Blogging Behind the Scenes

Close all the doors; turn off the lights; draw the curtains. I left my comfort zone, just for a short time, then retreated after realising I wasn't ready. I wanted to join in, I really did. I wanted to experience what confidence felt like, how the rush would beckon me forward, away from all I knew. But I took one stride too many. It took me over the edge then forced me back into the corner of my world where I felt safe. I did it for me; I wanted to prove to myself that I was able to withstand the challenge of socialising, travelling to an unknown destination on my own, having a taste of a group situation. But it wasn't meant to be. Not yet. Maybe one day, but not yet.

I cancelled my ticket for the CyberMummy conference in June. Transferred my hotel reservation into someone else's name. I just couldn't go it alone. My mind made up, I figured the stress was building unnecessarily and I made the decision the other day that I'm just not ready. I enjoy my life, in my own little way, perhaps not in a way others might appreciate, but I'm happy. As someone pointed out to me, I can't help how I feel. I did want to feel ready; I did want to imagine myself standing on the platform, loading myself onto the train and watching the world go by as I travelled to meet people I've been longing to meet. But it's not in me. I'm not forcing myself anymore. I knew I'd done the right thing in cancelling my trip when I felt the relief wash over me. I'm not going. A part of me still wishes I was, but too big a part of me doesn't feel confident enough to take that step. Close the doors. Turn out the lights. But don't leave me.

Just Write a Blog Instead

"Can I speak to the Farmer?" he asks.

"Speaking," I reply.

He pauses, unsure what to say next. "Is that the Jigsaw farm?" he asks.

"Yes," I reply. "Who's calling?"

"I'm Joe Bloggs from Bloggs Associates, we're doing a survey in your area of the agricultural industry." He pauses again, before continuing. "Shall I call back when the Farmer is in?"

I once more remind him that he is speaking to the farmer, maybe not the Farmer, but the farmer who is a partner in the business.

"Would evening be best?" he asks. I start to wonder if this man's hearing aid is switched off.

"If you would prefer to speak to my husband," I begin, in a rather irritable tone, "you could be waiting a long time. He doesn't do surveys."

"Oh, it won't take long, it's just a few simple questions that require a yes or no answer." His answer irritates me even more.

"I am quite capable of giving yes and no answers," I respond.

Unbelievably, he asks again, "shall I ring this evening?"

I sigh, realising I am speaking to someone who obviously doesn't listen. "My husband works 16 hour days, he will not appreciate being disturbed in the evening when he is relaxing. I was quite willing to help you but as you obviously think all farmers are men and the only ones capable of giving yes and no answers, I suggest you don't call again."

Unlike me, I waited for his response. "I'll send your husband a questionnaire in the post, perhaps he would be good enough to fill it in." I laughed, because it sounded better than saying, "go to hell." Either that guy was taking the piss, or he was one incredibly ignorant chauvinist pig. If cold-callers in the farming industry insist on speaking to men, they will get nowhere. Especially with my husband who never answers the phone!

Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall

I took Amy to the hairdresser's yesterday. She was desperately in need of having a cut, her hair is extremely thick and wavy but gets matted and knotted up so quickly. As she is very sensitive to touch, being hair-sore is something she really suffers with and it's painful just watching her brush. She won't let me do it unless I'm drying it first. So, without any further hesitation, here is my beautiful girl with her new hairstyle:

I had my new bathroom delivered today and will update the blog with progress, hopefully next week if the plumber is able to come. Keep your fingers crossed for me, it's in a desperate state!!

Also, please feel free to take a look at Authors On Show. My personal page is HERE. It's a wonderful website of which has welcomed me as a Team Member. I have my own page where I publish articles, information and links relating to writing. I'm really honoured to be a part of the site and would love to encourage anyone to pop along and check it out.

