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HOW DO I KNOW IF MY CHILD IS ILL? - THE TERRIFYING, DISCONCERTING ASPECT OF SENSORY PROCESSING DISORDER

Our 8 year old is a very sensory little boy, which means he usually experiences things more and his senses are heightened - he gets more excited, more upset, happier than most other children, he just experiences things at a heightened level. His nervous system and the way it interprets signals from his body is just wired slightly differently.

Conversely, he also tends to feel some things less and this is the part that terrifies me.

He doesn't feel hunger, he forgets to eat and then will suddenly feel nauseated and go white as a sheet.

If he isn't experiencing or registering certain sensations how can I tell when my son is ill?

On his second day in Year 1 (his second day in his new school), C woke with a sore throat and just not feeling well. He was devastated when I kept him home from school that day but we had a snuggly, sofa day with ice lollies, treats and movies.

He woke the next morning full of beans and excited to be going to school. He was much improved so off he went.

Over the next two weeks he had the sniffles and a bit of a hoarse voice. I put it down to a cold and the fact that he was shouting at school - he doesn't really know how to talk quietly (I am still looking for his volume control) and he tends to shout and laugh excitedly a lot, especially on the playground.

He was sleeping well although he was snoring like a freight train.

One evening after school I noticed a huge lump on the back of his neck. I got him to the doctor as soon as I could and he was diagnosed with tonsillitis, which he had basically had for the two weeks since his first complaint of a sore throat and prescribed antibiotics. (The photo attached to this post is the lump six days after he started the antibiotics).

After that one day off school he didn't have any pain, didn't register a temperature, no complaints. The only symptoms were a runny nose, slightly hoarse voice and snoring!

I felt awful, my little boy had been fighting off tonsillitis for two weeks, whilst still going to school and carrying on everyday activities, and I had no clue. What kind of mother was I when I didn't even realise that my child was ill?

This is what freaks me out and terrifies me about Sensory Processing Disorder. If he is not feeling pain or registering a temperature, could he be ill and we would never know?

If course, it isn't consistent either. One day, when he was approximately 4, he was running around like crazy, having fun playing and chasing his sister. Every now and then he would stop to catch his breath, something he wouldn't normally have to do and I noticed that his shoulders were going up and down with each breath as if he was struggling.

I checked him and he felt very hot, I got the thermometer and his temperature was above 39 degrees. It transpired that he had a nasty chest infection and required antibiotics.

So I am now left with the anxiety of him being ill and me not realising. What if he is ill with something serious and not recognising pain or discomfort? How will we know?

Like every parent, I try to get the balance right between protecting my children whilst also giving them the freedom to grow and become independent. How do I stop myself becoming a “Helicopter” parent? How do I prevent myself from overreacting and rushing to the doctors for any slight symptom.

I think that all parents second guess themselves on a regular basis. Having a child with Sensory Processing Disorder takes things to a whole new level.

Poor C, every time he has a hoarse voice or snores during the night, I am checking his throat, looking for any signs of infection.

Life is certainly keeping us on our toes!

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Bullying - a parent's feeling of helplessness and despair

Our beautiful 8 year old son is full of fun, he loves getting involved and joining in activities and his greatest pleasure is to make friends and make people laugh.

He was diagnosed with ASD in July 2017, something we were expecting as he is a very sensory little boy and a diagnosis for which we spent years battling so we could get him the appropriate support.

In the classroom environment he copes well and excels academically. However, he really struggles socially, despite all his efforts (or possibly, partially, as a result of them).

We didn't have a diagnosis when he started school but he was already under the care of a paediatric consultant as well as Occupational therapy, Physiotherapy and Speech and Language and school had been provided with all the relevant information.

Even so, he did not receive any support at the school, the Senco informed me that he was fine, just spirited. It transpired that she was clueless, just lazy!

The bullying started in the December of his first term in Reception - so his very first term in school when he was 4 years of age - a wonderful introduction to school life!! At least that is when we were first aware of it.

He arrived home from school with two huge scratch marks down his back, the result of the boy who was standing behind him deciding he didn't like him and was going to hurt him - just like that. They had been practicing their nativity play in the hall and, prior to the scratch, there had been no interaction between them. And so it began....

Over the next few months he would come home, almost on a daily basis, having been punched and/or kicked, covered in scratch marks, bruises or grazes and his glasses were broken on numerous occasions. All the action of one boy and the little posse he was rounding up.

