Labelling children

So, what's wrong with a label?

My husband constantly complains he can't spell. He gets offended when I say he can he just needs to practice more. I'm not saying he's not worked hard enough, I'm just saying that by writing himself off, he's effectively giving up. Labelling himself as a 'none speller'. Someone who'll never be able to spell. There is of course a possibility that, as a very dyslexic man, he'll never be able to spell certain words, just as a fish will never be able to climb a tree but why give up entirely? He finds it embarrassing, and often avoids it, but in the years we've been married I've learnt to sound out his text messages and often they make perfect sense, so long as I do it in his Derbyshire accent.

It's the same with my eldest, Ed, who is undergoing a diagnosis for Asperger's. He may never be able to cope with certain situations; he may never be able to deal with a lot of noise or his lack of control. But I'm not certain that's true, given guidance and coping mechanisms he'll probably be just fine. 

The label could help him, provide him with the support he needs to carry out a normal and fulfilling life. I would like to hope it wouldn't hinder him, or encourage him to avoid situations he presumes he wouldn't be able to cope with. 

I know labelling children can be detrimental, creating a self fulfilling prophecy. 
The arty kids find it hard to gain respect in the maths class.
The mathletes find it hard to earn respect in P.E. class.
And the trouble makers finds it hard to gain trust because it's much less effort to just behave how everyone expects you to.
Maybe the ADD kid will never sit down because everyone around him presumes he can't. Or maybe, actually, he can't. 

My husband wasn't given his dyslexia diagnosis until it was too late. His self confidence had plummeted and with an earlier label and more support, maybe he wouldn't be so quick to write himself off.

Without a diagnosis, without an explanation as to why my little boys behave the way they do, I feel a little lost. My first port of call is of course to blame myself, blame my crappy parenting skills. But actually, I'm doing my best, I know I am.

During a family meal the other day, everyone commented (adults and children alike) that Ed was having crisps while everyone else enjoyed a delicious home baked meal. He was at least sat at the table, bless him. But we've been through all of this before, and I know he knows I think he's missing out on great food, but that isn't going to make a blind bit of difference to him. For some unknown reason, he can't bring himself to eat most foods. What they didn't see was that before everyone had pudding, he had a bowl of cereal, a cereal he'd never tried before. With gentle encouragement he took two nibbles of the dry flakes, which disgusted him, but then five minutes later he asked if he could try it with milk. I made him a small bowl, which he ate, so I topped it up and we were happy for him to have pudding with everyone else (crisps do not earn you pudding deserving status in our house). He did his best, he tried something new (epic!) and he handled it brilliantly, but I imagine everyone still thinks I'm a bad mother for not making him eat the yummy meal. 

Fresh from a meeting with a speech and language therapist today, presumably the first of many meetings regarding my youngest, who chooses to use his fists instead of his words at school, I found that my referral from the doctor had coincided with a referral from school which basically said he was at risk of being expelled. I knew this of course, but it was a shock to see it on paper. 
Please excuse me while I have a little cry because my lovely little ray of sunshine is deemed 'a threat' by strangers. I can't put into words how sweet Bean is, he just can't seem to control his emotions. 
The therapist seemed surprised to hear that his school haven't started putting any systems in place to deal with his behaviour yet, aside from the one they use for everyone, but I'll not slag them off because they have been so kind and understanding with both my little guys and together we'll get there in the end.