Curves in all the Right Places

Why do catalogues insist on featuring skinny models to show off their products? It's one of my pet hates. I get so frustrated when I turn the pages, only to view similar looking young girls, always long hair, always slim and always lacking in the curvaceous department, staring at you from the page, trying to make me believe my size 16 figure will look just as good wearing the size 8 she is currently modelling. What a load of utter tosh. For the past few years I've been receiving a couple of catalogues for the more voluptuous among women, but they are still showing off their clothes by using slim, size 12 maximum models. It's annoying. It's insulting. And it's fake.

I'm not embarrassed at being a size 16. I'm happy with my curves. Okay, I admit I am bigger now than I've ever been, but so what? Does that make me unhealthy, untrendy, unreal? Does it make me look like I don't care about how I look? There's even a catalogue for the "older lady" that uses young girls as models. Why? Aren't we older ladies allowed to be photographed in glossy catalogues? Are we supposed to wear frumpy clothes with no shape? I'm not trendy or fashion conscious. I find it difficult to find a pair of trousers to fit me perfectly. I don't wear skirts or dresses. But I do like to see an image of what I might look like should I buy an outfit from a catalogue. Seeing a twenty-something with skinny legs, no waist, a bum the size of a satsuma really doesn't make me want to buy an item of clothing. I think it's time the tree trunk legs brigade spoke out.

A New Phase

I've decided to start planning a new book. Waiting for replies to submissions has made me realise that writing is more in my blood than ever I first thought. It's as though a little voice inside my head has told me the time is right, that there's so much more I can be doing. I'm at a point in my life where I'm content. Every day I smile as I think about what I have; a wonderful and loving husband, an incredible daughter, a beautiful home. Writing makes me happy and gives me fulfilment. It also gives me a buzz, keeps me on the edge of my seat as I watch the plot unfold and the characters grow. Once a hobby, now so much more as I wait anxiously for replies to arrive, gearing myself up for brushing away the rejections.

I have ideas swirling in my head, characters evolving, scenes embracing me as I think. I'm excited about starting the next book, it will be like entering a new phase in my already cluttered life. But it's the challenge that spurns me on, the not knowing, the discovering of a new story as it takes over my thoughts. My paranormal romance, Discovery at Rosehill, is out there, hopefully being noticed, hopefully being read. It means more to me to have that book published than I dare to admit, not least because it is dedicated to my late father. If he was still here, he'd probably open doors and make calls. He knew people who knew people. But I'm on my own now. He'll always be around but this is my life now, my responsibility, my achievements and my mistakes. And that's what makes the challenge all the more exciting.

The Best Job in the World

Amy did something so cute that I have to share it with you. She had her cousin staying over the other night. They spent the day together, played well, had a fabulous time. Amy read Annie a story before bedtime then both girls snuggled up in the guest bed. I assume it wasn't long before they went to sleep. At 6.30 the next morning, I heard Amy mooching about in the office so I went to see what was going on, hoping desperately that they weren't both wide awake!

"What are you doing?" I asked her.

She held out her hand for me to see what was in it. "My tooth came out in the night and Annie woke up, wanting to know if the tooth fairy would come. I thought I'd wait 'till morning then get a coin out of my money box and put it under the pillow." She stood and looked at me as though waiting for my approval. She stopped believing in the tooth fairy last year but obviously didn't want to spoil it for five year old Annie.

I hugged her, so proud of her thoughtfulness. I got a coin out of my purse, gave it to her and sent her back to bed, where she put it under her pillow. Times like that make my heart sing. Can being a mother get any better?

Bonnie - she works with the sheep every day.

Amy's pet lambs from last year.

My Meggie, awww!

Counting collies; agility.

Two of last year's lambs.

