LGBT in schools – Little Girls (and boys) Bully Tirelessly

We officially have a pre teen. She is amazing: funny (I mean stand up comedy funny), creative (it’s amazing what she uses to try and make slime “Mummmm the toothpaste is on fire!”), Caring (“You’re hurt? Sit down, let me get you a wet flannel”) and talented. She recently landed the lead role in her school play as the youngest in the show. Stage is where she is comfortable. Singing is something she does day and night. We call her Little Miss Leather Lungs.

Then came the Pre Teen bit. This snuck up on us until one day we wondered how we had got to this point. When did it start? The eye rolling, the door slamming, the answer for everything. When did the hatred for hair brushing turn into obsessions over new hair styles, and the roll into uniform in the mornings turn into taking an age to put on some lip gloss and accessorize?

When did shoe styles become a thing?

She started secondary school last September. It has been a rollercoaster as all year 7s friendship groups are fluid in their attempts to find their place. Add in the extra learning, homework and longer days and by the end of first term some were exhibiting flagging behaviours.

Abi has two Mums. I have been a part of her life since she was 14 months old. Together we have doted on her ensuring she has everything she needs, though not everything she wants (she saves for some things). We have brought her up with the magic of nature, wand hunting, foraging, home baking, arts and crafts (she can knit, I can’t!), many beach days, camping. We have always taught her that as long as she is happy, healthy, loved and safe then nothing else matters.

Then the teen thing took a turn. She became rude to us, she wouldn’t sleep, she was emotional. She was not happy going to school and insanely happy coming home. Then bedtime would come and she would not be happy again. School had knocked out one of our four “must haves” – happy. As weeks went by, she drip fed us information. It turns out school had knocked out another of our “must haves” – safe. Abi had been experiencing bulling at school.

One girl – one we had known previously – had gathered other children around her and whispered stories about our daughter. The stories were all the same: “don’t go near her she’s a lesbian freak.” “Her Mum’s are fat scabby lesbians.” “Don’t touch that, Abi has touched it – it’s lesbian infected.” And so it went on with the common thread being “lesbian freak.” We were able to pinpoint children who had taken on board these stories as the common thread was uttered time and time again. One afternoon Abi came out of school dripping with cherry coke. Another afternoon she had Seagull excrement smeared over her. She was often tripped up, often had her hair pulled and often threatened that if she told she would die in an ambulance.

Her distress was increasing as we had email conversations and meetings with school. A couple of incidents had been witnessed but school seemed more concerned with Abi’s behaviour: She is often late to class (she doesn’t want to cross paths with bullies en route so hangs back). She has been seen to be antagonistic in class (the teacher turned after another “lesbian freak” moment so caught the tail end, not the whole story. “These incidents are often reported by us not by her.” She is terrified to talk for fear of repercussion. “90% has not been witnessed.” Yet we are dealing with a different child – a very upset child who has had two ruined school shirts and two ruined coats due to the actions of others.

We took Abi out of lessons – putting her in “base.” A time out area for a week until school dealth with the issues. I felt like one of those parents who is constantly phoning, moaning, emailing. I didn’t want the school to view us negatively because of this but we could not stand by and allow this to continue. She was moved to the other half of the year group. She was given a pass to skip the canteen queue and given bolt holes to go to.

She is doing better in her new classes. She is certainly happier and comes home with tales of lessons and new friends. The issues continue inbetween lessons and at break and lunch but she appears to be handling herself better. She is very sensitive and is not the type of child to retaliate. I just hope this positive spell lasts. We have looked at other schools but if things can be worked out we would rather stay. Her school specialises in an subject dear to her, she has made a couple of good friends and she has bonded with many teachers. We don’t want the actions of one (and her group) to spoil what could be an excellent opportunity for Abi.

No child should EVER suffer in silence or be made to feel they cannot speak due to fear.

We have had a meeting with our local MP who is now requesting updates from the school. Homophobia is not acceptable. We are working very hard to bring our daughter back to the point where she once again feels happy, healthy loved and safe. This blog will be continued as things progress.

DWP benefit compliance interview day

Today had been a day I had dreaded ever since I got a letter in a little brown envelope telling me to go to a benefit compliance interview. It all seemed very scary but I understood from the outset that this was a generic letter sent to instill fear through terrifying rhetoric. Nevertheless I instantly started wondering what I had done wrong. I lost sleep going through any changes we might have experienced.

My only thought was that, due to fybromyalgia and M.E I had had to reduce my days of work from three to two thus reducing in hours. The wages were so appaling that I took on ad hoc bank work but this didn’t equate to what I had been earning so I figured it would be ok to carry on as per.

