First week

I know there is some controversy over the term ‘special school’ and so far when referring to Pudding’s new school I’ve been careful to use the official term specialist provision instead. But do you know what? After his first week there I’d like to say it IS special.

To be fair, most schools are special places, full of amazing teachers and hope for the future. (When they are not being destroyed by funding cuts, the need to teach irrelevant grammar, endless curriculum changes, etc, etc, but I won’t go off on a rant about that. Promise!)

But this place feels even more special to me. As I’ve said many times before, I’ve been so happy with the way Pudding’s mainstream school has done their best for him, welcoming him and all his ways into the school community. Yet, now I feel he’s in a place where he truly fits in. At mainstream, he would always stand out as being different and be treated as … well… a special case. But now, he’s with other children who have the same or similar needs.

Pudding in white school topIt is hard to describe the relief I felt on getting the first letter home describing what his class was going to get up to this half term. I no longer have to deal with the heart-sink of reading ‘this week we’re going to be looking at number bonds to twenty’ when my son can’t even count to two. Instead I read about an emphasis on mark-making, sensory play and grouping objects. They work on self-care and regulating emotions, do dance and explore stories in amazing interactive ways. It’s exciting watching this new future unfold in front of him.

His first day was unsettling of course – waving him off in a taxi and knowing that I wouldn’t get to speak to his teacher directly at pick-up like I’m used to. But as the week went on, we got into routine. Pudding happily looked out for the taxi each morning, and climbed into it looking very proud of himself. And in the afternoon his welcoming committee (me, T, Niece and Nephew) waited impatiently at the window for the first glimpse of his smiling face. We have a home-school communication book to pass messages back and forth. And pictures are regularly added to an online account so that I can see what they’ve been up to in class.

school

One of the biggest changes for me is the school run. I’m used to looking out the window first thing to check the weather, decide if we need the buggy cover. I’m used to getting boiling hot with the effort of pushing the buggy and stripping off layers by the time we reach school. Yet now, T and I saunter along and I could even have the luxury of an umbrella if it’s pouring. But oddly, I miss it. I miss other kids saying hello to him as they head to the nearby secondary. And I miss Pudding – even though I only see him for about an hour less each day. But it makes his greeting when he does get home even more special.

Apart from that, I literally couldn’t be happier. And Pudding seems pretty happy too, so win-win all round.

 

Photos

I love looking through baby photos, don’t you?

Those sweet little expressions they used to pull, the chubby cheeks, the memories they bring back…

And there’s the rub. Because the memories can be bitter sweet.

Whilst I enjoy Facebook’s On This Day feature – laughing at the funny things T used to say, or reminders of days out we enjoyed – sometimes it punches me with what could have been.

I might see a photo of the panto we went to a few years ago and realise that Pudding never says anything as clearly now as when he asked ‘Where de moo?’

A photo will come up of a hospital bed, and I’ll be transported right back to those terrible first few months where the only thing that seemed real was the knowledge that I couldn’t escape this nightmare.

Pudding aged 3Sometimes though the hardest photos of all are those from before diagnosis. When I had never heard the initials MPS. Photos from more innocent days. I look at his so-obviously-Hunters face and think ‘How could I not have known? Why didn’t I fight harder to get his delays looked into? Why did I let the professionals’ dismissals over-ride my concerns over the way he looked and acted? How could I have missed what is so obvious to me now?’

Pudding aged 2

But of course I couldn’t have known. I’d never seen a boy with Hunter Syndrome before. I didn’t know what that baby face with its broad nose and big forehead meant. I didn’t know what all the niggling little symptoms added up to. How could I have done? That’s the problem with rare diseases like mucopolysaccharidosis. You rarely see them.

And that’s why I keep on blogging and sharing pictures of Pudding. In the hope that one day, somebody somewhere will recognise these features in their own child and press for a diagnosis.

I can’t stop them feeling all that pain, but hopefully in the future they won’t be the one looking at happy memories and wondering why they didn’t know.