How my son felt about his day was dependent on whether this boy had hurt him or not. The only good day he had at school was when this bully, T (who was in my son's class) , was off ill.

I was constantly speaking to his (ineffective, chocolate teapot of a) class teacher who took absolutely no action. Her response was to tell me that my child needed to calm down and learn boundaries.

I was desperate, my son was being hurt yet his teacher was doing less than nothing to help support him. I wrote numerous emails and letters to the Head Teacher and was constantly told that things were in hand.

In the March, my poor little boy was really struggling. He wouldn't talk about school (other than to tell me what he had eaten for lunch), he started bedwetting, having nightmares and crying out in his sleep.

His appetite was affected and my wonderful, bright, enthusiastic little boy was now sobbing on the way to school, saying that he didn't want to go.

I was full of despair and didn't know where to turn. I had spoken to school on so many occasions but nobody could shed any light on what was occurring. His class teacher would raise her eyes to heaven when she saw me coming - that's how little she cared and lacked respect about the whole situation, she just wasn't bothered.

This went on for weeks and I was at the end of my tether. How could I help my boy if I couldn't find out what was going on??

I am so lucky in that I have an excellent, caring, supportive friend whose son was also in my son's class. He told his Mum about something that happened on the playground.

One lunchtime, my son, C was playing on the playground when he was approached by T and two of his little gang. They proceeded to tease C and push him around and then T told the others that they should pull C's trousers down.

So two of these little monsters pulled my son's trousers and pants down in the middle of the playground. My child was pleading with them to stop and screaming for help but none came.

My heart broke for my little boy, he must have felt so alone and helpless and nobody came to his aide.

I sat with him that night and asked if something had happened at school "No, Mommy". I asked if something happened on the playground with his trousers "No, Mommy". I then told him that I had heard something happened with three boys (let's call them Tom, Dick and Harry) and that they had pulled his trousers down.

He then told me "No Mommy, Tom said to do it, Dick only thought about doing it but didn't, it was mainly Harry and Tom that did it".

My heart broke. I held my child and tried to comfort him as best I could. I told him that I would be going in to see the head teacher the next day as that should never have happened to him (or any other child). I stayed with him as long as I could before he needed to sleep, which he did that night for the first time in weeks.

I went downstairs and sobbed for my son. He had been carrying this by himself and trying to cope with it all and I have never felt so useless and worthless as a mother. I didn't protect my child.

The next morning I saw the head teacher. When I told him what happened, his response was "We have adequate supervision on the playground at lunchtime" (yeah right, and where were they all when my son was screaming for help?). His action with the bully? He took the positive reinforcement approach and the following Friday, T was given praise at the weekly Praise Assembly. What kind of message did that send my son? Needless to say, my son started the following school year in a different school.

Fast forward a few years and my son was now in Year 3, the first year on the Key Stage 2 playground. Around April time, his behaviour changed.

He would always struggle for a while after he came home from school, something I believe is quite common with children on the spectrum. They have been trying to act "normal" all day, to not stand out, holding all their anxieties and stresses in so that by the time they get home, they're like little pressure cookers needing release.

I was used to this and understood that he needed that time. However, around April this behaviour intensified and the upset and meltdowns were reaching new levels. He started wrapping himself up in his sheet when going to sleep, literally winding it around his head and body so that he resembled a little Mummy. Every night I would have to unwind the sheet from around his head terrified that he would smother himself in his sleep. He was obviously craving that sensory input.

I tried to decipher what was going on but was getting nowhere. He told me that school was "brilliant" or "perfect" and no other details were forthcoming.

I called into the school, spoke to the Senco and the Parent Liason, but they didn't know of any issues. His class teacher said he was coping brilliantly in the classroom and seemed happy and settled so whatever was going on was happening on the playground.

This went on for weeks and, again, I felt helpless and in despair that I couldn't find a way to help my son.

One Sunday morning, as we were leaving his football training, I got a phonecall from a Mum of a boy in his class. He had told her that C had been the target of two boys for a few months and they had been bullying him, physically and verbally for all that time.

I burst into tears, partly in relief that I finally knew what was going on and I could finally take some action to help him.

When we got home I asked him if anyone had been hurting him - "No Mommy". Then I said, what about 'X'. I asked if X had been hitting him "Yes Mommy", had he been punching, again Yes, tripping him up "no Mommy, not really", pushing him to the ground "yes", saying mean things "yes".

I then asked who this person played with and we went through the same questions for each of those children. I told C that I would be going to speak to the parent liason the next morning.

