missed you!" I said, giving her a kiss.

She smiled. "Where were you?" she asked.

"At home," I replied.

"Oh. I did wonder," she said ... and promptly fell asleep in the car.

Falling foul of the system

I have blogged before about my daughter's difficulties at school. I don't like to write much, for her own privacy, but it has a great impact on our lives and the focus of our attention. I joke that I have children two years apart chronologically but four years academically. I think the four is growing - at both ends! My son keeps on at leaps and bounds.

My daughter's progress is slower, but she has shown a marked improvement over the year and I am inordinately proud of her. She is a bright and cheerful child who loves life. Unfortunately she has trouble with concentration and comprehension, both of which spill over into many aspects of schoolwork.

Before you ask: here are some of the background details. She is being seen by speech & language and has been assessed by OT. She is getting extra sessions, principally for confidence building, from SEN and they are giving as much extra time to her in class as is reasonable (given, for some reason, they feel a need to teach all the other children as well!) We've checked her eyesight and hearing (both fine) and hopefully she'll be seen by an educational psychologist in the next three months. She remains a mystery.

In many ways I'm delighted that she is unable to be labelled, but labels do often aid in knowing how to help a child. If she was autistic, there are schemes and charities in place to help. If dyslexic, similarly. If just generally not at the level she should be... nothing. It would be nice to have a clear plan as to how to help her progress.

My husband (a paediatrician) also knows there is something wrong without being able to pinpoint it. In amongst all the assessments already done, we thought it would be a good idea if she was seen by a developmental paediatrician. He (or she!) would be able to assess whether she is progressing normally according to her age. Maybe she simply is a year or so behind and if we accept that she will progress as normal, and maybe with a bit of help catch up a bit. Or maybe she is falling further and further behind and her development is not in line with 'the standard'. Either way, this could only be assessed by a specialist.

So I got a referral from the GP.

I dutifully took my daughter to the hospital for the appointment.

I spent nearly half an hour explaining my daughter's history and my concerns.

Then, at the end, he very kindly explained to me that he wasn't a developmental paediatrician but a general paediatrician with a specialisation in diabetes. He had been given the appointment because there was a waiting list to see the community team. There is nothing obviously wrong, he said. Come back again in four months.

Of course, by then it was too late for me to do anything about it. What was I supposed to do? Throw a hissy fit? Not my style. I came home and brooded. My daughter had lost a precious morning's education for an assessment that her father could have done.

There is nothing obviously wrong. My husband can do a general assessment to conclude that! Heck - I can conclude that! What I needed was a specialist. Someone who would look closely at my daughter's handwriting and recognise that it was behind standard. Someone who would think that my daughter's struggle to know how to draw a man was perhaps a little odd when aged 7. Someone who would know that a sibling of a very bright child and daughter of highly academic parents should be comfortable at school. Someone who would play some games with her and find out what her maturity was like.

I have to play the system. It was no-one's fault: the NHS machinations don't have a little flag saying 'this child is complicated' but a deadline for appointments. I either fell foul of the 'be seen within 18 weeks' rule (I was, impressively, seen within eight weeks) or of their subtle scheme for filtering out the children who are being pushed by paranoid parents, the parents who simply think their child is brighter than he or she really is. I wish I was just paranoid. But I have a husband, educated in the field, who is also concerned. I have a headmaster with many years of experience who is baffled by her. She is not straightforward.

Now I am trying, gently, to avoid apportioning blame. As with the house delays, we have to move on from here and now, not from back then. The pressing issue is to get her the right appointment. Hopefully the lovely receptionist at the GPs will be more effective with her second letter, sent directly to the developmental paediatricians (by name).

And just think: I haven't even begun on the battle with the educational authority to get her 1:1 support in class. Oh, my war has barely started, but rest assured: the only winner will be my daughter. Somehow.

Conversations you don't expect to have...

Last week I called the builder. I was about to order the flooring and other bits for the house and needed to know when he wanted them.

"I've got quite a list," I said. "Shall I start at the top and work down?"

"Okay," he said. "Fire away."

"Well, first on the list is floor tiles. When would you like them delivered?"

There was a pause whilst he checked lists and schedules. "How about 2 August?"

I laughed. Clearly he's joking (as he has before), since the job is due to finish 30 July. My plan is to move in on 2 August.

"Very funny," I said. "Now, when do you really want them?"

"2 August."

Alarm bells start ringing. "But you finish on 30 July."

"No, we finish on 30 August."

Alarm bells deafening the brain's functioning cells. "Erm, no! 30 July."

There was a period of banter where we flung final dates at each other, then he explained everything that needed to be done and how there was six weeks of plastering to be done and four weeks of decorating and still the drains and the plumbing and electrics and...

"I think I'd better just speak to my architect about this," I finally squeezed in, and the conversation ended.

My architect (well, his substitute: he has inconveniently gone off on paternity leave!) was a little bemused. He checked his records. Yes: everything was 30 July. The contract we signed just a few weeks ago: yes, 30 July. I left him to break the news to the building contractors.

It was too early in the day to start on the gin. (No, really, it was. Even in this situation I couldn't resort to that!) So I went and ate a tonne of chocolate instead...


