So now I know what a nervous breakdown feels like. It’s a cliché, but they happen. The doctor says that they happen to people who deal with extra stresses by pretending they are normal, everyday events and nothing to be concerned about. I think he was making a hint, but it was far too subtle for me to decipher.

Then he had the audacity to suggest that I am not superman. How dare he?

It was when the doctor talked me through recent stressful events that I realised he might have had a point:
a child diagnosed with a mental disability;
three years of autistic sleep-deprivation;
shit smeared on the bedroom walls three nights out of every seven;
the destruction of all our furniture;
having to sue a local authority;
twice;
moving house;
new jobs for Darling Wifey and myself;
not to mention becoming line manager to an individual famous for undermining colleagues.

Mind you, the doctor didn’t agree that the exhaust rattling on the people-carrier is a good reason for a temper tantrum, or that having a poor signal on your mobile phone is just cause for being upset, so he can’t be that perceptive, can he?

Anyway, superman is grounded for a few days while his blood pressure returns to normal and a rational perspective on life is resumed. Apparently the best way to achieve this is “daytime telly torture.”

“Doctor, this patient is suffering from depression.”
“He has nothing to be depressed about. Make him watch Family Affairs until he cheers up! And if that doesn work, increase the dose with a daily episode of Home and Away. That’ll make the miserable sod buck his ideas up!”
“What about his hypertension, Doctor?”
“Richard and Judy will sort that out, but make sure you don’t overdose him, nurse. We don’t want to cause brain death or narcolepsy.”

This entry got misplaced in the rejigging of the blog, and I can’t find out where it belongs – so I’ll put it here. It’s more than a year old, written when we were still coming to terms with Little Nutter’s Autism.

I’ve started to attend an “ASD Parents’ Group” to try and learn some strategies to help Little Nutter with his communication.

What is it about “Group” that makes me feel like I am Dr Evil trying to make a communication breakthrough with my son?

“OK. Well, I just really met my Dad for the first time three days ago. He was partially frozen for thirty years. I never knew him growing up. He comes back and now he wants me to take over the family business.”
“But son, who’s going to take over the world when I die?”

I agreed to attend because the Hanen Programme (see the link above) looks very interesting: it has a sound theoretical foundation, and I certainly want to learn more about the theory, and the creators of the programme have spent a lot of time and energy putting together lots of practical methods and material to help you along. So I turned up with my little Palm computer for taking notes, and the textbook on standby for me to look up references. Oh, and one of the nurses from Little Nutter’s day care centre: fancy that – Darling Wifey letting me go out with another (gorgeous) woman every other weekend!

First of all, we had “sharing.” I missed the introduction, because I was too busy playing Monopoly on my pocket computer. Then I realised that people were telling me – a perfect stranger (well, that’s how I always describe myself when I meet an attractive woman) – personal details about their own lives. I sat and listened with that mixture of horror and fascination you only get when you know you don’t want to know, and you fear that they want you to give in return. “Sharing” always seems to require far more information than I think is strictly necessary; or have I missed the point? Either way, I spoke one sentence when everyone else spoke for ten minutes. After my turn, a “modern dad” type spoke at length about how learning to communicate with his ASD son would help him find himself. Luckily I had some of my anti-emetic medication left over from last week. (I don’t want to sound sceptical or anything – after all, my job is effectively teaching the meaning of life in the classroom. It’s just that some people will grasp at anything in search of a meaning to their lives.)

This was not the start I expected; I was not the group member they expected. I wanted a class to learn things that may or may not be helpful in teaching Little Nutter to speak; I found myself in a parents’ self-help group.

Actually, that is an exaggeration. It was a combination of the two: we would have a presentation on a part of some theory of child development or other (please oh please not Piaget! Yes, he was a very clever man, but no-one who has worked with large groups of children can really believe that “sequencing” is a foundation of pedagogical development. Not without declaring all children who deviate from the “sequence” as being abnormal.) and then all seventeen group members would “share” their own experiences and perceptions. Make that sixteen of the group members: the seventeenth would ask a question about the theory.