As it happened, she wasn't available so I asked to speak to the head teacher. She was very busy with overseas visitors who had just arrived in the school but she took the time to see me briefly.

I filled her in on everything that had been happening and she told me that she would deal with it personally that day.

She phoned me that afternoon to inform me that she had spoken to the two main culprits and they admitted what they had been doing. Both boys were shocked that they had been found out as they knew that C wouldn't tell ����

She had spoken to the boys' parents and also made a note of what transpired in case there were any future incidents.

I spoke with C and let him know what had transpired and pointed out that within 24 hours of my finding out about the bullying action had been taken to stop it and help him. I explained that my job was to keep him safe but I can only do that if I know what is happening.

He looked at me and said "Mommy, why are you crying? You are making tears come in my eyes". I held him and told him that I was upset because he had been trying to deal with this all by himself and that upset me because he has so many people who will help him.

I am hoping that our little boy will realise that he can turn to us when things happen so that we can help. My job is to keep him safe and I will always strive to do my best to achieve that. Any bully will face the wrath of Momma Bear 🐻

[lifewith2loopykids-blog]

Invisible Disability Week

I think this is going to be a bit of a self indulgent post (so apologies in advance). Although I have a child, potentially 2 children, with hidden disabilities, our 8 year old ASD son and our 6 year old daughter just been referred for assessment, I also have hidden disabilities - Fibromyalgia, Spinal Stenosis and cervical spondylitis as well as a malaligned kneecap, Golfers Elbows, IBS - I think I should just see a vet!

It all began in July 2013. I had just driven home from dropping both children to nursery and, as I got out of the car, I felt a twinge in my back. I thought it was just stiffness so decided to get changed and go for a run. I only made it around 15 steps before the pain increased so I headed back for a shower, thinking it would help. I managed to mostly get dressed afterwards before the pain intensified and I could barely move, never mind contemplate putting my socks on.

The pain was so acute and intense that I walked out of the house seeking help. Luckily, two neighbours were just driving passed and they stopped to help me. When they saw the level of pain I was suffering, they offered to take me to A&E.

Before we left, my neighbour, Barbara, came inside to help me put my socks and shoes on - Barbara herself being crippled with Parkinsons Disease but, in that moment, she was the more able-bodied of the two of us.

It transpired that a disc had slipped/herniated and I was given pain killers before being sent home to rest (with two children under 3.5years).

A few months later, with the help of a lot of physio, I was improving, albeit still with pain. One of my most vivid memories of these months is going for physio on Christmas Eve. The physio was treating me with acupuncture at this stage.

I arrived for my appointment at approximately 2.30 on Christmas eve, passing a number of staff on the way in who were finishing early for the holidays. I went into the room, lay face down on the bed and the physio proceeded to place 6 acupuncture needles in my lower back and upper buttock area for the sciatica pain. He then said that he would leave me for a few minutes for them to take effect.

Picture the scene, me alone in a large room with a number of empty bays, lying face down with needles protruding from my butt, in silence. I lay there so long that the lights, which were on sensors, turned off. So there I am in the dark, timidly calling out "Helllooooo", wondering how I was going to get the needles out!! The physio did eventually return and release me.

One morning in February 2014, I woke up with pain in my neck, across my shoulder and down my arm. I tried to have some breakfast so that I could take some ibuprofen but I could barely get the spoon to my mouth.

Thankfully, my husband was home that day and he drove me to the local walk in surgery. The only way I could get in any way comfortable sitting in the car was holding my arm over my head - it was entertaining to see so many people "waving back" at me as we drove along.

After weeks of this pain, I was sent for an MRI scan and it was discovered that I had degeneration of the disc at C6-C7 (cervical spondylitis) as well as a cyst that was compressing on the nerve going down into my right arm. I was referred to a Neurosurgeon who sent me for further MRI scans and also a Nerve Conductivity Study (an evil test where electric current is passed through the muscles to measure the speed of the signal etc).

I met with the neurosurgeon and he said that he would take my case to the MDT to discuss surgery. He went on to describe the surgery, going in through the front of the neck to remove the disc and put a plate in place. He then went on to discuss the risks - 25% chance I would still be in pain, death or total permanent paralysis from the neck down.... He said a few other things but I couldn't process them thanks to sheer terror I was experiencing. How would I cope? I had two small children who needed me - not to mention my husband.

I fled that room feeling absolutely petrified. The neurosurgeon told me that he would contact me again after the MDT meeting.

