My cheese sandwich is not like the others. We all want to make a connection. We see a news story, read something on social media, or talk to a friend. We might think, “I know exactly what you mean!” But where we might see stunning similarities, others may only perceive glaring differences. My Cheese Sandwich …
So I’ve brought up both of my children up to be individuals. To celebrate that everyone is different. To understand that being unique is something to take pride in. My son is very different to most 10 year old boys. Not because he has Aspergers Syndrome or Autistic Spectrum Disorder … he really is quite eccentric. His …
I went to see my daughter perform in The Mikado on Saturday. It was great to see her on stage. Poised. Confident. Having fun. Part of a really quite ambitious school production. She was one of the Japanese maidens, and to see her singing in the chorus was just lovely. It’s hard to remember now how …
I love his face.
His ears reddening, his cheeks reddening, when he sees (knows)
He has done something wrong.
I love his range of facial expressions.
I hate myself for even loving the way his face crumples
in such vividly visual disappointment (in himself, in his toy).
His face speaks a thousand emotions, a thousand words to me.
His thick, thatchy hair (it spikes you to kiss).
His gappy teeth and square ‘little man’ jaw.
His wiry, robust and strong little body.
I want him to get the Stars Of Achievement.
I want him to read The Words.
I want him to reach the rainbow square and show them all.
Show them all.
I want his teachers to like and understand him.
I want other children to love him as I do.
He is so funny.
So, different.
I fear he will choose never to fit in,
and be lost forever.
I hold his warm little hand.
My heart is fierce with protective love; not soppy:
I am fighting my love,
To help him understand the sorrow of having
To ‘Fit in’
To ‘Do as he is told’
To ‘Be like all the others’.
To crush his exuberant madness,
His brainwaves,
His creative force.
To crunch him up,
Tight.
In a box.
Like school and society want.
Controllable, bland, Vanilla Boy.
Owey, Owey Oatflake.
Hide and hold a fragment of your beautiful, crazy, shiny self.
You have no idea how it will comfort you when you are older.
It’s the not taking part that counts.
the crone 