Fybro fog is now part of daily life for me. I turned up for this interview last week and was sat for an hour before one of the security guards double checked my letter and informed me that I was a week early! I felt a total numpty and muttered some half hearted joke about not being penalised for being late then!

Today I turned up an hour early, such is my fear of being penalised for being late. I was seen 50 minutes early but a lady suited and booted and carrying a lot of paperwork. I was led into a room with one frosted glass wall. Today has been hot and the office was like a greenhouse. The table was large but I noticed no recording equipment and it was just me and this lady so I hoped this would not result in any kind of warning.

I had with me three months of bank statements, my passport, two bills, a medical letter, a list of income and three months’ wage slips. This was four wage slips due to one month having bank included. I produced them all. I needn’t have though. She only wanted to see my passport and three wage slips.  I explained my condition and also pointed out that next week I lose my job (that will be a different blog).

She clearly and calmly explained that the council had flagged up the bank shifts. She explained I should have declared if my hours had been reduced and then again if I had taken on bank. I explained that I thought (and I genuinely did, though it seems silly now) that I need only inform them if income increases. She was very sympathetic and told me lots of people are of this mind set but the DWP should be informed at every step of income change – whether it is reduction or increase.

At this point I burst into tears. The pressure of this meeting, the looming end of work and having to help my stepdaughter through her turbulant pre teen years through which she is enduring some horrendous bullying all came out right there and then, infront of this stranger, in a formal situation in the form of tears. I was mortified. My strong exterior crumbled. I apologised. I said I had learned from this and it wouldn’t happen again. I apologised for the tears also and explained that losing my job was placing a lot of pressure on me.

She reassured me everything would be OK and I should send a years worth of wage slips in for things to be reassessed and whatever the outcome we will be able to organise something with us rather than against us. She wrote down what I needed to do in case I got “foggy” in the coming days and forgot.

This was not the kind of reaction I expected from a DWP worker. I had the stereotype firmly in my head of hard nosed target driven workers, incapable of sympathy to the plight of us “common folk!”

It was all over and done with in 20 minutes.

All family who had had to calm me in preparation for the meeting were instantly called.

I am hoping this blog will reassure others in the same situation and be instrumental in helping people to avoid the dreaded brown envelope. Please, please inform them of everything – even if it is a drop in wage!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cluedo, Yoda and unrefreshing refresher training!

 

After six months off work, I am finally phasing back in and this is why I have been quiet. Blogging has taken a back seat whilst pain and exhaustion come to the fore. Dubious as I was, I thought I would bounce back in, newly acquired assertiveness to hand, breeze through my shifts and all the work that entails then return home to become a model housewife: laundry sorted, dishes done, homework worked through with munchkin. The reality was far different. Within two hours, my back burns up with pain, my shoulders scream out for a massage, my head hurts, my eyes are rolling with exhaustion my fingers stop working and words are not forming properly.

 

 

 

To questions such as “how are you getting on?” I am reluctant to tell the truth. I don’t want to moan or cry or sound lazy. Instead, I offer drinks. A perfect get away from the office, I feel. I hadn’t banked on how painful it would be on my hands to carry more then two cups back to my office in one go: a once easy trip is now a mammoth task involving trekking through waiting rooms, dancing around doctors, avoiding patients and trying to cling on to cups which are threatening to drop at any moment.

 

 

 

This week I have been catching the bus in because I am still not able to drive and my poor little car stands neglected under a tree which taunts Bessie (the car), as it changes in accordance to the seasons – blossom, tree sap, autumn leaves have all fallen whilst my car has sat there. Occasionally Bessie has a wash. For the most part, she is home to greenfly, lady birds and Sandy and Scott, the travelling spiders currently residing behind the wing mirrors. (Fine, as long as that’s where they stay!)

 

 

 

The bus journey is in itself another task. The walk to the bus stop is all downhill. All good unless, like this morning, it is raining. Cue umbrella, head down and disorientation. I soon learnt that, when looking down, it is always handy to learn where trees are or pavements end. The bus, when it arrives, is full of school children announcing how gay everything is: “I got a new pencil case. It’s so gay.” “My mum is so gay.” “My maths teacher is so gay.” I was tempted to point out that they are on their way to an all boys or all girls school (the buildings are next to each other) and maybe the expression used should be rephrased. Once at my stop (the children all get off three stops before mine so five minutes peace is gratefully welcomed), I have a ten minute walk to my office where I instantly land in the morning meeting.