A few weeks passed and the intense pain started to subside - as long as I didn't sit upright for long so the disc didn't get compressed and consequently compress the nerve into my arm.

By the time I saw the neurosurgeon again the pain was at a more tolerable and manageable level, provided I was careful, so he told me that I should manage my cervical spondylitis with lifestyle changes - no carrying shopping or lifting anything heavy (including my children 😢), no riding a bike, no swimming (other than backstroke so my back was in a line) etc.

I tried to continue working (at the time, I was working as a paraplanner in financial services) and used to take cushions in from home so that I could kneel in front of the computer when sitting got too painful or caused my fingers to go numb. After a few months, my boss made me realise that I really wasn't coping and I had to stop working. My family were my priority, especially our son who, at that time, was in the midst of the lengthy process of assessment for ASD.

So for the past few years I have been limiting my activities and managing my CS in that way. There are many times that I get frustrated and do things but then I will pay the price. For example, yesterday I decided to sort out the airing cupboard. As I am vertically challenged, most of the shelves are higher than me but I was determined to get it done.

That came back to bite me. I could not sleep last night due to the pain in my right shoulder and down my arm, my tinnitus is at the worst it has ever been and my arm kept going numb. The airing cupboard looks tidy though!

Two years ago, I felt strong enough to start thinking about returning to work but didn't know what I would be able to manage. I saw an advert for a local pub who were looking for daytime bar staff. As they closed at 3pm,this was ideal as I would still be available for the school runs.

I thoroughly enjoyed the job, meeting people and chatting with them and regaining a sense of independence and achievement, in that I was taking some of the financial pressure off my husband.

I only worked 3 lunchtimes per week but soon I developed pain in my knees, my elbows and then my fingers, as well as the back and neck pain and I was utterly exhausted. I used to compare myself to other Mums who all seemed to have so much more energy than me, even though they were working longer hours and, I felt, carrying out more activities with their children.

I saw my GP about my noisy knees (they sound like I'm crunching on dry rice crispies) and he sent me for an x-ray before referring me to a rheumatologist.

I saw the rheumatologist a few months later and after approximately 40 minutes of taking history as well as poking me in various places, all of which really hurt and which I later discovered were the Fibromyalgia pressure points, he referred me for more tests but indicated that he thought I had Fibromyalgia. Six months later and after a barrage of tests etc the diagnosis of Fibromyalgia was confirmed.

My overriding feeling was one of relief - finally having an answer for the exhaustion, the chronic pain, IBS, the poor sleep, headaches, lack of energy etc.

Ten months later, I am still working on the acceptance and reality of my diagnosis. I am yet to learn how to pace myself and not carry on full steam ahead doing things that I know will result in a flare up (pain and exhaustion that can last up to a week after over-exertion).

I know that many people (including my wonderful son) struggle with acceptance by others when they have an invisible disability.

I am still working on accepting the new me, I am struggling not to judge myself, push myself too hard, as I feel like I "should" be able to do more. Hopefully, I will soon accept my new reality.

[lifewith2loopykids-blog]

Fibro Flare day - today it is kicking my ass.

Tomorrow, I will come back fighting.

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Neonatal Life - shock, terror, joy, more terror!

Our little man, C, was born at 30 weeks 4 days gestation, weighing 3lb 14.5oz (1.78 kg). To say it was a shock would be an understatement. A few minutes after his birth he was whisked away from me and taken to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, leaving my husband and I alone and reeling in shock.

After an hour or two, I was taken down to see him. I entered a room with 4 incubators containing beautiful, teeny babies all battling for their lives. There were monitors and wires everywhere and the air was full of the sound of various beeps and sounds from all corners, I jumped and panicked at each new sound. I was taken over to our beautiful boy and sat beside him with tears pouring down my face.

Although I had done everything I possibly could to look after myself and him throughout my pregnancy, I felt that I had ultimately failed him in my one basic task as a mother - to keep him safe. He should have remained safely inside me for at least another 9 weeks but instead, here he was, attached to monitors, feeding tubes and being kept warm artificially in an incubator. We were extremely lucky that my Gynaecology team picked up on the Polyhydramnios and I had the steroid injections so C's lungs had matured enough to enable him to breathe by himself.

I remember gazing fearfully around the room, taking in the other tiny babies, one of whom was less than 2lb and most of whom were fitted with breathing tubes as well as monitors and sensors, and the enormity of the situation hit me.

I was given a room on the maternity ward for the first two nights (a very kind midwife recognised that I was in shock) so I was able to pop in to the NNU to see him as much as possible.