My point is, left to his own devices, my beautiful, loving, bouncy, intelligent little man would soon be expelled from school simply because everything in his head is all jumbled up, it moves too fast and he can't concentrate long enough to see it. He has no idea what his doing, he doesn't understand the consequences enough to stop himself before it happens. The self esteem of this gorgeous boy is in our hands, and a label will help him understand who he is, that he's not broken, he's just different.
Talking to the therapist today, trying to answer all her questions, made me realise just how much we, as a family, just get on with it. We have so many different coping strategies which come so naturally now, it's difficult to pin point which ones are abnormal. As we chatted, I realised that actually having my Mum, who visits at least three times a week turn round to me a say; 
"Yay! Bean said two whole sentences to me!" 
is abnormal because he's five, he just doesn't often choose to speak to other people.
It helps that Bean and I are on the same page. We have always simply clicked and I'm now wondering if there's a running theme here. The more I research ADHD, the more it makes perfect sense to me. I think I presumed everyone's mind worked this way, but maybe that's not the case. I read this a few weeks ago and it pretty much sums up the warning I gave Mr Strawberry before we got married. I remember sitting him down and explaining just how hard I will be to live with. Until I started looking into how to deal with Bean, I never realised how many of these ADHD traits I have myself. I did one of those lovely online tests and got a ridiculously high score. I bet the Doctor would love it if I turned up with that haha. I imagine they get really sick of self-diagnosis and web research. Thankfully, Mr Strawberry loves me regardless.
It's going to sound mean, but my Asperger's research has only led to confusion, I can't seem to get my head around it and more often than not, Ed and I rub each other up the wrong way. I feel nothing but gratefulness that he at least has Daddy. Daddy gets him in a way I cannot. I love him and I'll always provide for him, but I struggle to understand what's going on in his noggin.

The problem with labelling is that it can make us a bit lapsy-daisy. I often find myself forgiving Ed for things I wouldn't let Bean get away with and visa versa. My expectations for each of them is different, but I could be really really wrong.
Also, I've never told them what my visits to the doctor are about because I don't want them to feel 'abnormal'. I occasionally wonder if at the end of this, if one of them, or both of them, doesn't get the diagnosis we're after, will I fight for it? I'm not sure. Today's society of labels creates a vision of what is 'normal' and labels what is not. I don't want my kids to feel like outsiders. We are all individual snowflakes, each with our own quirks. So maybe, treating them differently is exactly what I should be doing. They are not the same child, the same rules do not apply (to a certain extent of course, because no-one is allowed to throw shoes at Mummy's head!). When Ed starts to get grouchy, we encourage him to spend some time alone to gather his thoughts, either in another room with some Lego or on Minecraft. When Bean punches me in the tummy, I ask him politely not to do that (he doesn't listen). I don't naughty step them, because for them, that is a cruel torture device (I understand it works for others, I'm not judging). In fact, when Bean gets really out of hand and can't be distracted, I sit down and hug him, because sofa time with Mummy seems to help when his head's exploding.

But Ed will never be able to cope with the well meaning but heavily sarcastic remarks made by strangers. The other day, while we were paying for our shopping at the checkout, the stupid cashier commented on his thick hair and asked if he could have it. I knew the exact thoughts that were passing through his mind and his shocked expression confirmed my fears. I do so wish people would stop that.
Maybe they both need t-shirts (in their favourite colours of course);

Bean's.

Ed's.

I Ain't Scared...I Think.

Lately I've been cleaning our local preschool every evening. Being alone in that place doesn't bother me, it's chocca full of evidence that children have been there playing to their hearts content. It's a happy place. Cleaning up there is very similar to home so it's no hardship. 
But when it goes dark outside I scare myself silly.

Talking about it with the manager a few days ago I admitted to closing the blinds in case zombies find me.
This is a very real fear.
Think about it, if the world came to an end in any other way, I'd notice.
Asteroid crash, I'd notice the explosion.
Acid rain, I'd hear it on the tin roof. 
A big freeze, I'd notice. There's no heating on by the time I'd get there brrrrr.
I may even notice a sudden influx of fire breathing dragons.
But a zombie apocalypse...that could creep up on me. The world as we know it could come to an end and I wouldn't notice a thing, I wouldn't hear the scratches of zombie fingers at the door over the vacuum cleaner. But if I keep the blinds closed, maybe they wouldn't notice I'm there all alone, tasty brains and all. I could keep myself locked in, raiding the coffee and biscuit supplies, indefinitely.
There was an incident the other day. As I hoovered, I suddenly heard a screech, a proper blood curdling scream. My head filled with a wide variety of swearwords before I remembered I'd just hoovered up a tiny piece of paper. Once it passed through, the screaming died away.

