I was originally going to lazily share the Mother's Day guest post that I wrote for Great Ormond Street Hospital's charity blog today. I was so enormously touched to be asked to write for them, and so overwhelmed by the response that the subsequent post caused, I confess that I might have actually squealed and
Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late! Alice in Wonderland What a remarkable week of amazing posts the Define 'Normal' blog hop highlighted last week, thank you to everyone who contributed. For anyone unfortunate enough to miss it, I have posted all the links at the bottom of this post along with a
My early memories of motherhood ranged from being amazed, and slightly repulsed, by how much baby sick it is possible to pool in your cleavage at one time and the apparent disregard that baby poos apparently have for gravity and claims of absorbability from nappy companies, as they stain your baby’s back, and your last clean babygrow, bright mustard yellow. After all, being a parent is a messy, dirty, exhausting and confusing job and you’re the one responsible for not screwing it up.
In the spirit of openness and honesty, for all the people who accidently landed here courtesy of Google, let me just state that at no point in this blog post am I going to be talking about anything that involves my boobs. This isn't that kind of confession. Nor have I found god. Sorry Catholics.
I am the proud mother of a disabled child. But I am also the proud mother of two able-bodied children (or whatever generally accepted pc definition you wish to categorise them as). One is serious and smart and capable of an extraordinary ability to love and an even more extraordinary ability to survive on very little sleep. The other skips and pirouettes through life managing to juggle frivolity with a deep and sensitive understanding of other people’s emotional complexities, and just happens to have the fartiest bottom of anyone I have ever met. These two are the unsung heroes, the forgotten siblings in the special needs world.