Epilepsy - Why I hate homework

I dread it every day. I try to avoid it whenever I can. I pass the buck, make any excuse but in the end I have to do it - homework and I hate it.

What is meant to take only ten minutes lands up for us taking twice, if not three times, as long and on a Friday evening when you are tired and your son is tired and you are faced with three sets of ten minute homework briefs, you know you're not going to get to bed early...

Some would say leave it for another day when he's less tired and I do, do that, but sometimes I never get a chance, not because we can't but because I may try to get the homework done when he is having a "spate".

A "spate" as I call them is a series of interconnected absence seizures some of which I can see and others I cannot. For example in those I do see we have the classic vacant expressions, non-response to calling his name, maybe a slight upward rolling of eyes and maybe even a hand twitch and chewing motion at his mouth if they last for more than 15 seconds.

For the ones I don't see, the ones I refer to as part seizures (actually called complex partial seizures), he carries on, on automatic pilot either running or walking, carrying out a function and usually he is right back to normal, though maybe a tad confused as to how he got there, before you can make up your own mind. These are horrid ones because if he is thinking about needing to go to the loo he can actually do it which aint so hot in the middle of the school dining room, I am not saying he actually goes to the loo thinking he's in the bathroom, no he just wets himself I am not sure which would be most humiliating.

Like many who have stronger seizures the ones I assume people call classic epileptic seizures or Grand mal (for the uninitiated these are known as tonic clonic seizures) after a “spate” he can be exhausted, so much so that like last night he has to go to bed immediately even though it’s only ten past five.

And there's another thing he seems to know some things perfectly one day and completely loses it the next so sometimes he can read brilliantly and the next hour or day he's stumbling and fumbling over the very same words even though he is not having a seizure! Can you imagine how frustrating that is for him and how bewildering it is for me? In fact I go nearly demented. I just don't understand it and then I get exhausted by it all too. Sometimes I find it just easier to do the homework myself...

PS. As I understand it this forgetfulness is also part of his epilepsy and that is something I learned just now as I wrote this post. Do you know what it’s horrifying how much I have to learn so that I can help him. So tonight, sans homework, I go to the Parents evening armed with a list of reading and watching for the teachers at his school so that at least we know a little more about what we are dealing with…

For those who’d like to know more go to this BRILLIANT web site: www.epilepsymatters.com

I just love Canadians!

Why cross the road when you can drive?

OK sometimes strange things happen on this small holding but this I fear is one of the strangest! I do love my chooks but boy do they get into some strange places!! It made me laugh and I hope it makes you laugh too ready to start a new week....

Just how many things can go wrong in one hour....

It started off so innocently, me reading the newspaper and the boys watching TV while the lunch bubbled on the stove. A brief respite in a busy day...a little bit of time out.
THUMP CRASH WAAARRGGHHHH
Bang! Quite literally went the lamp in the TV room along with three plates and a cup,which I had forgotten to clear from the night before, courtesy of the youngest who was trying to emmulate his hero Tom Daley off the back of the sofa onto a pile of carefully placed cushions and bean bags.
I roared to the rescue of my furntiture tripping over Bog Boy and causing injury to insult in the proces. There was a confrontation which lasted considerably longer than I intended and in mid harangue I was brought up sharply by the acrid smell of something that was once meant to be our lunch.
Returning to the kitchen through the curtain of smog I could just make out flames reaching over the side of the pot and coming dangerously close to my ever handly bottle of red cooks wine. As I stretched out to save the bottle my calm was shattered by all nine smoke and fire alarms sounding off in joyful cacophiony delighted at last to be of use, this of course intiated a catastrophic chain of events inlcuding me dropping the precious red all over the floor, puppies escaping  and charging about in panic, Bog Boy haring upstairs to sanctuary and me creating even worse stink by thrusting flaming pan into the dirty washing up water where it exlopded gunk in a six foot greasy radius.
I spent the next forty minutes trying to bring some form of order the mess and it wasn't until I was ladling out beans on toast that I noticed that Bog Boy was not to be found. When food is about Boy Boy is usually close at hand so my antennae started to twitch coupled to that there was silence. Everyone knows that silence and small boys do not muix unless there is something badly wrong...
I tracked Bog Boy to the bathroom, but the door was shut anf there was a curious heavy breathing sound coming from within.
I opened the door to be confronted with miles and miles of loo paper an overflowing lavatory and god knows what al over hte floor. In the course of going to the loo he'd used too much paper and I really do mean too much and blocked the loo and was trying to clear it by flushing again and againa and again. The water coated the bathroom floor and dribbled across the landing, downstairs in the room below it cascaded through the floor boads all over the clean laundry...
Don't you just love it when you take time out...