It seems as though fear has been a big part of my life the past few weeks. 
I don't know what it's like where you are, but here, every September the house is full of spiders. Now, of course, the sensible me knows they are always here and you only see them in September because they come out for mating season, but still, let's not dwell on that too long, I may freak out. I hate spiders. They make my skin crawl. Just writing this is giving me actual shivers. They have been massive this year. It got to the point where every day I was coming across a great big beastie. I had thought it might de-sensitise me some what, but it hasn't helped at all. And I never did get over the whole Driving with Miss Muffet incident.
A few weeks ago, while putting a new duck house (what I made all by myself!) into the duck pen, I managed to get a spider on me. There had been a lot of bugs in there, but I'd remained brave. I thought I was fine, until while carrying something into the house, both hands full, I could feel something crawling on the back of my neck. I couldn't do anything about it until I'd put the things down, but I managed to get into the house, put them down, and yank off the creepy crawly which turned out to be a spider I'd seen previously.
I knew exactly how it had happened; it had been on a plank of wood which I fallen back onto during a clumsy moment. I tried not to completely freak out, and my darling husband congratulated me on keeping my cool, but inside I was jelly.
Then, last week, while loading the washing machine, I felt that same tickle on the back of neck. I brushed it off only to knock a little spider straight into my bra. I couldn't fish it out, so I squished it against my boob. Then I had to do a funky little bending over dance to get the corpse out of there without touching the damn thing.
Whenever these things happen, my skin crawls for hours after. Sometimes I have to change my clothes when a 'spider check' (you know, when you get someone to check your back in case something is there you can't see yourself) isn't enough to stave off the creepies.

Kinemortophobia; fear of a zombies. I can't say it or spell it but I obviously have it. 

According to Wiki, phobia is an irrational fear.
It doesn't make any real sense for me to be scared of either spiders or a zombie apocalypse. 

I know this.
I'll have to get past it somehow. On the plus side, nothing has ever happened, I've never been bitten by a spider, or even a zombie. My worst fears are very unlikely to happen, so there's really no point. 
As I write this, I got a call from someone who will be popping into preschool while I clean tonight, warning me not to cack myself when the door suddenly opens. Thanks for the warning! I needed it haha. Can you imagine?

So, what are you scared of? 
I once knew someone who was sacred of buttons. Oddly, we were on a fashion design course together. Now that is silly!
Tell me, what's the silliest, most unreasonable thing you are scared of? Feel free to entirely embarrass yourself :)

PS. If like me, you are of a slightly delicate nature, do not under any circumstances google image search the words 'fear', especially 'fear of zombies'!

Selfie Mummy

Before we got married and had children, Mr Strawberry and I used to go on road trips and he'd snap the two of us. It became 'a thing' we had to do. It was awesome.

Now it seems it's a thing everyone has to do...but alone in front of a bathroom mirror...with a duck face pout.
Weird.
One of the many reasons I'm glad we didn't have Facebook during my youth.

However, I enjoy being an iPhone generation Mummy.

With phone in hand, I am constantly taking pictures of my little guys and playing online games during the more mundane parts of our days. But when I scroll through the mountains of photos I’ve taken of my children, my husband occasionally pops up but my face is quite rare.

It’s an argument I’ve brought to his attention many times in the past but the poor soul just simply never thinks I might like him to take a photo of me and the boys as we go about our business. I started handing him my phone at opportune moments and he’d take one really crap photo. He has since learnt to just leave his finger on the button and thankfully there’s usually one that's half decent.

We recently went to a family wedding. When we arrived, I took one of Mr Strawberry and I, since we were all dressed up. I was done up to the nines, which is highly unusual for me. I was even feeling extra brave a wearing red lipstick, so it seemed a waste not to.

During the day we ended up going on an unexpected miniature train ride. I guess I must have been lost in the moment (train ride!! The boys and I may have been a little excited) and I took loads of selfies of us all in our little train cabin.

I remember when I was planning my wedding, my darling Mother recommended I get a good photographer because when the day is over, it's all so manic you barely remember anything. She was so right! Years later, I have a few vague memories but I've got a ton of photos which depict the day perfectly. Without them, I'm certain I would question whether it happened at all. So, if that's the case, how am I going to prove to my ageing self that I was present in my children's upbringing? 