Valuable Lessons

I'll be honest with you, I wasn't going to mention anything but as I feel better today, I shall tell you about how shit I was made to feel yesterday; I need to get it off my chest at least. I'll keep it brief because it isn't worth banging on about. I replied to a tweet yesterday with a flippant and stupid joke. And boy, did I regret it. I left the wonderful world of Twitter whilst I went to the hairdressers then on my way out of the salon, switched on my mobile to see what was happening. Tweet after tweet on my timeline was retweeting what I'd said. I'd upset people. I'd offended animal rights activists. I was accused of animal cruelty and told I should be reported. Not one of those people knew me from Adam. They had all jumped on the bandwagon and thought they had every right to shoot me down, humiliate me and make me look like I was the wicked step-sister of the woman who put her cat in a wheelie bin. (Not that I'd do that of course.)

I was distraught; gutted. I couldn't concentrate on my shopping and couldn't wait to get home to send my apologies to the people I had upset. Those who know me will know that I am a true animal lover; I am a farmer. I'm not an animal rights activist nor am I against countryside sports. I have a deep love of our animal kingdom, always have and always will. I realised, after making a public apology on Twitter, how easy it is to say the wrong thing. Even when you are joking. People take things so very seriously; the written word can be quickly taken out of context and we can find ourselves in hot water because a) a lack of a sense of humour, and b) ignorance. One of the people who accused me of being cruel decided to follow me. I blocked them. And out of all of them, only one apologised to me for misreading what I had meant. I do not tweet to gain followers, nor do I tweet to engage in argumentative conversation. I apologised because the last thing I ever wish to do is offend anyone, online, in person, in any way at all. It isn't in my nature. But I won't go on apologising. Some people need to get their heads out of their arses and accept there are different opinions in this life; some of which they may not agree on. Wouldn't we be awfully boring if we were all the same?

Confidential Blogging

As I read a variety of blogs about different subjects, lifestyles, parenting, world affairs to name a few, I find myself getting a wider scope of how people think. It's an interesting hobby, this blogging lark, and one most people find enjoyable. I also read posts which make me cringe when I wonder how on earth they get away with what they write about. For example, the other day I read a post, very entertaining, about a teacher and her pupils. Names were mentioned, school was mentioned, days out were mentioned; all of which I thought was sailing a little too close to the bone in the confidentiality rules that teaching staff are supposed to adhere to. You see, not long after I started blogging, I got stung and was almost taken to court. You may find it unbelievable, this being a family blog which I use to talk about life in general, but it's true and at the time I was very, very frightened.

I was stupidly and ignorantly in breach of confidentiality when I told the world about Amy, my beautiful autistic daughter, being bullied at school. I was distraught about it all, as any parent would be, and after repeated attempts at trying to get the school to listen to my pleas, I decided to write about it in the hope that something would eventually be done. They did something all right; they called me in school for what they led me to believe was an "informal chat", only to have a member of the school governors there and another member of staff, together with the Head. I was pulled apart, mentally beaten up and reduced to sobbing tears, not knowing what was going to happen to me. I was a quivering wreck, totally humiliated and embarrassed to the point where I thought I would never be able to step foot in that school again. I was made to feel a complete failure; a total loser; a sad and needy individual who didn't have the guts to confront a situation head on. And when I pointed out that I had in fact spoken to staff on several occasions about the bullying, I was shot down in flames once more and told it was the fact that I'd blogged about it that had embarrassed the school.

It was utter madness. It was degrading and disgusting to have treated any person in that way and it took me a good 18 months to get over it. So when I read that post last week it brought back those horrible memories of suffering at the hands of authoritative folk who thought nothing of threatening me with legal action when the whole issue was really about my daughter being bullied. I must state at this point, that I remained on civil terms with the school even though I lost friends through the incident. As far as I am aware, people are putting themselves at risk by writing about schools which follow a rule unto themselves; always surrounding red tape, do-gooers and confidentiality. So why is it okay for a teacher to talk about her class, mentioning names and other confidential information, when it is wrong for me to write about my daughter being bullied?

