I think we’re back with bullet points

Because I have been disappearing up my own bottom with work. Not a good look.

Or a nice view.

  • My little stationery business, evidently sensing that I now have actual, proper, paid-per-hour work to do, has naturally – for no apparent reason – skyrocketed. This time last year, I would have Snoopy-danced my way to the bank, as I had the time to go and pay the actual cheques in. This year, I’m equal parts delighted and aghast: most of the cards I sell are only a quid, and I retailed £1100 last week. Eeeep! Bagging the buggers up takes time

(Naturally, if YOU want to add to my workload, that is OK. You are different. And the [whisper it] Christmas stuff is actually very nice indeed.)

  • Because I am mildly insane, I am also holding my annual coffee & cake morning for Bliss, the Premature Baby Charity on Saturday week, which sounds awful close now I come to write it down. Saturday 6th November sounds much better. I have an virtual cap hopefully extended towards you over there, as well as a page tab up top.   

and if you are in my neck of the Midlands woods that day, or want to be, fire me an email hairyfarmer@tiscali.co.uk and I will expand my baking plans to accommodate you. And apart from the 10 packs of butter sat in my fridge, my plans are still… just that. More Eeeep!

The coconut lime cake was very popular last year, btw, if that tempts you at all.

  • This deserves more than a bullet point, really. A week ago, I realised that our child has gone from a non-talking child, to… get this… a talking child. The last couple of months, and particularly the last 3 weeks, have been simply phenomenal, and have required all my redundant snoopy dances. He still can’t deliberately reproduce K, J, CH, P (unless he whispers, in which case it is perfect), G, Q, or EE, but his assault on Mount Speech with his current limited syllable array is determined and has come out of nowhere. Driving in the car, I can now pick words out of the babble in the back seat, and I suddenly have a precious window into his mind. Imagine my marvel, my elation when I hear ‘sheep’ and ‘grass’ as we pass a field. Well, I actually hear ‘ssseep’ and ‘dass’, but that will do very nicely indeed. ‘Tees’ he tells me, with hand stretching towards the car roof, as we pass under a gloomy tree canopy. ‘Drk’.

Harry now has the speech skills of… what? I’m not clued-in to normal development windows. A 16 monther?

I am so goddamn happy about this, I can’t quite arrange the words for you, although jubilant is certainly in there somewhere. Humbled. Grateful. Proud. ‘He’s started Jolly Phonics!’ I burble happily, to anyone who stands still long enough to be told. Three months ago he wriggled away in thrashing distress when I showed him how to make an ‘W’ sound. Now… well. Watch the video.

Co-incidentally, we are awash with speech therapists, educational psychologists, SENco-ordinators, disability link workers, forms, specialist assessments, reports… all the support, in fact, that would have made a world of difference to me a year ago when I felt alone with Harry’s problems. I found the delay in instigating Harry’s formalised assessments profoundly frustrating during the many months he spent on CDS’s waiting list, but I am now reluctantly acknowledging a sort of sense in the fobbing-off, particularly as his sensory processing issues are rapidly resolving. It’s weird. It’s… as if they somehow know that children’s abilities change out of all recognition between 35 and 40 months. Creepy, hmmm?

Cough.

  • Incidentally, everyone who has ever said to me that ‘once he starts talking, you’ll want him to shut up!’ is, at this moment in time, still a complete twat. If and when they ever morph into shrewd prognosticators of my future, I’ll… ummm. Well, I’ll let you know.
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