My 2014 file of photos, all taken on my phone, already exceeds 12GB. That's a lot of photos. I'm in about four of them. It's bad enough as a mother you lose a sense of self; everything becomes about the baby and we don't have much time for the things we used to enjoy, but to vanish from the photo folders too? 

That's pants. 

And it's time to take matters in to our own hands.

With this thought sitting at the back of my mind, I went away for a weekend for some time to myself and to catch up with an old friend.

Safe to say, I went a bit 'selfie' mad.

Outside my first youth hostel experience (obviously, tired).

Outside the Globe Theatre.

Outside the Tate Modern.

Checking for Dementors at the Millinium bridge.

In front of a Monet.

Outside St Pauls.

With a friend and bright blue telephone box (not the TARDIS).

Outside the National Gallery.

With a blue chicken in Trafalgar Square.

When I was posing for the last one, a bloke offered to take it for me and I told him I was "doing a thing" (plus I was never going to hand my iPhone to a stranger!). Probably came across a little crazy but hey ho.

So, grab your phones, take lots of pictures of the kids, then turn the phone around or press that snazzy button and take some of you too. You know you'll regret it if you don't and when the kids are gone, all you'll have is a much older face and no photos of that less wrinkly version you used to wear when you were busy taking photos of other people.

I'm Trying Not to Regret the Little Things, But it's Difficult When I'msuch a T**t.

Ever have one of those moments that you wish you could take back?

Not the big moments we all regret but the little seemingly insignificant ones.

And I'm not even talking about those moments when you should have reached in for that kiss - it took me about 9 hours of talking all night and drinking cheap white wine to kiss my now husband - or the moments you shouldn't have, like when it was my boyfriend's friend. 

I'm talking about the ones that stay in your brain and crop up all the time, even though you know you're being silly. Those times you made a bit of a tit of yourself and just wish you could take back.

I used to be an avid over thinker. I would go over all the conversations and social situations I had been in over the previous few days, cross examine them intensively and often found a excuse to wish for a rewind button. These days I try to be a little easier on myself. Mostly I think people are too wrapped up in their own lives to over think me and the silly things I do, in the same way I never notice anyone else's strange behaviour and wonder if they wish they had a re-do option. Training myself to stop over thinking has been one of my biggest challenges but I'm getting there.

But there are some moments that just won't go the hell away.

When I was quite new as a Mummy and showering was done in a rush, there was one time when I found what I first thought to be cream cheese in my ears. Unfortunately, when I found it I was in the company of someone I don't know particularly well but someone who was important to my Mother's life in a business sense. Sleep deprived, my thoughts were spoken aloud as I wondered how the hell my little boy had managed to get cheese in both my ears. We hadn't eaten any in a few days at least.

I later of course discovered that while showering (in our freshly installed shower after being so used to having a bath for my daily cleanse) I was washing my face scrub into my ears, where those little dishes collected it and it remained all day until my next shower, where I added more.

These days rinse my ears thoroughly, probably too thoroughly, but the memory pops into my head every single time. I pine for a chance to take it back, to explain, it wasn't that I was filthy, quite the opposite. But it'll never happen.

This one doesn't crop up very often. Thankfully my memory is so bad I don't remember even 10% of the stupid things I've done but still, it's there in the back of my mind.

We haven't been on holiday in a few years which is probably just as we'll because last time we went, while getting dressed fresh from the sea, caught up in a moment of beach dudette-ness, feeling rather free spirited, as I dried the salt water from my body and shoved my clothes on under my towel, I accidentally showed my lady garden to my little sister's boyfriend. If I could have contained myself a little better, it wouldn't have happened.

There's obviously no way round some of the stupid stuff I've done, I just have to let it go. Put it down to experience and try to keep my damn mouth shut in future, or at least invest in a bigger towel.

It's funny because I do not regret the bigger stuff. 

There is a vague niggle of regret for not finishing my degree in London when I was at a truly prestigious university, but had I not moved and finished it elsewhere, I would not have met, and consequently married, my soul mate. 

All of my decisions, however good or bad, all led me to where I am, who I am now.

Yesterday, very aptly, while reading the work of a friend I came across a poem which really struck a chord. I'm certain he won't mind me sharing it with you here. Bare with me, it's long and won't be to everyone's taste (contains swear words, drug use & mentions sex), but give it a go.