The Simple Life

There are so many issues surrounding our world today; financial doom and gloom together with poorly conducted council affairs, but there comes a time when one feels watching the news is simply depressing. As a keen blogger and member of Twitter, I like to keep up with current news as much as possible; in my little corner of the world it wouldn't be difficult to just fall into the trap of living like a hermit, unable to concentrate on anything other than the farming industry. But, even though I consider myself to be somewhat of a country-bumpkin, I do think I'm living outside the bubble, determined not to fall into the role of traditional farmer's wife who stands in the kitchen all day, baking cakes and making jam, only to have a short sit-down break to darn her husband's socks. That's how my late mother-in-law lived and I am sure, should she still be here today, would expect me to be the same as her.

The other night we switched the news off. Fed up with hearing about the banks having increased interest rates; how the less fortunate of our society will become even less fortunate; how the rich will get richer and the poor will struggle. Life simply isn't fair, never has been and almost definitely never will be. We can all moan until we're blue in the face but it doesn't change the way our planet is stuck in an age of rich versus poor. If you're stuck in the middle you might just get by, but I doubt it'll be without a daily moan about the state of current affairs. "Life was simple when I was a lad," said my late father-in-law, "we didn't know what was going on in the world because we didn't have televisions or radios. We just lived our life and hoped for the best." That man irritated me on a daily basis; he treated me in the only way he knew, like a housemaid. He's been dead nearly four years now and some things he used to say still make me think. I'd much rather be a country-bumpkin these days if I'm honest. And at least I can switch the television off. But it's true isn't it? Life probably was simpler without media coverage. People got on with it, they didn't moan about having no money because it was all they were used to. They didn't mix with people from a different class, so there was no conflict where money was concerned. I wonder, was life simpler back in the early twentieth century, or is it simpler now?

Blog Advertising

In the past seven days I have had a total of nine emails from PR companies telling me how much you, my readers, will benefit from their product should I advertise it. The majority of the products on offer are totally irrelevant to my blog and have absolutely nothing to do with any of the things I write about. I'm getting pretty damn sick of companies thinking they have the right to suggest what I should blog just so they get some free advertising. I know a lot of bloggers get these types of emails, some like them - some don't. Out of all the requests for freebies, I have only accepted one which was a beautiful canvas print worth £40 of a family photo, now hanging in my drawing room. What I am sick of is when these companies address their email to Crystal Jigsaw, Crystal, Blogger and in one case, Ms. Jigsaw. It shows immediately that they haven't read my blog. They tell me how they stumbled on this blog and enjoyed reading through posts; how they can assure me that their product will be of huge benefit to me and others; how they like reading about life on a farm. Perhaps some of them do find my life on the farm interesting, but I get rather confused when a company that sells dining chairs would somehow "stumble" upon my blog. What are they typing in Google? I really have no idea.

Now don't get me wrong, a part of me is honoured to receive PR requests and emails from companies offering freebies but when the content of the email is blatant lies, that is when I find myself seething. Only doing a job, some might say; just trying to make a living; but I don't run my blog in order to freely advertise. The last three emails stated "We feel your readers will be interested in our special offer and we would like to send you a sample to review. In return, we ask that you permanently advertise our company logo on your site and write an article about our company." I have enough to do in my day; writing a blog post about some company I know nothing about and giving them recognition on my site is something I am very reluctant to do. And what makes it even worse in my opinion, is when the company has clearly never read your blog but has just skimmed through the odd post to pick up a few names and snippets of information. If you insist on sending emails to advertise on this blog, I will be forced to set a minimum rate, per week, which will start in the region of £1,000. Bring it on.

Does Charity Begin At Home?

I am sure you have your preferred charity and often find yourself giving money to organisations that are close to your heart. For me, it's the National Autistic Society, Epilepsy Association and the Guide Dogs. But if we allowed each and every sad looking puppy, panda, child and poverty stricken family to pull at our heart strings, we would find we had nothing left to give. Last week I abruptly ended a phone call after a guy from a charity I have supported for only twelve months infuriated me. For confidential reasons (not to mention libel) I won't name the charity but the caller was asking me to increase my monthly subscription. In fact, he was asking me to double it. He was extremely arrogant, not at all like one would expect a charity worker to sound and just assumed that I would be happy to agree there and then.