My focus then became expressing milk for him and, initially, I really struggled. I remember my sense of achievement when I managed to squeeze out approximately 0.5ml, a miniscule amount but at least I was doing something proactive for our son.

My role should have been to provide for our son and nurture and care for him but many of those tasks were being carried out by someone else, skilled Neonatal nurses, and I felt totally displaced.

I was discharged when C was two days old and it broke my heart to walk out those hospital doors, my baby bump gone but my arms empty. I hated the thought of going home and leaving him behind.

It didn't help that that was the day D brought MIL up to see her grandson. In the car on the way home, she announced that she had been ill all day long the day before, she couldn't get off the sofa. I counted to 20, tried to calm myself and explained that if anyone was ill, even with a slight cold, they couldn't come near C or near us, because if we got ill we wouldn't be able to enter the Neonatal Unit. Her reply? "You worry too much"!! I think that was the start of a downward slope on the MIL/Daughter in law relationship!

I remember the first time I changed C's nappy (through the little round openings in his incubator). I have had babysitting jobs since I was 13 so had changed umpteen nappies prior to this but as soon as I put my hands into the incubator the shakes struck. He was so tiny and delicate and I was petrified in case I caused him any discomfort or pain.

Thankfully, he was soon moved out of the intensive care room and into his own side room so I was able to spend as much time as I wanted with him.

Kangaroo Care became the time I lived for every day as I got to hold him to my chest, feel his breathing settle and see his heartbeat regulate on the monitors.

We settled into a bit of a routine, I would arrive early every morning and spend the day with him, expressing every 2-3 hours and building up a supply for him. Then I would go home to eat before returning with D in the evenings. I would get up throughout the night to express and always call around 2am to check on him, always eagerly waiting for news about any weight gain etc.

It became the norm until one morning when I got a call to say that he had had an apnoea episode and had to be resuscitated and taken back into the ICU room. My world stopped, any security or stability I had begun to feel was gone in that instant and we rushed in to be by his bedside.

It transpired that he had severe reflux and that caused him to stop breathing. It felt like we had just taken a monumental step backwards in our quest to bring him home.

I sat for hours by his side, watching his breathing and checking his monitors, the fear and anxiety overwhelming.

A few days later, he had stabilised enough (with the help of reflux meds) to be moved into a 4 bed ward - another progressive step towards getting him home.

Just before he turned 3 weeks old, I had a Gynaecology appointment and an ultrasound scan to check on the ovarian cyst that had been growing throughout my pregnancy. It was still there and measured 12cm x 10cm x 8cm so they informed me that I would need surgery in the future to remove it.

Two days later, I got to give our son a bath, for the first time by myself (albeit with my favourite neonatal nurse in the room, feeding another baby and offering me support and encouragement). After bathing, dressing and feeding him (still via a tube), I headed home for a few hours.

En route home, I was struck with the most horrendous pain in my back. I pulled over and called my husband but he was working off site and had no way to get to me so told me to call a taxi. The taxi arrived and took me to A&E, I was doubled up on the back seat, crying out in agony, the driver telling me that I should have called an ambulance - it didn't stop him charging me £6 though. I hobbled through the doors of the emergency department in agony and just remember crying out "somebody please help me".

It transpired that the cyst had torted (twisted) and had wound itself around a fallopian tube so I had to have one ovary and tube removed in surgery the next day.

When they wheeled me up from the emergency department to the ward, even through my pain relief induced haze, I could hear a voice calling "where is she? Where is C's Mummy?". It was my favourite nurse from neonatal arriving with two photographs she had taken of our little man as well as the clothes he had been wearing that morning for me to hold on to.

My poor husband had 3 days of finishing work at 2pm, rushing to hospital to do C's cares at 3pm, downstairs for visiting hours with me at 4pm, grab some food and then back to do C's cares at 6pm. The poor man didn't know whether he was coming or going.

It was four days before I was allowed back up to see C on the unit, to ensure that there was no infection risk, and when I arrived I was greeted by his beautiful face, free of feeding tube for the first time.

Then began the fun of bottle feeding (he was too weak to breast feed). He soon mastered the suck and swallow aspect of feeding - he just forgot the breathing part (he would start turning an interesting shade of purple).

It took another three weeks in the neonatal unit, along with another couple of apnoea episodes before we reached the stage of preparing for home.

Part of the preparation included training us in baby resuscitation, I sobbed my way through the training, knowing that it was a very real possibility with our little man and his blue episodes.