 

 

 

Today I had refresher training. I thought this would be a twenty minute session. It ended up being over two hours. I left feeling unrefreshed! The trainer was brilliant. Patient and funny and somehow, we managed to get Cluedo and Yoda in as a way of helping me remember things. (The brain works in weird and wonderful ways!) Training took me to the end of my shift. My partner picks me up – what a godsend. I instantly crashed on the sofa and slept for two hours.

 

 

 

I always try to see the silver lining in every cloud, but I am struggling to here. Last week I worked two shifts, this week three. None of them consecutive. Next week will be four. I face the consecutive days for the first time in months. I am wondering if I will cope and if I don’t, what happens then? The trials of M.E and fybromyalgia are presenting themselves in different guises. For now though, I am settled. Pyjamas on, laptop on, dinner being served. Tomorrow is another day.

 

Lidl Song

I saw this the other day and found it amusing. I am posting it here for those who haven’t yet come across it. I hope it brings a smile or two 🙂

I left my sanity at home

I have been on long term sick due to labyrinthitis, M.E and fybromyalgia. Today I had a meeting at work. Although I was initially excited, as time drew near I started dreading it in a heart dropping, stomach churning way. What if they thought I was faking because externally, I look no different. What if they pushed me to return or allocated work which would, at the moment, be too much? My imagination fired up as non-existent conversations between colleagues in my absence came to mind. “Ere, I bet she’s dragged this out coz her kid’s had the summer holidays, don’t you?” “She’ll have forgotten everything, we’ll have to train her again! Imagine the time that’ll take!” “Have you noticed how quiet it is?!” “She’ll be wanting annual leave next!” I distracted my mind before it traveled further into the realms of the untrue..

I ambled slowly to the bus stop (I am, for now, unable to drive due to symptoms). I felt as though I was in a Victorian novel:

The sky was a blanket of grey, draining the world below of all light and energy. The wind blew icy cold and light rain bit the face of Angel as she pulled her coat tighter around her. “I should’ve let this coat dry after washing it! Now I feel colder than ever” she thought (O.k, that veered from the Victorianesque slightly). She shivered and kept her head down as she battled through the winds. The streets were empty. save a few brave souls, blowing into their hands and marching on to their destinations. Cats lurked down every pathway, glaring accusingly as Angel passed: their whiskers kissed by the fine rain, their eyes bright with the challenge of the day.

The bus stop, when I got there, was busy with people waiting: A lady in her tracksuit smoking to “pass the time.” A young man in a t-shirt bouncing from foot to foot, puffing on an electronic cigarette and swearing profusely, his mother giving him the odd smack on the shins with her walking stick. A young mum rocking a pushchair gently back and forth. Her baby shoeless, coatless, sockless, hatless and blanketless wriggling red toes in the rain. I perched on a wall away from the group and started to plan things to say at the meeting.

Maybe I could ask for a fan. I struggle controlling my temperature. Maybe they would let me have drinks by my workstation. Maybe I should mention my hearing is now damaged in my left ear and my memory is shocking. Maybe not. The bus came, the group of people boarded and I stayed put. My bus was next. A lady joined me and asked if she had missed the bus. She was relieved to learn that I was waiting for the same one. We watched a postman across the road slip and drop his letters. How long before the red vans, the post boxes and the daily deliveries from, generally, cheery postman become a memory of the past? Will Abi tell her children about it:

When I was a kid, we posted letters in a red letter box to Father Christmas. He would write back, you know. And we got post everyday. If the postman had a big parcel, he would pull up in his red van outside the door. My stepmum was a postwoman for a while, and our neighbour was too. They have some stories to tell about banging heads on hanging baskets, running away from barking dogs and finding pet rabbits on pavements! (all true!)

I digress.

The bus arrived. The clock was now ticking. In exactly fifteen minutes I would be walking off the bus right on the doorstep of work. My heart started beating faster. I distracted myself further by staring out the window trying to get gardening ideas from the properties we passed. I started feeling travel sick. I looked down. I looked ahead. I looked to my left. Nothing helped.

By the time I got off the bus, I felt dizzy, exhausted and sick. I stumbled in to the door frame of my workplace and came face to face with my two bosses. Well, I thought, at least I look ill! My worries were instantly quelled as they both held me and were happy I had made it. Over coffee and a catch up, all my questions were answered and my worries eased. In two to three weeks I will be back at work. In my swanky new workspace complete with new chair and new blinds (so I am more in control of the light in the room). I will be meeting the rest of my colleagues next week and I am told there will be a buffet for the occasion. I do hope there is carrot cake!