I refused. But it didn't stop him trying to talk me round. "Why don't you think about it?" he asked. "I have," I replied, "my answer is no." He continued, "if you increased your direct debit to £20 per month that would help us much more than the £10 per month you currently give." After hearing that, I put the phone down, then cancelled the direct debit. I refuse to let people tell me what I should and shouldn't be doing with my money, determined to make me feel guilty for not adhering to their request. When you see an advert on the television saying "give £2 a month", don't you think, £2 a month, what the hell will that buy? It's getting all too easy for charities to send out forms then make endless phone calls beckoning you to feel bad for only giving the measly amount of £2.

Last year I stopped buying toilet rolls from a charity. I used to buy them in bulk and the last lot I got were the worst quality I have ever had the misfortune to experience. I complained about them but didn't hear anything. In the past six months I have had repeated phone calls from the charity asking me to place another order and insisting the quality has been improved after I pointed out how poor the last lot were. I have told the charity on at least three occasions to take me off their books yet I still receive the phone calls. When the Farmer's mum died, people made donations of which the total amount was in the region of £400 to a very well-known Christian charity, yet no one received a letter of thanks. And exactly the same happened when his dad died, only we chose a different charity. The same thing happened when my grandma died, too. I don't think this sets a very good example for charity work. And I also wonder, if all the money raised does actually go to the needy, or is some of it distributed into administrator's pockets? We really don't know, do we.

I've Never Been So Scared

On Monday I received a letter which was to send me into a panic. I didn't realise at the time just how much this letter was going to affect me. Last year, for those of you who don't know me, I had a series of epileptic seizures after being on the same medication for the condition for ten years. I went through the most frightening seven months of my life, not knowing whether I would see another day. I honestly believed I was ill. Seriously ill. And I even started thinking about guardians for Amy. It truly was horrendous, not only for me but for my family too. When I decided to go private after waiting too long for an appointment with the NHS, I ended up paying £2,000 for two consultant's appointments and two tests. He re-diagnosed me with photo-sensitive epilepsy and changed my medication. The epilepsy is now controlled and I have, gradually, started to gain back my confidence after not even wanting to take the dogs for a walk on the farm.

So, the letter; it was from the consultant to whom I paid £500 for two fifteen minute appointments. I'll be honest with you, it wasn't the money that concerned me but the thought of sitting in front of that man, albeit a nice man, in a hospital environment, discussing my epilepsy which I am starting to put behind me. I'll always be epileptic, but whilst on the right medication it can be controlled. But this sent me into a stressful state, a place I'd once closed the door on and thrown away the key. It felt as though someone had found that key, passed it to me and said, "we need to discuss this," just when I thought I was finally getting on with being who I am today.

I rang the consulting rooms and, to cut a long story short, rang the hospital where his secretary works. The only appointments they could give me were in the evenings. Bearing in mind I can't drive and live 45 miles away from the hospital, it was impossible for me to take one of these appointments and it seemed they weren't prepared to budge. I've spent three nights tossing and turning, frightened to turn out the light, snapping at the Farmer, cuddling the cat and sobbing into my pillow and on Thursday afternoon I'd had enough. I knew I couldn't carry on; apart from my epilepsy being photo-sensitive, it is also brought on by stress and I knew I had to be sensible. I made an appointment with the nurse at my local surgery, who specialises in epilepsy. She quickly put my mind at rest, assuring me that I don't have to see the consultant again and I can talk to my GP. For the first time in four days I smiled. She told me I was absolutely fine, am being sensible, not taking any risks and have tackled my condition head on. And she took the key out of my hands, locked the door and placed it safely in her pocket. "There," she said, whilst patting her pocket, "now stop worrying and look forward to being independent again. June will be here before you know it." The NHS isn't that bad after all.