A Three-Part Harmony in a Deep Sleep.

By Christopher P.P. White.

Smoking on the tenth floor

Of ten-story car parks

With a joint that wilts

Like a dying rose;

Grasping onto sanity

Whilst the walls

Covered in graffiti

Spin like a laundromat's innards.

My feet pointing upright,

The smell of a strangers urine in my nostrils,

The flickering spotlights flicker

In time to my tune-

A normal Friday night, I say,

As I drift off to a slumbered state.

Drinking the contents

Of acquaintances' fridges

At house parties and runaway homes.

Bottles of cheap beer and corner shop wine

Flood my lungs

And their voodoo curse

Attacks my lucidity with force;

I end up on the railings

Of a Jehovah's Church,

Under the new day's watch

With the help of police officers

And the responsibilities that the law provides.

I've slurred in front of the cops

Far too many times.

Not a day goes by

That I don't miss the drugs,

The booze, the recklessness,

The deep conversations under

A cloud of smoke,

The all nighters in pool halls,

The excitement of attraction,

The laughing fits,

The music--

THE FUCKING MUSIC!

The falling asleep to indie films,

The bubbling euphoria of being young

And being alive and wanting

To wake up and live the whirlwind

All...over...again.

I miss it.

Who wouldn't?

I would live through that beautiful mess

Every day for the rest of my life

If I could.

I'd rather have those times than

Gaze upon a sandy beach,

A fuck with no repercussions,

A guzzle of a £200 bottle of red wine,

A substantial win on the lottery,

A day in space,

A week abroad,

A meal cooked in a Parisian restaurant,

A second shot at being a kid again,

A striptease,

A new book of poems,

A look through old photos,

A freshly rolled cigarette,

A dance to a great song,

A first breath in an intrepid breeze,

A world without Jazz,

A time without war...

I would live through the intoxicated youth again,

The failed relationships,

The sleepless nights,

The self-loathing after a bender,

The lonely beds,

The tears,

the abuse,

The pain,

Anger,

Sorrow,

I would live through my years as a failure

And make all of those bad mistakes again,

Because it led me to you.

The book, his second collection of poetry, is available here.

Comment below and tell me an embarrassing story that makes you wish you had a 'do-over'. 

Complete with gruesome details please. 

I need you to make me feel better about showing my muff to a boy half my age.

Love to you all xxx

Mummy & Ed's Weekend in London Town

I should've posted this ages ago. Ed and I went to London the weekend after I went with Bean.

Putting his transformer together.

We took the train where Ed got his new toy car and kre-o transformer, just as Bean did. Nanny came with us because she had a meeting to go to in Westminster and she bought him a chocolate milkshake too.

Impressed by the train stoppers.

A little grumpy after a long train journey.

Our first stop was Westminster to drop off Nanny and see Big Ben.

Obligatory Big Ben selfie.

I wanted to take him round the square to see Abe Lincoln (just like his lego figerine) but we never made it. He only wanted to climb.

Playing with different viscosities.

Off we went to the Science Museum in South Kensington. We had a little sit down outside before we went in to gather ourselves (Ed needs lots of little breaks to keep him sane) and eat some lunch. 
Inside there are lots of steam powered engines which made Ed very happy.


There's so much to see and do in there. 

Spinning different viscosities.

Bubbles!

We spent ages at the bean sorter, where there are so many various methods of moving the beans (and beans all over the floor!). Ed loved it and insisted on having a go on all the different parts. I have a vague memory of playing with this as a child myself but it cant be the same one...thirty years later...can it?

Ed loved the electronics section too. He is so in need of a set at home, and since it turns out I suck at it, it wouldn't be a bad idea to get one for Christmas haha.

This massive dish is the most beautiful thing! Every few minutes a little conveyor belt dumps a few crystals of dry ice in there and they whizz around making the most stunning patterns until they're spent. We stayed for a little while just watching the magic happen.

 We then moved on to a massive hanger full of aircraft. Ed was blown away by the differnt kinds of planes and engine parts.