I am a notorious deep thinker and worrier. Nothing is ever as bad as I fear it will be and today is a classic example. The results of my worry are, as always, exhaustion. I have spent the rest of today power napping whenever I can. I have longed for pyjamas since the meeting closed. I have wanted to run back to the safety of my home and close the door on the world for the day, safe in my cocoon of home comforts: my partner, my stepdaughter, my space, my cats, my sanity! At home I am, for the most part, calm. I am free to be me. I don’t need to wear the “i’m fine, really” mask. I don’t need to worry about what’s about to happen. At home, I am never alone. At home I have unconditional love and support. At home I am complete.

 

 

Cue Intro

This lady is a superbly funny, deep thinker who observes life and relays it in such a way that even the strongest bladder-owner would struggle! Strap yourselves in, prepare for some laughs and enjoy the ride! I am reblogging this in the hopes of her gaining some waves as she passes by on her rollercoaster of wit! 🙂

cathimoran

To me this site would be used by serious people with serious thoughts. Somebody, maybe, who would want to further their careers in the writing world. Maybe have a degree in creative writing and understand the universe of English literature, to even know what a “Madding Crowd” was. Or, at the very least, someone with some knowledge in  computers which extends beyond Farmville on Facebook and vintage items on Ebay,  (that were more than twelve months old.)

Someone maybe, who wouldn’t need to turn to their partner after the first paragraph to ask, ” What do you think of this so Far? I don’t think you’ll like it. It’s a bit mad really isn’t it?” To be told, ” Yes its is mad, but that’s o.k.” ( Not the answer I was looking for!)

Or to feel the need to turn and ask same partner ( as I only have…

View original post 61 more words

facebook, ebay and polyester knickers

I am sat here, having finally managed to get Cath set up on wordpress, watching her type her “about me” blog. The TV is off. The room is quiet. Deep concentration ensues, followed by the odd giggle and a look in my direction. “What?!” I ask. “Is it OK to talk about farmville on Facebook, items on Ebay and debate the number of “p’s” in polyester knickers?!”

“Yes hun,” I answer. “You can talk about anything you want.”

Cue another giggle.

She is now set up, still in her nest, cheeping away as she learns her way around the site. She is guaranteed to make you smile on a not-quite-so-guaranteed daily basis! (for being online, I mean – NOT because she is half Sicilian and therefore it is compulsory for her to keep a straight face most of the time!)

Cath would like everyone to realize that she has a very Victorian style of writing (long sentences, and long explanations for points which could be paraphrased). She does however, draw the line in painting her rooms dark red and mourning for more than five years!

SO I have introduced Catherine: cathmoran73 to the wonderful world of wordpress. I am sure she will receive as warm a welcome as I did 🙂

Will the parents of Abi come to the pool side please.

This is my stepdaughter Abi (8). The picture speaks many words. Abi is confident, cheeky, dramatic and always singing. Always armed with her quick wit, she is a master (or madam!) of managing to get herself out of trouble by making others laugh. Those who meet her never forget her: she is our shining light, our star.

We have never been pushy parents – I see too many pushing children through auditions and working numerous rehearsals around and sometimes during school hours. I watch from a distance and see the toll it takes on their little ones. These parents I have known since school. They too used to audition for shows. One mum in particular desperately wanted fame (I think the writer Judy Blume classed this type of person as a bun head). She now wants the same for her daughter. Nor are we pushy in the sporty sense. We are not the lone parents standing up to watch our child win a swimming gala race, shouting “faster, faster” from behind the video camera, then giving a twenty minute lecture about technique and how this will evidently need work- even though their child won the race and even had time to tread water and check where his competitors were in relation to him!

Whatever Abi wants to try her hand at, within reason, we let her try. She will find her niche someday but needs the opportunity to try things out first. We have encouraged swimming though. When Abi was little we lived in Cornwall near a river. We figured swimming was essential for safety purposes so enrolled her in the local swimming club. Abi was four. We spent ages choosing swimming costumes (“not that one, it hasn’t got FiFi on!”), goggles and floats. We made it exciting with songs and games, then the day came.

It started much as it ended: Abi, despite being surrounded by peers she knew, screamed! I don’t mean shouting and crying which echoes around the sound-magnifying hall, I mean deep breath, full lung scream! We reassured her that she would be safe and went to the cafe in the hopes that she would calm once we were out of sight. We could still hear her from the cafe. We snuck a peek through the window to see her clinging on to the teacher, legs hitched high out of the water.

