“That Mother”

My mum-life in badges

“He said he doesn’t want you there.”

There are some days it hits me.

The difference.

And most of the time, I deal with it okay…..now.

This week, my son earned an achievement award at school. They emailed me and asked if I’d like to attend the assembly. Like any other proud parent who is able to be there, my reaction was

“Amazing! Of course!”

For a split second.

But then, after deliberating the realities of the situation and the challenges it would present for him due to his additional needs, I sent an email back that said;

“I can in theory, but I’ll have to see how he feels about that.”

His teaching assistant spoke with him, and it transpired I was right, he didn’t want me there.

I know that today in assembly, the other parents will see him receive his certificate and they’ll look for me and wonder where I am.

And many will cast their aspersions.

It will compound the image they already have of me.

“That mum who ignores community events and fundraisers.”

“That mum who stands apart from the others at pick-up time.”

“That mum who can’t control her child.”

Mums of children with additional needs wear several labels and they are some of mine.

Here are some more.

“That mum who lets her child eat shit.”

(Because if I didn’t give him jam on his sandwiches, he wouldn’t eat any sandwiches at all)

“That mum who sends him in with no coat.”

(Because the battle that would ensue by trying to force the matter would mean he didn’t even reach school)

“That mum who arrives in a taxi every day that we’re no doubt paying for…..”

(Because the local council refused to put an escort on the bus which I wanted, would have been cheaper, and better for his independence)

The thing is, people make judgements about our situation - about me - based on a snippet they see.

So, here’s the whole story.

A story, I’ll tell in badges

Badge No 1 - The beautiful yellow one

I’d lived here in my town for years, hardly knowing a soul because I worked elsewhere. I had a baby and remember commenting;

“Wow! Everyone wants to talk to me, it’s so weird….like I’m wearing a badge that says ‘befriend me’”

It was a strange junction of life, new motherhood. Like reverting to being five years old again. A time when making friendships was as easy as strolling over to a kid and saying “I like your sandcastle”.

There I was, with this perfect infant, so wrigglingly delicious with his peach fuzz skin and ears that curved and folded as daintily as petals. Rose lips that quivered up and down endearingly in search of my breast.

By association, I was attractive because, who isn’t drawn to the beauty of new life with its innocence and wonder? Strangers smiled adoringly, old ladies melted and other people with babies gave soft cow-eyed gazes. The world felt like a friend. A newborn is such a leveller.

Oh, how I loved that first badge!

It was soft as primroses, cheery and fresh as daffodils. It shone like the sun, reflecting all the very best of human nature. People spoke in tones of spooned honey. Kind words nested in my heart as birds, laying to rest my fears with their warm, comforting down.

Instantly, I had friends of all social standings and backgrounds. My ‘badge’ meant I was part of a new club of mothers. It was a Spring of friendship like no other. We grabbed coffees together, hung out in the playground, attended singalongs in the library, treading first ground the way teenagers do. Surely we were the first group of mums to bond by means of these female rituals - swapping stories of the gory birth, latching on, colic and the consistency of poo.

Like a mum version of ‘Grease’, me and my ‘Pink Ladies’ swanned around that park like it was Rydell High. Felt like we owned it, and for a while, I guess we did.  I struggled so much at home alone that when not in the park, I would camp out in play gyms for the entire day. With this army of everyday angels around me, I felt empowered and able. I’d found the fabled ‘tribe’.

Over time, I observed my yellow badge had become a little tarnished. Doors weren’t opened quite so keenly. I couldn’t put my finger on it, only that the shine had gone.

I began to notice my son wasn’t smiling the way his peers did. He was clearly struggling in social situations. He would scream the place down if we entered a shop, not show interest when other babies smiled or held toys out to him.

It’s strange, the things people say that stick in your head. We were all having a picnic and this mum turned to me and said;

“You’re so lucky that yours never crawls off! He just stays there!”

Yeah, he did, didn’t he? Why was my baby different? The natural curiosity most kids have for each other, was absent. He would remain in one place, never wanting to leave my side.

A lady who worked at the Children’s Centre also noticed his differences - his sensitivity and clinginess - and would often compare him to her own child.

“Awww, he’s just like my Charlie was!”

She’d say. I knew what she meant when she said it, but it remained unspoken between us.

Her teenage son, was autistic and I knew that she knew, my son was autistic too.

She never dared say it.

Perhaps she thought it wasn’t her place.

Perhaps because I’d heard her speak of the trials she’d faced, navigating provision.

Perhaps because I’d heard her tell of the many challenges his behavioural problems posed.