Towards the end we made it downstairs to finally get a closer look at that steam engine. Sadly, the engineers must have gone on a tea break because it had just been turned off. Ed was super dissappointed and went on a hunt for something that did work.

He found this but it only turned every few minutes and he kept panicking, thinking it was broken.

 After a trip round the museum shop to spend his money and buy his brother something, we headed out. He hadn't let me get a coffee from anywhere all day. It had been too long and a day of running round after Ed, him refusing to hold my hand or at least stop running off had taken it's toll. By the time we got outside I was in tears and on the phone to Mr Strawberry. We spent an hour sitting on a little green, him sulking, me crying. Then we just sat there listening to the buskers (there was a lady singing at her piano, it was so calming and lovely) and watching the plastic bottle robot guy.
After a while we made friends again, had a few snacks and then he instigated this photo.

There are no words.

Ed & Nanny at the top of a double decker.

 After a while, Nanny finished in her meeting so we met up with her agian and got a big red double decker bus, where he chose not the front seat but the very back.

Super happy Ed in a cable car.

Two bus rides, a tube and a DLR train later, we finally made it to the Emirates Airline Cable car. Ed loved it even more than he thought he would!

The O2 from the cable car. 

On the way back to the tube station, Ed, lover of all water falls and fountains, spotted this and simply had to go investigate.

Though I know this a great photo of him doing a delightfully silly pose, I also know the extreme meltdown which happened straight after. The constant meltdowns meant that this was the last photo as we soon made our way back to Euston to catch the last train home a day early than planned. My nerves were fried and my temper blown. I know in hindsight there's a lot I could've done better, but don't we all feel that way? Especially with kids who need that little extra attention.

He was happier once he was home, but at least I can say I tried. Although he loved seeing the sights and stuff, London isn't safe enough for a boy who constantly runs off and has drop to your knees meltdowns at the flick of a switch.

Life = Mess

This morning, as my boys ate their breakfast while reading the comic books I borrowed from the library yesterday, I posted this photo on Facebook.

Always feeling the need to show 'my best self', I actually cropped out most of the mess.

Later, while perusing Facebook, I spotted a this post shared by a friend and, fresh from my mess cropping, it struck an obvious chord. 

So, in the spirit of honesty, this is what it actually looks like. 

It is a mess and I don't like mess, but I love this room.

For a start, check out how much natural light floods in! In fact, we have to close the curtains in the afternoon because the sun blinds us as it sets over the garden. I haven't lined the curtains intentionally so that they diffuse the light without blocking it completely. 

You can't tell from this photo, but the book shelf is collapsing, presumably from over use. Too many books is no bad thing. I'll get new shelves soon because it's getting a bit risky. The whole thing is leaning over, resting on the wall, but soon the shelves will dislodge sending their contents spilling to the floor - hopefully not on top of a small boy!

The window sill is covered in magazines, mostly home decor related (oddly enough) and toys. The magazines have been there for over a year but they can't go into the recycling before I've ransacked them for inspiration. Until a week ago, there was actually twice as many but I've finally been finding time to go through them.

The table, ah the table. I've been meaning to clear it and probably will today while the man beasts are at school. It has the remains of Ed's breakfast bowl and his Spider-Man comic, the newspaper I was reading earlier (which a school friend has featured in due to her recent charitable efforts), the laptop after our Mathletics session last night, a flyer from the library telling us when the boys Summer Reading Challange award ceremony is, the boys homework, Mr Strawberry's fishing books, and of course lots and lots of toys. As I've mentioned before, the boys lost their playroom recently and their stuff was moved to the dining room, which means I basically lost my dining table. In a few months we'll be rebuilding the entire kitchen and it will include a little dining booth so the boys can have this space, it's all theirs. It's only fair after all. I'll put up with dinner surrounded by stuff for now. I'm looking forward to removing the big table and replacing it with a boy sized table so they have more floor space.

For now, I don't really care how messy it is, this space is so heavily used by the boys, and they leave their mark on it, even if it's with everything they've playing with for the last few days. They sit at this table for hours on end playing and chatting. 

The Momastery post pointed out the horribly obvious things we take for granted and I always enjoy being reminded of those things. I get that spine tingling eureka moment every time (probably because my memory is so terrible) that no! It doesn't matter if my walls aren't a chic duck egg blue or whatever trendy right now, WE live here. 
We love here. 
We learn here.