And now? Well, I suspect we'll split the difference! They are hoping to bring in the job two weeks early, and I am thus anticipating moving in two weeks late. (Or maybe three...) There are many more men on site and I think a lot of overtime will be worked but thankfully we are protected by the contract. And I have utter confidence in our builders, who have stated that they won't let us move back in unless the finish is perfect - so they'd better not cut corners!

Oh, the joys of building projects!

Victory!

Congratulations, England, for winning yesterday!

There is nothing better than beating your long-standing rivals in sport, nothing better than securing victory over the age-old foe.

I offer you my heartiest congratulations!

What? You didn't see that?
Have a look here...

There are reasons why I haven't blogged about the house renovation for a while. Principally because this:

... now looks like this ...

It doesn't feel like much of a change. It is not that the builders aren't working (they have an August deadline) but that the bits they are doing are not the instant-destruction phase nor the gloss-and-glam phase. They are putting in insulation, doing the first fix electrics and plumbing, they are laying the underfloor heating and treating the external woodwork. It is all vital to the finished product, and still requires a million decisions being made by us, but overall not very exciting to talk about.

I am constantly being asked how it is going and can only say that, to the best of my knowledge, it is going fine. No-one is (yet!) indicating that it will run late. I'm not having to make too many wildly expensive additions to the budget (note: this is not the same as there being no wildly expensive additions...). I am beginning to think about the finishing touches, which is rather exciting, and thinking about the practicalities of moving back in, which isn't.

Still, there are only six weeks left! The tiling of the roof should finish this week and the windows can't be far off. I've ordered hundreds of pounds of bathroom fittings and taps. I'm going to take a big deep breath and fork out a small fortune to boost the water pressure. I am anticipating a schedule of what I need to buy for when: tiles, flooring, fitted wardrobe, shelving, light fittings, etc. etc. Hopefully over the next few weeks I can begin to show some completed work.

The one thing I cling on to is that the kitchen is ordered. If nothing else arrives or works, at least we should be able to eat!

How many teachers does it take to get sound from a computer?

This morning, five.

For a long time we had the pictures but no sound.
We got sound if we played the disc through the DVD player rather than the computer, but it was formatted for the computer so looked and sounded terrible.
We tried using the iPod plugs, to no avail.
We got a hint of sound if the plug was only half in.

The fifth teacher solved the problem. Use a different computer programme...

Having spent all morning locating (or rather, not locating) the original film and then working out how to burn the video onto disc again (husband did it before: how am I supposed to know whether to use PAL or NTSC formatting? I just want it to play!) it was a relief when we finally worked it out. By then all the children were in the hall and 'quietly chatting' amongst themselves. Talk about stress!

I don't know how teachers work and remain sane. My 15 minute presentation drained me completely, whereas they stand up in front of classes for 6 hours a day, five days a week. I stumbled over words, I said the wrong things, I probably used words that are far too complicated, I forgot important facts. It is a good job I am not in charge of anyone's education!

I am in utter awe of teachers... however many it takes to get sound from a computer!

Nations together for football

As I write England’s World Cup challenge is underway. This is my first and, probably, last post about it – possibly about football at all, given my general lack of interest. Yet every four years the World Cup sets a nation alight. There is so much hype that to have no knowledge of what is going on probably makes you socially less acceptable than sporting dandruff-covered shoulders or having professional triangle lessons. Thus I follow what is going on so that I don’t embarrass my son (or, indeed, myself).

Perhaps unusually, though, I am watching (yes, at the same time as writing this blog!) in church. Some bright spark had the idea of showing the match on the ‘big screen’ usually used to bring up the hymn words. We’re all here, although I think my daughter would be as happy at home having a bath and bed. My husband is busy designing the bathrooms for our house, calculating how many tiles we’ll need. My son has brought his best friend along as well, so they are happily ensconced with bowls of crisps, soaking up the patriotism that reigns supreme.

We have England flags galore, plenty of red and white emblazoned across the room. The popcorn is popped; the cans are opened. A dozen families have settled in for the evening. Out come the teams. Some stand for the national anthem, some sing. All are jocular, excited, full of anticipation.

Then trouble arrives. In walks our minister.

Collective breaths are drawn. How would he react to this English posse? Is this display of patriotism really allowed in church? Can you eat crisps and lemonade in the sanctuary?

He marches down the aisle as the Stars and Stripes is sung. In his hand is a small flag that he waves; on his cheek is painted the same flag; indeed it is emblazoned across his trainers and shirt. He begins singing loudly.

He is American. Bizarrely, he’s not supporting the same team as everyone else. (And he’s less happy that anyone else with the score after the first five minutes…) Thankfully he makes nearly as much noise in support of his team as everyone else in the room put together. (By half-time he’s cheered up a lot!)

South Africa, the rainbow nation, is hosting a magnificent world event. Let's hope every match can be supported with as much good humour and friendliness as this.

Final edit: At the start of church on Sunday morning our minister revealed the power of prayer. He was afraid that no-one would come to his service if the USA won so he’d prayed for a draw…