Be Careful What You Blog

After reading an article recently about people's odd behaviour online and our sensible approach to giving our children free reign of the Internet, I thought I'd tell you about something that happened to me once. It was a couple of years ago but it was something I was, and still am, determined would never put me off sharing my life online. I can't remember his name, but he was a blogger and regularly read my blog in the early days. I read his too, but only because he seemed so keen on knowing about my life. His comments were always long-winded, always contained bible passages and always had a message hidden between the lines. Sometimes I could understand him, other times I wondered what planet he was on. As a believer in God myself, I didn't mind him trying to convert me into being a disciple, knowing my own beliefs were far too strong to be changed. But I did mind when he sent me a strange email.

The email was one sentence. It said, "I've done this for you. And for me." It had an attachment of a photograph. When I opened it, I was quite shocked. The photograph had been a wedding one I had published on a previous post, of the Farmer and me. A beautiful photograph, accompanying a post I'd written to mark our wedding anniversary. But this guy had cut the Farmer out of the photo, leaving just me, staring into the lens with a glass of champagne. I wasn't sure what to do. If I'd have sent him a reply it might have encouraged him to continue sending me emails and have him stalk me. Fortunately, he lived in another country, but I later found out through a mutual blogging friend, that this guy was in fact in prison. I contemplated this for a while. My options were straightforward as far as I was concerned. I immediately stopped reading his blog and deleted his link from my blog roll. I deleted the email and tried to put it out of my mind.

The article I read the other day brought back that memory, after stating how careful we need to be when posting pictures online, not to mention personal information. I have laid myself open for nearly four years now, and I feel I know a lot of you personally. There will always be people out there whom we can't trust, but I didn't feel this guy was one of them. For six months I read his comments, read his blog posts and actually thought he was a nice guy. But then he freaked me out. And in my opinion, creeps like that don't deserve to have friends in our wonderful world of blogging.

Idle Threats Don't Work

We've most definitely entered the tweenage years, or pre-teens as is probably the general term. For the past few years I've wondered how I would tackle the complexities of autism and hormones, two words which, although we can't get away from, would be better off in separate sentences. As we all know, most teenagers drive their parents nuts for years, making the lives of those around pretty miserable. But it's something we go through with our children, and something we have no choice but to accept. I've mellowed over the years, perhaps with age, perhaps with having to deal with autism, but I have more patience now than I've ever had. And I need it. The door was open, Amy went through and naturally, I followed behind. Neither of us had any idea of the room we would find ourselves in, but right now it contains a whole lot of baggage, chaotic walls and a couple of large speakers. I don't feel ready to tackle the years ahead. There are days when I want my little girl back; the one who sat at the table and painted for hours on end; the one who walked with pig tails, skipping alongside me.

Not a day goes by when we don't have some kind of confrontation. I try hard to keep a level head, simmer the situation and walk away. But the door doesn't close on adolescence. Nor does it close on autism. I feel Amy has been dealt a cruel blow by having to cope with her social anxieties together with the burden of hormones and I'm here for her, every step of the way. I won't deny I'm not looking forward to the next six or seven years; I won't even deny that I'm scared. As Amy's mum I learn something new every day and as Amy's advocate I will fight with every bone in my body for her right to exist. Unfortunately, fighting is the key word here; there aren't any solutions or big ideas about changing the way we live. The other day her behaviour got me to a point where I had no choice but to carry out the threats I had made. She likes to watch a DVD with me on a Saturday night and occasionally I let her sleep in my bed. She looks forward to this; plans which DVD we will watch days before. But I had to disallow it. Making idle threats doesn't work with any child and it certainly doesn't work with Amy. She was gutted at my reaction, couldn't understand why I was being so "mean". But I stuck to my word and made her realise that we don't speak to our loved ones the way she had done to me. Taking away that treat made her realise that she had over-stepped the mark, and along with a surprise cup of coffee, she gave me this as a way of apology:

p.s. You may remember I told you I'd been interviewed? Well, HERE it is. I'm really pleased with it too!