That is all that really matters.

The image we are sold by the media of pristine homes is no different from the images of skinny chicks. Real life is quite different. We won't all look like Kate Moss and and we won't all have 'show home' houses. I admire anyone who can keep up with the mess of children and keep their homes much closer to 'perfect' than I can seem to keep mine. It's too time consuming for me and I have too many other things I really want to spend my time on. It's all about priorities I guess, and while I refuse to judge anyone else for how they chose to spend their time (so long as it's not detrimental to other people), I don't want to be judged for mine. In my opinion life is for living and cleaning shouldn't take priority over doing interesting stuff, at least not alllll the time anyway.

In the past, I often caught myself not taking a photo simply because the background was an absolute tip, or at least not posting it on Facebook. I didn't want people to see the mess we live in most days. I've spent so long fighting against various issues to get my house nice (mostly Mr Strawberry's inability to throw anything out), it still hasn't happened but I'm not going to let it hold me back.
Screw it! 
Like life, my house is transitory and that always means mess. Mr Strawberry and I are always talking about what we want to do with the house (we moved in seven years ago and still haven't finished fixing it up).
I'll obviously keep tidying and cleaning, but I won't ever not a take a photo just because of the mess.
So, excuse my unpainted skirting boards and drawn on walls. Excuse me if I haven't managed to vacuum today. Excuse the cereal bar wrappers and dirty dishes (my growing boys eat too often to be able to keep up with the mess). Let's enjoy our lives and take lots of photos because soon they'll move on and they won't leave their mess here. All I'll have is our memories and allllll those photos. I won't be looking at the mess in the background. I'll be remembering those smiles, those infectious giggles and those moments when we laughed until our sides hurt. 
And hopefully they'll  come over for Sunday dinner and leave my table in a mess again.

Back to School

For those of you who don't know, until last week when they started a new school, for the past year I had been home educating my little boys. Ed was in reception when Bean didn't get a school place at the same school so I began delving into other options and came across home eduction. It's not very common in this country, but it's growing rapidly, for example; one of the long established Facebook support groups I joined last June had around 500 members. Just 14 months later, it currently stands at 4800. At the time, Ed was struggling with school. He seemed to spend his day bottling up his angst, only to explode the moment I picked him up at 3pm. Twice a week he would bolt with me running behind with slowcoach Bean, usually in his buggy even at four years old, just so I could keep up with Ed or encourage him to ride on the back. I'd usually find him hiding in the bushes but I'd always have to check the road first (as you do). It was highly stressful for us all. The meltdowns would last all evening, only to start again in the morning.

In the beginning, I lovingly spent my evenings planning projects and creating worksheets on things they were interested in. I excitedly envisaged a more relaxed life full of trips to the library, museums, the beach and of course lots of home ed groups. 
Unfortunately what I got was quite different.

I did a bit of reading on 'Unschooling' and, alongside covering the basics, I wanted to encourage the boys to be able to fill their time unguided, playing and learning as they went. A lot of our friends were unschoolers and it's a great way of life, but I always had that worry in the back of my mind. I tried to ensure they always understood the importance of knowing how to read and write, I made sure they always saw me reading and I of course read to them every day. When they started to refuse to join me making lap books about various subjects, I started doing them on my own regardless. I wanted them to see that even as a 'growed up' I love learning new things. Ed loves science and maths so the house was always full of strange experiments and Bean loves boardgames so there was always those times when regardless of how busy I thought I was, everything was dropped when he handed me a box.
I never heard the words "I'm bored". I never have. 
However, having two boys playing all day meant I could never see my floor for all the toys strewn everywhere. 
It also meant I ended up with two boys who did what they liked, whenever they liked and never wanted to listen to what I said, especially if is was any kind of structured learning or tidying up time. Our days were full of hissy fit after hissy fit, some of which were my own.
My projects and worksheets went ignored. Every time I got them out, they'd scarper faster than I could say 'bumble bee'.
I found it challenging to take them anywhere. With two boys running at entirely different speeds; Ed would steam ahead while Bean lagged behind, making even the zoo a risk. I lost Ed on multiple occasions and soon gave up trying to take them anywhere. Even the food shop was saved for when I could leave them at home with Daddy. We went to home ed groups about twice a week and I made a lot of marvellous friends, but the boys mostly played together and didn't seem to make any real connections with the other kids. Sure, they'd have moments when they all played together and it was beautiful to watch, but we all lived so far apart it was difficult to move to the next level of friendship.
I turned my workroom into a playroom where we had space to learn together. It was awesome but it meant all my stuff had to be moved to the dining room and when I was working on a series of art pieces, one of the boys destroyed them while they were drying in the kitchen. Without a room to ban them from, all my work was around the house, much to it's peril. Losing that was the last straw and a few weeks ago I moved it all back round again, toys downstairs, my craft stuff upstairs, taking my workroom back.