Bringing up boys: When you start to sound like your own parents...

There comes a time when you sound exactly the same as your own parents. It is frightening and is most noticeable when I am telling the children off. Echoing down the years I hear the same familiar phrases, the same intonation and I know rather worryingly that the same gestures and penetraing looks are thrown in for free.
Tonight was a classic. Tonight I offered my children Pasta, one of their favourites. With sausage meat balls and home made tomato and choirzio sauce, obvioulsy not one of their favourites...
The Boy: I am NOT going to eat it. I don't like it.
Me: Just sit down and let's get on with supper. You'll just have to have a little bit.
The Boy: No, I am NOT going to eat it, I will be sick
Me: Stop being so silly, you will not . Now SIT down please.

The Boy crosses his arms aggressively and looks belligerently at me from beneath his brows.
Me: Boy! SIT. DOWN...NOW.
The firmness with which I speak and the careful unnunciation of each and every word conveys the gathering menance. I will not be brooked. He sits down.
Me, brightly: That's better! Now eat up everyone.
Just as The Boy picks up his fork his younger brother pipes up.
Bog Boy: I love this Mummy, it's my favourite!

My heart sinks a bit, typical Bog Boy to open his mouth with that sort of thing! Turning to him: That's lovely Darling, now lets eat it all up.

Bog Boy gives his glowering brother a cherubic smile and I want to throttle him, now The Boy will create a stink. I glance up and across, he's toying with the pasta. With great show of effort and a whimper the one piece is placed in his mouth as if I were making him eat slugs. He grabs at his water and glugs down half of it. I purse my lips and peer over the top of my glasses.
Me: Stop making a fuss now and eat properly.
The Boy wailing innocently: But I AM!
Me: You ARE NOT. Now STOP this and get on with it.
With great show, and furious expression, he stamps down his fork on a poor unsuspecting sausage meatball, which unfortunately for him startled by the force at which it is being skewered makes its escape, along with the fork, across the table sending tomato sauce everywhere.

Me, rising out of my chair: WILL YOU BEHAVE! LOOK WHAT YOU HAVE DONE! You will STOP this RIGHT NOW!
There is a momentary silence then a snivelling starts to emminate from the boy across the table.
Me, quietly: Stop it. Here's your fork and just get on with it now.
The fork is raised valiantly to my son's mouth. I am obviously asking him to eat poison. The sausage meat ball is nibbled.With narrowed eyes I glare at him
Me hissing: Properly!
The meat ball once again resumes its painful journey to my son's mouth to be devoured whole, only for there to be a sudden retching sound as it re-emerges almost immediately falling to the plate.
The Boy: See! It is making me sick. You are SO mean.
Me, verging on losing it:  You didn't even try to eat it. You will eat all of that up now!
The Boy, shocked: You want me to eat my sick!
me: You were not sick you just spat that out!
The Boy wailing: I was sick! You are making me eat my sick!
Me in full tirade: Don't be ridiculous. I am doing no such thing. How dare you talk to me like that. After all the time and effort I went ot to make this lovely meal for you this is how you show your gratitude! You should be so lucky that someone cares for you this much. Eat all your food up now. Think of all those starving millions...
Bog Boy, with genuine concern: Starring Villians??? Whose Villians, is he on TV???

The Wickedest Whippet on motherhood...