Judge and Jury of Blogging

I often wonder what my life would have been like if I hadn't discovered blogging, or if I wasn't interested in using a computer. It's like anything really, if you haven't experienced it, you really have no idea of what it's about. And that's why, whenever I hear someone belittle the blogging world, I cringe and ask them, "what are your interests?" More times than not, they say "I haven't got time for blogging." Recently, I've had enough time on my hands that I've been able to get round various blog hops and make many new contacts through social networking. I realise it isn't every one's cup of tea, but is it fair to rubbish the idea of having an open diary that we enjoy sharing with the rest of the world? Is it fair to have someone else's opinion rammed down your ear hole in ignorance of what you enjoy doing? Some people like blogging, some don't. Who is anyone to judge? But there's always someone isn't there. Always someone ready to say "I haven't got time," or "I can think of better ways to spend my time than sitting at a desk." And one that recently infuriated me, "you obviously have nothing else to do."

I get frustrated at people who think they have a right to judge. Of course their opinion matters as everyone else's does too. But why do some people poo-poo the idea of blogging, brushing it aside and accuse it of "taking advantage of gullible saddos, who have nothing better to do, and can't go out and make friends"? I've heard it all. And I've ignored it all. I can't go out and make friends at the moment because I live in the middle of nowhere and am unable to drive. I might be a gullible saddo in some eyes, but I'm a happy gullible saddo. Scouring the blogging community which consists of millions of beautifully written, emotional and often humorous blog posts, is something I thoroughly enjoy doing. If that makes me a saddo, then it makes you one too. Let's stick together in our community; let's support each other and understand why we blog the way we do. I have read some amazing blogs this week alone; by authors, mums, farmers, teachers, career women, dads, students and I even clicked on one that said "content warning". "Hmmm," I thought. It was pornographic. Some woman flashing her jugs in my face. Just what I needed when I was tucking into my M&S marshmallows. But she blogs; perhaps not my style of blogging, but who am I to judge her? And she had gorgeous jugs, too.

Normality Resumes

Have I ever told you that Amy is autistic? Have I ever told you that she's not? She astounds me every day but that's because I'm her mum and I love her. It's all too easy these days to give our children a label. Being naughty in the class room must be because the child has special needs, or perhaps it's because they have problems. But what if it's just because they are bored, fed up with the structure of education and eager to run out the gate and go back to being just who they are. As Amy gets older, I'm finding it harder to distinguish between her autistic traits and those of a typical eleven year old girl; the one who back-chats, glares at you with stony eyes, knows it all, falls out with you for simply saying "good morning, sweetheart." Amy was given her label when she was three. Her label says "autistic". But the label I give to her says "normal". To me, Amy is perfectly normal. If she wasn't autistic she wouldn't be my Amy. And if she wasn't my Amy, then she wouldn't be autistic. It's all we've ever known.

I see it in her eyes, that look of "accept me, or don't, the choice is yours." I accept, obviously. But some parents can't accept that their child is autistic, nor can they accept that he or she is "normal". There has to be something wrong with them, there has to be a reason why their child is the only one in class not sitting still; why he or she prefers to play alone. It took us eighteen months to get a diagnosis for Amy. They were long months and I felt half of that time was spent doing very little apart from spending tax payers money on assessments. But as the years have progressed and I have come into contact with many children with a diagnosis surrounding the autistic spectrum, I have come to realise that those eighteen months were the most important time in Amy's life. They determined her future. They told me that my daughter has a label. But they also told me that my daughter's label means nothing apart from being written down in a statement of special educational needs, something we need in order to access the support system. Amy will always be autistic; but she will also, always be normal, because she is my daughter and her autism, to me, is perfectly normal. There's nothing wrong with her. She's beautiful, intelligent, passionate and loving. And now she's growing up. What's abnormal about that?

p.s. New post on Marvellous Mable, fascinating conversation I had with a fascinating lady.