We spent two nights with him in the little "flat" on the ward before the day arrived for us to take him home - 6 and a half weeks after he was born. I have to admit, walking through the doors of the neonatal unit with him in his car seat, leaving behind the security of having 24 hour medical staff on hand, as well as all the equipment and monitors not to mention the encouragement and support of the staff, was absolutely petrifying but we took those tentative steps and we did it.

Our beautiful little man is now a wonderful, happy and energetic 8 year old and I thank God and all the wonderful neonatal nurses and doctors (without whom our little man would not have survived) every day for our wonderful son.

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When your rainbow baby comes very, very early (almost 10 weeks early!)

Approximately 7 months after our horrendous miscarriage experience, and after months of trying and enduring the side effects of Metformin and Clomid, I discovered that I was pregnant. The spectrum of emotions experienced, from joy, hope and excitement, to terror and trepidation that something would go wrong again, hit with force but the overriding feelings were of hope and happiness.

The morning that I did the test, we left to go camping with friends for the weekend. Hubby wouldn't even let me help put the tent up or take it down at the end of the weekend, so I guess he was experiencing the same feelings as me.

I contacted my consultant, the wonderful Mr Fitzgibbon, with the news and he booked me in for an early scan at 6weeks,to help allay my anxiety (did I mention that he is wonderful?).

At my dating scan at 12 weeks, we arrived and sat waiting and I felt physically nauseated, remembering what we went through the last time. It's strange, even though I had early scans and was definitely still experiencing pregnancy symptoms, the terror I felt walking in to the scan room was intense.

I remember the sonographer looking at me quizzically, as I was silent and shaking. I explained what had happened a few months earlier so she quickly got organised and began the scan, with me looking the other way, terrified in case I was faced with an empty screen.

Immediately, she put her hand on my arm and said "It's okay, I can see your baby" so I turned my head and saw my precious bundle (and promptly burst into tears). She carried on with the scan, carrying out all the measurements etc that she needed to do and I blissfully lay there watching our wonderful child. I was overcome with immense relief and gratitude.

She then discovered that I had an ovarian cyst so that was something that needed to be monitored along with my pregnancy. In my head, that meant more scans and more chances to check our little baby.

At our 20 week scan, we were still debating whether we would find out the sex of our baby when she started. Any indecision about finding out was quickly removed when 'he' appeared on the screen, legs akimbo with everything on display, so we joyfully knew that we were having a son.

The cyst had continued to grow alongside so additional scans and appointments were booked.

I think we floated home that day, full of hope and plans. My husband had the nursery painted blue within a week.

At further scans, it was discovered that the cyst was still growing and also that my fluid levels were high. At my consultant appointment just before 30 weeks, the doctor explained about Polyhydramnios and that I was at risk of premature labour as it was putting my uterus under pressure. He warned me to get to the hospital as soon as I had any signs of labour starting as it would be potentially dangerous for our baby when my waters broke as they would probably gush!

He arranged for steroid injections that night (Thursday) and another one 24 hours later. I have to admit, those injections really stung but I knew they were helping little man's lungs mature so it was worth any pain.

On the Monday, I had an appointment with my community midwife (there are many amazing midwives out there but this particular one, wasn't exactly on the ball). I asked her what signs of labour I should be looking for and all she talked about was my waters breaking. I asked what else and she still said, you will feel the liquid from your waters, doh!

I got home and remember an engineer arriving to fix the washing machine. I kept having to stand up as my back was really hurting me. By the time my husband came home from work, the back pain was getting pretty bad and I was struggling to get comfortable. I called Triage and they told me to have a bath and take some paracetamol and see if that helped. So that's what I did and then went to bed.

The next morning, hubby (D) left for work before 6am. The back pain returned so I had a shower around 8 and then realised that the pain was getting pretty intense so I called D and told him he needed to come and get me and take me to the hospital.

We got to the hospital and they set me up on the monitor to check on our little man. After an hour or so, one of the midwives came and said they were going to do a test for Fibronectin, which can be an indicator of labour.

She arrived at my bedside with a huge, orange torch (I'm not joking, it was around 10cm in diameter) and all I could think was "Where does she think she is putting that??".

She started to carry out the test but then stopped, put her hand on my knee and said "Don't panic but you are in labour and you're approximately 8cm dilated". Don't panic??? Seriously? D and I looked at each other in utter panic before I sent him out to call my mother to let her know (I needed to give him a job to do).