There is but one thing I can say about motherhood...

...it's exhausting!

Bringing up boys: Do they speak English???

How many times do you have to say turn off the light before they do it? It’s not a trick question. How many times do you have to ask your sons, husbands, partners, brothers even, dare I say it, fathers before they listen? And then more importantly act upon the information given? It’s no wonder they call me a nag!

I can ask perfectly pleasantly: Please turn off the light/stop picking your nose/remove your fingers from the door I am going to shut it and I am ignored. But it’s not as if they are paying me enough attention to ignore me; I mean that would take an act of will, it’s like they just don’t hear me or that I am talking another language and one that is totally alien to them. I mean is it any wonder I land up shouting??!!

The utter frustration of having to repeat oneself over and over again would send anyone sane round the twist at the best of times.

I note though, that their deafness is selective. Whisper very quietly that you are offering Mars bars to the first person who gets to the dining room table for lunch and it’s like the screaming hordes are about to descend such is their enthusiasm and one has to flatten oneself against the wall for fear of being trampled.

Things that require effort usually on their behalf, such as picking up dirty clothing and putting it in the laundry basket are the worst. You would think by all the fuss made I was sending them to their deaths.

I have visions of them complaining all the way to the Guillotine, them as the poor bedraggled sons of nobility in their tundrel, me the mean spirited Madame Defarge character and tricoteuse extraordinaire:

Bog Boy: You’re so MEAN Mummy I ALWAYS have to do it.

The Boy: You don’t love me do you? You are ALWAYS making me do things.

Me: Ha (in a French accent) ah spit on yer, yer sons of ….

Well they are my sons so of course I don’t do it I just carry on knitting and merely peer over my glasses until the tirade of abuse  is over and they fall to my will anyway…I can dream can’t I???

Now will you PLEASE pick up your socks! How many times do I have to tell you!!!! Do you think the Laundy Fairy does it???!!!

Black, White and Red all over!

We have puppies and they are wonderful except that like all young creatures the more you put in one end the more comes out the other - honestly why not just pour everything on the floor and cut out the middle man for it's going to land up there in one form or another sooner or later.
To stem the tide and to protect my kitchen floor I use newspapers and lots of them and it works that is until you run out of newspapers then everything falls apart and it is not good. So Dear Charlie being he loving and thoughtful chap that he is, says: "What the heck let's treat ourselves to a Saturday newspaper, there's ususally loads of supplements that never get read anyway."
Seemed the perfect solution but I hadn't betted on my husband's ability to tell everyone he meets everything that's going on in our lives. Luckily today he only mentioned the problem we are having with the puppies when he went into the village shop. They, being good people and wanting to be helpful, handed him a small pile of left over newspapers, great. Sitting in the car I was handed the bundle and taking a cursory look noted they were all from Friday and since I had The Times on the top and The Express on the bottom thought nothing of it. That is until I got home and had to put paper down for the pups.
I didn't look intially as time was of the essence, and happily put the pages down two at a time thanking my lucky stars that there were no staples. Then I noticed that there was a rather alarming boob staring back at me, it was part of one of those pictures you get these days that goes across more than one page and I had put down the boob part. I hastily used another page to cover up the boob not wanting my impressionable young sons to get a gander. I covered the boob with a bottom. Getting rather flustered and desperatley trying to cover up that before the children saw, I suddenly noticed that the puppies pen floor looked like a pornography website's home page, there were tits and bums everywhere and because I happened to notice, just when you don't want to, some of the poses were hightly explicit.
The goodly folk in the Village shop had only gone and given me several copies of the Daily Sport! I had to resort the the Daily Express to cover my blushes and the floor for the pen! Talk about black, white and red all over....

Epilepsy - I shouldn't care but I do!

As far as most things go The Boy just gets on and does them. There has never been a need to keep a special eye on things. Just a general awareness helps, for you never know when he's going to have a "Blank" as we call them. A moment when he is just not there.