At the end of the lesson, the teacher asked why Abi would have such a fear of water. We couldn’t give an answer. We had never “dropped” her in water, she had never been out of her depth. She relished baths, enjoyed splashing around and loved water toys. We couldn’t understand it.

The next week was a little calmer, but Abi continued to cling to her teacher. And so it went on, sometimes screaming, sometimes not. Never jumping in and never letting go. Her peers moved up a class, Abi stayed put. On bad days, the tannoy would boom “Would the parents of Abi come to the poolside please” and we would have to fish her out. We gave up. We figured Abi would learn in her own time. Just like she did with potty training (on her terms), riding her bike (on her terms – she would not let us help!), tying her laces (on her terms) and getting dressed (you guessed it! On her terms!). We don’t always give in to Abi but we choose our battles wisely.

Fast forward to eight years old. Abi is in a school swimming gala. She struggles to swim a width whilst her peers are diving in the deep end. She watches them intently. She decides she wants to do what they are doing. Abi has finally set her terms. Now is the time!

We enrolled Abi in three 1-1 lessons so they could gauge which class she should be in. Over the summer, in three half hour slots, she mastered swimming a front crawl, swimming a width, jumping in the shallow end and swimming for short times out of her depth. She is now having group lessons. Her swimming peers are mainly younger than her by a year or two but she is driven by determination to “show them” at the next school gala and dive in with the boys. Today she was made an example of swimming a width front crawl. The others had to watch and copy. Today she jumped in the deep end for the first time.

Today she smiled.

Abi has decided she actually likes swimming now and is keen to learn everything there is to learn. Abi has decided she will not only “show them” next year but will win too. It is such a magical thing to watch your child grow in confidence. All it took was the opportunity to do it….

…… on her terms!

marmite, marmite everywhere….

I used to run around as a toddler with tea in a bottle and marmite soldiers (toast strips with marmite on) squished in my hands. (Not a lot has changed since – my tea is now in a mug, my toast now sliced in half. The essence is still there). I remember the stickiness oozing through my fingers and the fascinating marks my fingers would then leave on the walls! Marmite has always been a part of my world and there is always a sinking feeling when the jar is nearly empty! It may be more expensive per gallon than petrol (so my mother used to tell me), but it is almost drug like in the way it has a hold on me. I have to have it. It is pure comfort.

As I got older, I experimented: Marmite on toast dipped into boiled eggs, marmite drizzled on to pasta and cheese, marmite dumplings! Friends and colleagues would joke about it, handing me meals and leaving a jar of marmite on the side in case I wanted to use it as freely as children use ketchup!

I first noticed marmite merchandising when I was ten: marmite crisps. My mother never bought these because thesewere a “want” item rather than a “need” item (We worked strictly within these boundaries). As I got older I noticed more products on offer – Marmite chocolate, cashew nuts and biscuits! Even marmite toothpaste and lip balm was on offer! I tried the cashew nuts but it was, I am sad to admit, a little too odd! I didn’t try anything else. Alongside the alternative treats, jars changed. Squeezy bottles were now an option, different “collectable” flavours came in to play: old, extra old, champagne, gold. I tried them all! (The gold was my personal favourite) There are now marmite tea pots, aprons, china pots, mugs….. you name it, marmite has made it.

Marmite even made an appearance on an antiques TV show. Old jars (I can’t remember now if they were open or unopened), from years ago – particularly the limited edition ones are, apparently, worth money! What a shame I didn’t keep all the jars I have gone through!

So, after three days with no marmite (possibly a record for me), I have finally relented and bought a jar. I am feeling creative so the floor is open to suggestions: Have you ever cooked with marmite? Have you ever baked with marmite? Have you added marmite to dishes in any unusual way? Maybe you are not a lover of marmite (I call these the marmaladi). Whether you are a lover or not, I would love to hear from you.

For now though, my toast has popped up. Time to break the seal and dig right in!

I will hold the mirror up to you

When you try to hurt me I will smile and close the door. You try to enter my mind and fly around in fits of excitement playing games but the way is barred and the only storm raging is yours. You think I don’t see you with eyes wide open, but I do. You have no power over me, my life is my own. I will not react.

BUT

If you try to hurt her, the door will not close. You are in her mind playing in the playground she freely shares. There are no storms there but bitter laughter echoing in her head. She is waking up. She is seeing you of her own accord. She knows. If you think you can continue, my own storm will brew. You will not be solitary in your bitter world for I will join you. I will hold the mirror up so you see yourself. I will hold her up so you see what she has become. I will show you the results of your mindless acts then I will take her hand.

We will walk towards beauty, towards love, towards calm, leaving you behind in your ugly, dark, lifeless world.