I was whisked off to a birthing room, the other mums in the 4 bed ward shouting good luck to me with me replying, 'It's too early, I'm only 30+4 weeks'. I got into the room and suddenly it was full of people. The neonatal team arrived with their equipment, baby warmer etc and all were standing, expectantly, waiting for the birth of our boy.

To be in labour and have to push, whilst your brain and heart are telling you that it's too soon, you need to keep him in and protect him, was a terrifying, confusing, petrifying (and yes, extremely painful) ordeal.

At 1.51pm our beautiful son was born and the room became a flurry of activity. After a minute or so, our wonderful little man cried and to say that that was the most beautiful, musical, hopeful sound I have ever heard would be an understatement.

I was lucky in that I got to hold him, albeit very briefly, before he was whisked away to the neonatal unit. Hubby and I were left in the, now quiet, calmer, room and just looked at each other in shock, wondering what the hell had just happened.

He was fantastic during the labour (even if he kept drinking my water which I sorely needed thanks to the gas and air) and really supported me, even though he himself was feeling terrified and helpless.

He was so strong, right up until the moment they gave me the Vitamin K injection. One look at the needle and he turned green and had to sit down!

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Where have they gone? AKA they will sleep anywhere 😊

Over the years, my children have each given me a fright when they have "disappeared" inside the house.

At the age of two, each of them gave me a few grey hairs.

Picture the scene - I had put my child safely into their toddler bed to sleep, secured the stair gate at their doorway and gone downstairs whilst they settled.

After listening to them potter around for a few minutes, I waited until all went quiet before coming back upstairs to check on them only to find an empty bed.

I opened the stair gate and entered their respective rooms, only to discover that the floor was empty, even under the bed and no sign of my child.

I distinctly remember standing, perplexed, wondering how on earth they got out when the windows were closed and secured with a child lock and their stair gates were closed.

Part of me was telling myself that the situation was ridiculous, they couldn't get out but I could still feel that sickening panicky sensation rising in my gut.

In the case of my son, I looked towards his wardrobe (built in with sliding doors) and noticed two little feet peeking out. He was sound asleep in there.

When my daughter pulled the same trick (numerous times), I heard the sound of her deep, settled breathing and found her deeply asleep in her wardrobe. Apparently, she had decided to play hide and seek but fell asleep waiting for me to return.

Over the years, I have found them asleep in many amusing places, they have literally fallen asleep where they are.

[lifewith2loopykids-blog]

The treacherous road to Motherhood

As you can see from my profile, I am a mother to two wonderful, crazy, funny children but there was a time I thought that would never be possible.

I had always had the symptoms of Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS) but hadn't been formally diagnosed. At the age of 15, the GP sent off a load of blood samples and then told me I had "hormone problems" and put me on the pill (Dianette). So I carried on oblivious to the implications.

I married my first husband at the age of 26 and, in hindsight, the subfertility issues turned out to be a blessing as I was able to escape an abusive situation with no ties (it is quite appropriate that 'gaslighting' is being discussed in today's news articles, I lived it and survived, thankfully).

I met my current, wonderful husband at the age of 31 at the local running club and we married 2.5 years later. We started trying for a baby as soon as we were married but time continued to pass by without success.

I went to see my GP and, only when I mentioned all the other symptoms - hirsutism, difficulty losing weight, irregular (albeit only slightly) periods etc, did he look at me and suggest that I may have PCOS.

So began the testing, blood tests and scans. It was at an ultrasound scan that I saw all my hopes and dreams disappear into the abyss when the sonographer uttered the words "yes, there are cysts on your ovaries". I returned to work and tried to get through the day, albeit with tears rolling down my face and my breath hitching with sobs.

My GP prescribed Metformin, as insulin resistance is an element of PCOS, and referred me to a gynaecologist who arranged further tests.

A few months later, we were ecstatic to discover that I was pregnant and our view of our future became full of excitement and hope. I could already envisage this little, beautiful baby in my arms, his/her chuckles and joy.

At six weeks I had some spotting but an early scan confirmed there was a heartbeat and all was okay. So I happily, yet carefully, continued over the next few weeks, eagerly anticipating our dating scan at 13 weeks.

My scan was around lunchtime and my husband picked me up from work and we went to the hospital full of excitement to see our baby properly for the first time.

We were called in, me struggling with a very full bladder and continuing to talk excitedly until I realised that the sonographer had gone silent and was looking intently at the screen. She looked at me and said "I'm sorry but there is no heartbeat. It looks like your pregnancy didn't progress beyond the 7th week".