However, as he gets older there are some things that we cannot be blase about and one of them is contact sports. Up until now it's not really been a problem apart from the time he whacked a friend in the mouth with his hockey stick and broke said friend's tooth in half. However, looking at them all galivanting on the pitch the other day, I'd say that  it wouldn't be unusual for any of them to do that sort of thing. I put it down to "could have hapened to anyone" rather than blaming it on The Boy's Absence Seizures.

Now  there is a problem for next term he's going to start playing Rugby. I like Rugby, it's a great game but for a 7 year old to be playing it as a contact sport rather than doing the Tag or Touch versions, they and their teachers will really need to be on the ball.

I have visions of the poor little mite having a blank in the middle of the game and stopping effectively becoming a static target for all and sundry to leap upon; it's not a pretty image but one that could so easily happen for it already does on the Hockey pitch. However on the hockey pitch the most that happens is he loses the ball but on the Rugby field - well, I've already said. 

So decisions have been made and he won't be playing Rugby next term. And although he seems fine with it I am not. I hate the idea that he suddenly can't do something because his epilepsy has yet to be controlled. And I am so cross that it is taking so long to sort him out. He has never been able to rid himself of the seizures, not one day goes by when he can concentrate properly. I am amazed at how well he copes and how it seems to affect him so little in himself but I know it is holding him back in school work, playing with friends and now on the sports field. I want him to be rid of it, I want him to have all the opportunites open to him, it's such a little thing isn't it. I mean it's not the end of the world if he doesn't play Rugby...

The Wickedest Whippet becomes a Mum and I am pretty exhausted...

Sassy, aka the EBJ, started having puppies at 1:45am.

I was woken by her wanting to go for a wee and wanting a drink. I was rather annoyed because I thought it meant she wouldn't be having puppies anytime soon. I went back to sleep only to be woken almost immediately by Sassy scrabbling about underneath my dressing table!

Now the job truly begins...

1.53am: She's lying quiet now, her breathing heavy but calm. I'd say she's resigned. There have been several periods of heaving getting longer each time. Sometimes she just lies there accompanying each massive heave with a deep grunt like sigh. Other times she stands or semi squats trying to expunge the pup. There is much licking and cleaning.

2:18am: Water breaks.

She's doing so well and I am so proud of her and oh how I feel for her but there is one thing I am eternally grateful for; Thank God the natural imperative to clean up everything, and I mean everything, has not remained in force to the same extent in humans as it is with other species…

The heaves come in spates and seem to get deeper, her agitation increases then she calms. Then it starts over and she cleans. Occasionally the depth of the push is accompanied by a strangulated bark -almost surprised.

2:37am: There is a tiny lull, then the contractions start again accompanied by much heavier panting...

I stroke her as there is not much else I can do. She either doesn't mind or couldn't care less her mind on more important matters...

I wish it would be born. I begin to worry what if it's mal-presented?  What of it's stuck? Please let it go alright...

2:47am: I talk calmly to her though I feel anything but. Good girl, there's a good lass all over soon. What a good mummy whippet! As she heaves again, she stands up and turns about, constantly turning about, never comfortable and I so want it to be over for her, to get this first one out. There is silence.

Then the heavy panting and skyward gazing start all over again.

Come on Whippet! Come on the Mummy Whippet....

2:58am: I go to leave her to fetch some more blankets and some water and when I return she's out of her box on her way to find me. Clearly there is no way I'm going to be able to leave her to take the boys to school, though by that time I sincerely hope it's all over.

3:12am: Still no pup...

There’s nothing for it now I must call the vet.  I get through and a sleepy voice asks me what the problem is I explain all the time stroking the dog. The nurse says she’ll get the vet to call in tem minutes…ten minutes has never felt so long…

3:29am: Berludy long 10 minutes that…I tell the vet what’s happening and as I do I note a pair of feet. The vet says to grab them and hold on – way more tricky in practice that! Have you ever tried? Every time the dog heaves the feet pop out and then I try to grab them but they are slippery little blighters and she’s wondering what the heck I’m doing so is constantly peering over her shoulder at me and then moving to get a better look and I’m trying to give the vet a running commentary. I swear he’s laughing at me. Isn’t it typical though? You call in the Cavalry and then it’s not needed. The vet signs off with a cheery: “Well it should be over by breakfast…” Great!