The resentment which has built up in between us is sob-worthy. My relationship with my children, especially Ed my eldest, suffered and I had to do something. I couldn't keep hiding in the kitchen where I could let my tears fall away from concerned little eyes.

So after months of angst, worrying about what to do for the best, I applied for school places right at the end of the summer term. I was terrified that starting back at school might be the worst thing I could do to them, the most damaging to their delicate self esteem, but what use am I to them as a big old mess? I was too stressed, too snappy and in desparte need of my own space. Surely any damage school might inflict cannot be as bad as being brought up by someone like me in this state.

I still don't know if school is the answer. I think I possibly should've found a way to chill the hell out, but I had been trying for so long. It was time to accept that I am my own person who needs to work, projects and time alone. I of course enjoy working alongside them; they play while I sew, that's cool. But it never felt like I was doing enough.

I had wanted them to learn naturally rather than at the National curriculum rate, which in my opinion is too rigid, too hard and fast and far too early. I did attempt to go through a phonics system with them, which Ed already knew from his reception year but every time I pulled out my worksheets they would recoil and it promptly ensued another hissy fit. This means that now they are back in school, they are both a year 'behind' everyone in their classes. I knew this would happen, but I'm hoping that since their brains are that little bit older, they might be able to cope with the sheer amount of information waiting for them to soak up a little better. I might be wrong. I feel like it could go either way; they may steam through it and be OK or it may be irrevocably damaging to their self esteem. The only thing I can do is help pick up the pieces and help them along any way I can.

The worst part of all this is, being the mother, I feel entirely responsible. It's all my own fault. I was, still am, simply trying to make the best decision for all of us. I'm doing the best I can with what I've got. That's all anyone can ask.

It's so quiet here. 

All my chores take literally half the time they took last week and my house is cleaner than it's been in ages. I know it shouldn't matter, but it does. I hate mess. I need a clean, tidy house, or at least as tidy as a builder's wife's house can be. My mind goes to jelly when everything around me is chaos.
I can listen to music at last, now that I don't have arguments or mischief to listen out for. One of the things they don't tell you about motherhood is how much you'll miss music. I reminisce of days spent with my stereo blasting some delightfully heavy rock/metal but I couldn't do it with the boys around. I cant trust them enough to take my eyes or ears off them for one minute haha.
There's so many things to do now I have time to myself, I'm still a bit bewildered and lost. My days feel long but productive.

Thankfully, everything seems to be going OK for the boys too. Of course Ed gives me the "I don't want to go, it's boring" tune every morning, but he still goes in. Bean is just super happy - no change there then. Gone are the melt downs I used to have to contend with when Ed was last at school.

I'm still struggling to get Ed to do his homework and Bean is so behind I'm going through the basics with him every day to help him out, but I'm sure we'll get there eventually.

Of course, I miss my home ed friends. Home educators are the most open minded, friendly, heart warmingly welcoming people I have ever met and I know a huge majority of them understand my decision. What they are doing for their children is so hugely admirable and I have nothing but respect for them.

About Home Education.
For more info, I'd recommend checking out Education Otherwise and Educational Freedom.
If you want to know more about unschooling, this article is a great explanation in my humble opinion. It of course, as a concept, is always up for heavy debate, but like with a lot of things, especially parenthood, each person has to find their own way.