Rock, meet Hard Place.

It’s not been a cheery day, so let’s start things off with a nice little photo. John was Harry’s whipping boy Nominated Parent on Sunday, so I kicked back and relaxed by re-arranging my kitchen cupboards. This is almost everything I found that was out of date, often by an impressive 4 or 5 years. (Feel quite free to be Topper and comfort me, BTW.)

cupboard contents

We will now take a brief moment, in which everyone who has ever eaten a meal in my house, bloggers among them, can quietly disappear to throw up absolutely everything they have ever consumed.

Better?

The predominance of seeds is as a result of John’s brief fad of being a baker: we have been married 6 years in March and received a bread maker as a wedding present. Hubby got all keen and baked a number of really quite edible loaves, buying in large stocks of pumpkin, poppy and sesame seeds. Then he lost all interest; the packets have been gathering dust ever since.

Our garden birds did very nicely out of it all on Sunday, particularly as I also found a pack of lard (out of sight and mind at the top of the fridge) with a date of January 2009. Yum.

If Harry survives his childhood without falling victim to Campylobacter, E-coli or Salmonella, then he will one day look back on his formative years – these years – and form an opinion on whether I make a bad or good decision this week, and I’m wriggling uncomfortably on the pointy horns of a daycare dilemma. If you have clever advice – or amusing assvice – for me, I will give it my close attention and gratitude.

Harry currently receives Portage, a weekly home-visiting education service for pre-schoolers with additional support needs. Harry’s home visitor has undoubtedly assisted him: by following her suggestions and games, Harry has certainly come to understand the concept of taking turns, after only a handful of visits. Putting the theory into practice outside a controlled home environment has been uphill work for the lad, but she has helped improve his communication. She’s the closest thing he has to a key worker, and liaises – theoretically – with:

Physiotherapy: his Wobbles assessment is – finally – Thursday morning. I am grimly prepared to get Harry drunk and suddenly stick my foot out in front of him if he refuses to fall over for her.

Speech and Language Therapy: achingly slow progress. ‘Djess’ has, depressingly, sunk slowly back into the formless quicksand of his babble, and Harry, at 26 months and 82cms, is once again officially Wordless. He is progressing with his language; his eye contact is significantly better and his signing is coming along nicely this week – he has learnt to sign ‘hand it over now, woman’ ‘please’ – but he’s still desperately behind, and I sometimes get twisted up inside with panic and anger and OMFG I CAN’T UNDERSTAND A SINGLE DAMN THING YOU’RE BABBLING ABOUT AND I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT YOU’RE POINTING AT AND YOU’RE LOOKING AT ME LIKE I’M THE KNOWER OF ALL THINGS OR YOUR BLOODY MOTHER OR SOMETHING  BUT YOU DON’T REALISE I SIMPLY DON’T UNDERSTAND THE FIRST THING YOU’RE SAYING AND I CAN’T HELP YOU I CAN’T HELP YOU BECAUSE IT’S ALL JUST RANDOM SOUNDS AND MY HEART IS BREAKING.

And… yeah. That’s generally the time you’ll find me howling in a corner. Even the most determinedly awful mother would find it hard to purposefully not intelligently respond to any single word her child said to her for an entire year – but that’s exactly what I’ve done, in effect. I worry about the damage to his personality this incomprehension causes; Harry doesn’t know that he isn’t intelligible.

Harry’s behaviour, unsurprisingly, is heading downhill quicker than the shares I bought for him with his child trust fund and they’re pretty damned precipitous. The baby groups we go to are beginning to fall silent when he launches into one of his Specials – particularly when I’ve just stopped him hitting another child, so he starts violently attacking himself instead. Eventually, when I’ve either restored some sort of calm, or simply clamped his raging form hard under my arm and announced our departure, one of them will carefully clear their throat, blinking and ask ‘Bad day? Is he really tired?’

Yes, all of them currently, and No, he’s just woken up.  And I’ve cried every day this week because when he headbutts me and I don’t dodge in time it really bloody hurts and my nose bleeds and I bruise and I’m tired of fighting my poor angry child and looking useless.

Cough. I was supposed to be telling you about daycare. Yes. Daycare!

Harry is no longer Cool with his 2 mornings at Local nursery. I don’t entirely blame him: last time he went, Mummy didn’t come home for 2 days. I took him Friday morning and he kicked off in such spectacular fashion at the gate that I eventually had to take him home again. John cycled past it yesterday and asked Harry if he liked the place: he shook his head. Ahhh. Bugger.