First puppy born 3:51am

Second puppy born 4:04am

Two little girls; the first almost all black with a white nose and a real squeaker, the second a blue grey with pretty white nose and stripe. Both similar in size. Both squeak! A lot!!

There is a simple wonder about birth, it being so commonplace but a miracle every time.

I am going to be very, very, tired at the end of this. Poor boys the excitement of puppies and the dread of a seriously grumpy mum!

Third puppy's water broke at 5:01am. Born at 5:16am. A little blue grey boy, a bit smaller than his sisters but feisty!

Fourth puppy immediately on its way at 5:25am hopefully born very soon...5:27am number four makes an appearance. This one is really quite big.

Number five born at 5:41am.

I am not sure where we are I think we have two more girls...

Bringing up boys - Top tip, Never forget to listen...

Why is it that when you have a feeling that they are really really telling you the truth you ignore them? Especially when you have something important to do like promising a friend you’ll all go to London for the day?

So despite the fact that The Boy says, Mummy my head hurts I bundle him in the car drive for two hours and then force him to walk miles all round town only to land up at our destination: The Natural History Museum with a miserable child plus a roaring temperature and still I pretend to myself and everyone else that everything A OK only to have to back track rapidly and high tail it all the way back to Suffolk when said Boy virtually collapses in my arms. Bad Mummy.

So after that one would think I would not do the same thing again in a hurry but no less than 10 days later when The Boy says: “Mummy my tummy hurts”, I ignore it as I have to take Bog Boy to a party and we’ve been invited out for lunch and then there is the school Bonfire Party/Halloween Fest and well, blooming heck it’s all organized and it would be way too much hassle not to do everything.

Actually the Boy seems fine and downs two Coca Colas at lunch much to my chagrin but hey it’s not my place to gainstay him when his hosts are so generous. It’s not as if it happens all the time. The lunch passes fine although I note The Boy is not as hungry as he normally is.

At the Bonfire Party appetites have returned and he wolfs down a beef burger and some rather dodgy tomato soup…I am not fond of that tomato soup and you’ll find out why in a moment.

Well safely at home a full on exhausting day behind us and The Boy and his little brother are fast asleep in bed. A little too self-satisfied turn over to drift off to sleep only to be woken what seem moment later by a plaintive wail: Mummy I’m going to be sick…!!!!

I don’t bother with the "Hold on Darling, Mummy’s coming!" by the sound of his panic stricken voice I know it’s far too late. Thinking quickly in the fog of sleep I holler: "Run Boy! Run! Run to the bathroom and for heaven’s sake don’t be …"

Too late I hear the first up chuck and I know as I thunder down the stairs from my attic hideaway that it’s going to be a messy interlude.

In my haste I have forgotten to turn the landing light on and as I dart across to follow  The Boy to the bathroom I step  in it warm and squidgy and seeping between my toes. I pause momentarily do I continue knowing that I will be leaving behind potato print footsteps all along the cream carpet down the corridor but am there to look after my son or do I stop to clean my foot and just yell instructions to him not to throw up in the basin? As these thoughts flit across my befuddled brain I hear another huey and my mind is made up no time to worry about feet, I’ll just have to hop. Then I hear more and I wonder just how much food has he eaten and when will it ever stop? It’s not until later after reassuring The Boy that all is Ok and that Mummy still loves him that I start to assess the damage.

Switching on the lights the full horror is laid before me. My Boy has managed to leave multi textured ruddy brown splodges about two and a half feet in diameter on not one but two Persian Rugs and as I retrace our footsteps  I note that the cream carpet along the corridor doesn’t look nearly as nice as it did only a few hours before.

I have a funny feeling this is what they call Schadenfreude and make a mental note to listen to my children when they say they aren’t feeling too good…