Perhaps because she knew I would absolutely shit myself and superimpose all I’d heard her say on to my own child’s future.

Naturally, I did this anyway.

Badge No 2 - The scary red one

A new badge was fast taking the place of my once shiny yellow one.

It was red for danger.

It said “Avoid this woman”.

I knew I was wearing this badge because we stopped being invited to quite so many meet-ups. Not only this, (because some people were very kind and still did), we ourselves felt socially awkward attending them.

The excuses came.

The looks started.

I began to be called into Nursery to have ‘chats’ about stuff that had happened.

The peak of this ‘red badge’ period for me, was when a woman I’d spoken to happily for months, contacted school to say she didn’t want my child on the school bus with her own little girl. It felt like betrayal.

My badge grew redder.

It glowed like an embarrassing beacon, warning others to stay away.

It was no longer just visible close up, it could be seen from far away by any member of the public.

Like the time he kicked a stranger’s car or punched the Chip shop window repetitively. The time he ripped up plants in the park. The occasions he physically attacked me in full view of onlookers both friends and strangers, spitting and kicking.

“Avoid! Avoid! Avoid!”

My red badge screamed like a siren.

Sometimes, it sobbed.

And so commenced the appointments on our quest for help. The documenting. Taking photos, video evidence. Not to gain a ‘piece of paper for the sake of it’, as so many are fond of saying, but because that diagnosis was the only way we would be able to secure any help.

Where was my red badge club?

Badge No 3 - The sad, pale, grey badge

I sought out places supposedly for mothers *like me*.

Coffee mornings, charities. Special needs this, disability that. But, the problem was, the people I encountered weren’t like me.

Not the me I remembered myself as being, anyhow.

As I sat in these depressing dens of tea and sympathy, I at least no longer felt ostracised…..

On the contrary, I felt very welcomed - but into a place I didn’t want to be! This was a world of exhausted looks and sighs. Of drained shells of women who said;

“Huh! You think this is bad now? Well, wait until….”

Places where you lapped up any morsel of help as a grateful dog thrown scraps. And like that dog, you needed training. I was offered parenting courses, ‘tool kits’ and ‘opportunities to speak’.

“My name is Julie and I’m….”

I looked at my new badge and it was pale and grey. Weak. Pathetic.

It said ‘Victim’.

This wasn’t the sisterhood. This was the pity party and I sure as hell didn’t wanna be there. I’d never been the sort of person people felt sorry for and I was damned if I was honing her now!

I knew I didn’t need a bloody parenting course! The very idea sickened me. Appeasing authorities who were supposed to assist us. Absorbing concepts of blame to save on costs. If I stayed in these groups, attending these events, bleating about my situation, begging the council, this would become my identity. Whiner.

Fuck. That.

It was time for a new badge. I instinctively knew it would be one that I had to carve out myself.

A badge that said 

“He comes first. Judge me all you want, ‘cause we’ve seen it all.”

A badge that said

“I don’t need friendships built around my child, because as a woman, I have my own interests and attract friends on my own terms. I shine my own light.”

A badge that said

“My son may be different but he’s certainly equal and you give me any shit and I’ll be standing right up to you looking you in the eye and not taking it”

So I did.

And that’s the badge I’ve continued to wear.

I decided that as a mother I couldn’t afford to care about being accepted, being liked.

Wanting to fit in is literally playground politics, and my son’s needs had to come first. He needed a mum who could fight like a dog for him. And that meant, sometimes appearing like a bitch.

I still get twinges.

Today, when he attends that award ceremony and I’m not there watching, I know tongues will wag.

But…….I also know the cuddle we shared last night.

And how he told me he needs to compartmentalise school life and home life in his head, because mixing the two stresses him out.

And we both know how we said we’d celebrate his achievement tonight with a takeout pizza.

Badge No 4 - The invisible badge seen only by those who have been through similar

Later on today, to many, I’ll be wearing a badge of ‘bad mum’ at the school gates. Cause I’ll be the mum who skipped his presentation.

But, know what?

I know it really says ‘bad-ass mum’

And the ‘ass’ is only visible to those who have been in this same situation.

Who ‘get it’.

I see their badge and they see mine.

We no longer hang our heads and skulk in corners. 

We’ve arisen stronger, more capable versions of themselves than we ever thought possible.

What’s more, we no longer care who does or doesn’t see it.

I will be proud of my son today and I don’t need to be there to prove it, to anyone.

He will have his certificate and I, my badge. The one I wear prouder than any other.

Because, I’ve earned it.

It glitters, the most empowering badge I’ve ever worn.

A badge of honour.