A friend in the local village runs a playgroup called, let’s say, Abacus – albeit the parents leave the children there – for children with special needs. I am only just coming around to the fact that Harry is, in fact, one of those children. The labelled, different ones. Special Needs. Statemented. Exceptional. StrugglingI know we didn’t get off the plane in Italy, but I’ve never been entirely convinced we were really making a stop in Holland, either, until – well, today, I suppose. I suppose I was thinking of us as being more… western Germany?

But we toddled along this morning, as it was a friend and she’d invited us to come take a look. (Harry promptly lost his mind with anxiety as soon as he saw it was a daycare centre, which bodes badly for me and his usual Local drop-off tomorrow.) There were 7 kids and 6 adults: the ratio is usually about one to one, sometimes even more adults than children, depending on the need. (The staff at Local daycare take Harry’s difficulties seriously and are keen to help him, but the ratio is 1:4 kids.) There was a ducky little lad with what appeared to be mild Downs, and another kid who was using a mobility frame, although he could also wobble along unassisted. The remaining children were all language impaired to a greater or lesser degree, but no other issues that I could see. I’m told there are usually between 6 and 10 children attending a session, a couple of whom are very severely functionally impaired, but the majority are simply language delayed.

It wasn’t the most inviting-looking building in the world, dark and old (in a bad way; we’re not talking Tudor here) although with a lovely garden attached, turfed throughout, with no hard edges and a smallish selection of nice toys.

They asked me, in the course of finding out about our history, if I had ever applied for disability living allowance for Harry. I sprayed my coffee in most ecumenial fashion over everyone in the vicinity, near and far. Say WHAT, now? *Splutters* He’s cognitively spot-on, people! Even a little ahead of his age! But… yes. Apparently, the level of agency involvement with Harry is a fair indicator that we could quite likely qualify for the lower level of state disability payment. It’s about £18 a week and would cover the lion’s share of his daycare costs but… there’s that D word again. It does insist on cropping up and I am never, ever suitably prepared for it.

The activities were fabulously well-aimed for kids like Harry in… Holland. They used makaton and visual aids for absolutely everything and kept the kids’ attention beautifully. (Harry blatantly thinks circle time at Local daycare sucks a clown’s balls and it’s generally his cue to slope off outside on his own.) A speech therapist comes nearly every week and they have regular physio, occupational therapy and paediatrician input too. Although Harry was actually climbing determinedly up the fire doors for most of the activity-time in a frantic effort to get outside and play, I know that once he settled in he would derive infinite benefit from their one-on-one approach. It’s run by a superlatively trustworthy friend, it’s breathtakingly cheap, it’s exactly what Harry needs – and of course, there are mighty snags.

Abacus is probably 10 miles away, in a town and on an estate I used to live in and have darkly unhappy memories of. The sessions are only 2.5 hours long, and even though it’s only a piddling £3 an hour, it’d barely be worth, in fuel and time, me coming back home.

Harry’ Local daycare is 2 miles away, attached to the primary school that Harry will – I am currently assuming – attend. John went to school there. They have more toys and are the Italy to Abacus’s Holland.  We really wanted Harry to become accustomed to Local place this year, so that pre-school in a year’s time did not come as a shock – if he actually ends up attending Italian mainstream pre-school. I like Local place, and so does Harry when he’s not in the throes of major separation anxiety.

Simple! I hear you cry, bored and desperate for coffee stimulation by now. Send him to both! 2 sessions at Local, 2 sessions at Abacus. Blow the budget and you’re sorted!

Yeah. If Harry exceeds 2 daycare sessions a week, he loses Portage services. Sending him for one session in both places is half-arsed and not considered a good idea by Local, Abacus OR Portage – who are unhappy and apologetic about the recent reduction in the cutoff level from 5 sessions to 3. We have to choose between the three of them.

If I cut Local out and instead spend 2 or 3 mornings marooned in a random coffee shop near Abacus… I’m not only sad on my own account, because I like Harry going to Local but it also means that I’m taking several steps backwards organisationally and will be more behind and stressed than ever; Housework: Nil, Business: Nil, Time To Self: Nil.

If I don’t send him to Abacus, then… well, I can’t do that. I have to send him to Abacus. As it’s just over the county border, I am considering asking them to keep Harry’s presence there a Big Administrative Secret, but I think in practical terms it’d be like concealing a secret airbase: people do tend to notice the odd jet flying in and out. Plus there’s paperwork and stuff.

If I send him to both Local and Abacus and lose Portage, then we’ve lost a weekly visitor to our home – no fuel! no travel! no stress! fun games! all positives! – who has demonstrably done Harry some good. I value her input a good deal.

Crap. Arse. It’s got to be Local for the choppy-chop, hasn’t it?

Bloody rules. We are not amused.

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