All I could think was that I needed to escape that room, flee from what was happening. We were taken into another room, walking passed all the other mothers waiting for scans or appointments at various stages of pregnancy and I was handed some information leaflets about what happens next.

As it was classed as a missed miscarriage which had occurred weeks ago, they recommended the ERPC (evacuation of the retained proceeds of conception - who comes up with these??) but I couldn't get my head around it all and just needed to get out of there.

I phoned my mother as soon as we got to the car and I can still remember Mam's voice, so full of excitement and anticipation and then despair when I broke down and told her what had happened.

We spent the next few days under a dark cloud of disbelief and grief. I remember in the early hours of one morning, my husband picking me up off the bathroom floor when he found me crying hysterically, the loss breaking my heart.

I had to return to the hospital for the ERPC procedure on the 23rd of December and, as I wasn't taken to theatre until 4.30pm, I had to stay overnight and wasn't allowed home until nearly lunchtime on Christmas Eve.

We spent Christmas day at the outlaws and they carried on as if nothing happened (I quickly realised that they don't really do emotions and can be a very self centred, selfish bunch).

In my head, I have three children, one who was never born. I often wonder what that little bundle of hope would have been like, can imagine the interaction with its younger brother and sister. We have planted a rose tree in our garden for our little lost baby, it's called Sweet Dreams.

My next appointment was with a new Gynaecologist, the wonderful Mr Fitzgibbon, who greeted me with a big hug the first time he met me. He prescribed Clomid as well as continuing with the Metformin and so our emotional, terrifying and heartbreaking journey continued.

As you can see, we were lucky enough to be successful but not without many more ordeals along the way. Check out my next post to read more...

[lifewith2loopykids-blog]

ASD - The friendship minefield

Today was one of those days that I got to witness firsthand the struggles my little boy endures when trying to navigate the minefield of friendships when you're autistic.

Our wonderful 8 year old was diagnosed ASD in July 2017 after many years of assessments, observations, judgements etc (that will be a whole other blog, if not numerous blogs!). He is bright, funny, compassionate, loving and absolutely wonderful. His dearest wish is to have friends, have fun, make people laugh and to be accepted.

He is a sensory child, which means that he feels certain things too much. As a result, he tends to be a little too loud, too excitable, too energetic and can get a little too close when interacting (we are working on spatial awareness).

In the structured classroom setting, other than talking too much, he excels (his preschool manager used to say that C invented Twitter, no matter what they were doing she could hear his little voice twittering away in the background) . He loves learning and sharing his knowledge and will always work hard, especially if there is an incentive or reward to be earned.

His struggles become apparent on the playground or in social situations. He will always be the loudest, happiest, bounciest and so gets pushed aside for being "different". He has been the victim of horrendous bullying in the past (physically punched, kicked, had his glasses broken, his trousers and underpants pulled down as well as being verbally abused on numerous occasions).

I watched him today trying to interact with two boys from his class, my heart broke for him.

He was desperately trying to find common ground, to join in their conversation and, although they didn't utter a nasty word, the looks that passed between them, the raised eyes and the smirks said it all. Of course, C was totally oblivious to the looks and their disdain - in some ways a blessing.

As a mother of a child on the spectrum, how can we help him navigate the nuances and social minefield of friendships or any relationship. When he innocently views anyone who interacts with him, no matter how nasty or demeaning, as a friend, how do we protect him and prevent him constantly being hurt or his naivety being taken advantage of? The world is a scary place for any parent but, as a parent of an autistic little boy, it is truly terrifying and daunting.

One saving grace for him, for our whole family really, has been the discovery of his Supported Ability football team. He joined the team almost two years ago and we have had the pleasure of watching him thrive, his confidence grow and see him have fun amongst peers who truly accept him as he is and for whom he is.

His football skills are improving all the time, he is actually a very good goalie, and this has also given him a connection to the boys in school during their lunchtime football games.

He took his classmates by surprise the day he was finally allowed join in their lunchtime game (under orders of the lunchtime supervisors) and C scored the winning goal! I saw my son run out from school beaming, absolutely delighted and eager to tell me how the boys picked him up and carried him around the playground in celebration.

My one wish for the world would be that the parents of today could teach their children tolerance and acceptance, that being different is not necessarily something that needs to be avoided or afraid of or viewed as inappropriate behaviour. Children aren't born with prejudices, they are taught them, mostly by their parents or close family members.