I was rapidly turning into a disruptive element, so a change of strategy became necessary.

“I had the group liquidated, you little ****. They were insolent.”

Tempting, but no. These are good people, trying to make a connection with each other in order to make sense of a senseless and painful situation in their private lives. The problem is that I don’t want to share it. I just want to learn ways of dealing with it.

The Hanen Programme itself is pretty good, even if I don’t fully appreciate the local methods used for delivering it. Already, it has given us a clear picture of Little Nutter’s communication, and clarified areas for development. And, after seeing Little Madam learn to talk, the theory makes a great deal of sense. We can even monitor the development of Tiny Flirt in his “I’m Cute! Gotta Love Me!” way…

So I’m going to give it my best. You never know – it might turn me into a sociable, gregarious person.

Stranger things have happened. That horse becoming Pope, for one.

Well, it’s been nearly a year and a half since my blog was updated – and the software was just so old fashioned…

So, once again, many thanks are due to Darren for doing all the techy things to get this new software up and running. The main advantage of this change is the filtering system for comments: this means that there shouldn’t be any more adverts for viagra or photographs that I absolutely should not be looking at with my blood pressure.

Ah well.

There are few options available for Catholic Family Planning – but I now have two more:

The first is something for Darling Wifey to use: a picture of Ann Widdecombe next to the bed. This works better than the old “contraceptive stone” (put it in your shoe and it makes you limp.) I call our’s “Geronimo.”

The second is something I shall call “intelligent family planning.” You go straight to the cause, and deal with that. As I’ve already said, the cause is OFSTED inspections. So, since I had another OFSTED inspection this month, we needed something to satisfy the “need” and prevent the arrival another child.

The solution: holly, an eight week old cocker spaniel puppy.

So I saw my doctor about my migraines, and stomach problems, and high blood pressure and the various other consequences of working with a two-faced she-devil who happens to be best mates with my boss…

And my doctor says that part of the reason why I suffer stress like this is because I am far too grown up and sensible.

Apparently there are quite a few teachers like me. We are too used to being the adult in a room full of children all day, and we just don’t switch off. So for the rest of our lives, we ‘grown ups’ have to be the responsible ones in every situation. And we end up taking responsibility for stuff that we really shouldn’t. And that’s what stresses us out.

So my bestest mate the doctor says that I should be a little bit lazier. And a little bit more self centred. And a hell of a lot more childish.

So, Darling Wifey, make me some hot chocolate and iron my shirts. I’m going to watch The Simpsons.

I was happily reading the newspaper after the Fellowship of the Snot had been put to bed last night, when Little Madam came along with her book and curled up on the sofa next to me. Lovely.

She started talking. Hmm. Not-so-peace-and-quiet.

“Are you grown-up enough to get me some fruit juice?” asked the Evil Daddy sneakily.

“Oh yes,” she replied enthusiastically. She disappeared for five minutes.

Excellent. I found a pen and the crossword.

Naturally, I had attempted and given up on at least three clues by the time she proudly returned with a drink for me. And she started talking again.

“Do you know where my slippers are?” I innocently asked her.

“Daddy!” she replied. “Your slippers are your responsibility. If you have lost them, then you had better find them again. Where are they?”

“In my bedroom, I think.”

“And your bedroom is a mess. I get into trouble when my bedroom is a mess, and if I lose things. You had better tidy your room right now.”

So much for a relaxing evening.

Is it normal to fall asleep every night on the floor covered with books instead of in bed under a blanket? Little Madam does.

Is it normal to sleep on the ladder to your cabin bed? Little Nutter does.

Is it normal to sleep in the bottom drawer? Tiny Flirt does.

Is it normal to eat cheerios out of a teacup?

Is it normal to take your shoes off in Tesco and suck your own toes?

Is it normal to eat the cat’s supper?

Is it normal to watch the telly from the comfort of your potty?

Is it normal to pick your nose and feed it to the cat?

Is it normal to compare willies with your brother?

Is it normal to hang your knickers on the front door handle?

There is no handbook for daddies, is there?