The Times In Which You Lose Yourself

So I don’t know how many of you know this, but I went to a gig last year, a few months after establishing myself in Australia and it fucking blew me away. “Some chap” called Paul Kelly was perfoming that everyone else knew of old – he is in fact the stuff of Australian legend. But him, his music and his exceptionally cute Nephew were all new to little old English me who at a similar time, also had to come to grips with Khe Sanh being the stuff of musical Australian National Pride…

I came home that night, (from my favourite venue in W.A thus far) and listened to album after album; twenty years [plus] of pure, divine Kelly gold. I tasted the sweetness of his melodies, the vividness of his imagery, I learned a little and I felt a lot. I was totally lost in this guy’s music for weeks; upon each listen, hearing new nuances to his voice, realising the frequent poignancy of his references. Mainstream as his general audience may be, this guy is anything but…he is in fact extraordinary. And so he brought me back to music with a new hunger, a renewed want for brilliance and an appetite to devour as much Aussie music as possible. And so I did (and do). I gorge myself on live performance after live performance, I buy albums, I borrow albums, I constantly, nerdily listen to music online which has every promise to be released soon – but isn’t yet, with the fervour of an expectant mother willing her new child into the world. I obsessively dissect and analyse and enjoy every moment, until I feel my brain might explode with the exquisite pleasure of the moment. Needless to say, that I don’t fail to get goosebumps at the beginning of each and every gig, with the scope for possibility and promise of a New Love.

Paul Kelly in his younger days, his music standing the test of time (whilst skinny leg black jeans come full circle):

And you know, I don’t write reviews because that’s too much like work, right? I am all about not having a Real Job. But I have seen and heard such excellence over the past few months, it would be wrong not to talk about the musicians that are rocking my world recently (and those that aren’t). So I will post some of the fodder here alongside the articles going to press elsewhere…Besides, how long could I write this blog purely as some warped therapy of my own, all about mememe and hope that you’d keep reading?! (Thanks though [for continuing to read], I love you all for it!).

Happy Fucking Mother’s Day…

So yes, we are all in agreement that I never update my Parent blog and that I bore you all with my insanity here instead…so get over it.

You may remember that last year’s Mothers Day Tea at Kindy with Looney was twee and wonderful and followed by a burst of child-induced reality as most fleeting interludes of calm and sweetness are, when parenting in the real world (or you may not – whatever). This year was similar in essence. I still have a big head in my portrait and Looney still refuses to sing a note in public, because that would be totally uncool or something; but also because I still marvelled at the artwork produced by The Most Beautiful Four Year Old That Ever Lived - the pieces of paper were painted and collaged to the best of his ability to depict Yours Truly; along with creative writing about which television programmes I watch and the fact that I “go out to The Pub” (nothing slides past this little one); that my hair is very long and my eyebrows are purple (yes, purple), oh and that I am ten years older than the numbers on my birth certificate would have me believe.

Q: What makes your Mummy happy? Looney : Cuddles from me.

Yes baby boy, spot on. (and my new cardboard slippers that you made me too – thank you).

However, to coin a not very British phrase: Mother’s Day hype shits me.

I hate the card manufacturers making money and wasting trees; capitalizing on children’s feelings of guilt, duty and dissatisfaction with more pure ways of communicating their feelings. It’s such utter bullshit.

More than anything, I cannot stand the advertising campaigns which give a massive nod to the Over- Americanism of the whole sorry affair, with a photograph of some ridiculous thirty-something woman who has clearly never given birth in her life, wearing a twin set or pyjamas that the majority of actual mothers I know would not even wipe their arses on, with a slogan reading “Spoil Mum” across the page.

Fuck me. Spoil Mum?!! The “mum” in question needs a fucking orgasm…seriously, the woman in this years’ overkill ad campaign looks as pure as newly fallen snow. Some one ought to remind Twat-Mart that real Mothers, by their definition are likely to have at least had sex once in their lives, contrary to this saccharin imagery which makes “mum” look like a freaking uptight nun on happy pills.

And just to complete the rant, since when was having a baby some altruistic notion anyway, so much so that we must be thanked for it?

Patted on the back for the hard work, reminded that we rock, told that we’re still beautiful?

Yes, perhaps that would be nice, but putting aside a whole day to be thanked for procreating? I’m obviously missing something.

We do it [Mother's Day] though, in our house; it’s bad enough that all four boys think I am Satan for not taking them to church at the weekend – if I started messing with other Sunday rituals I would be in big trouble. They would be mortified to think that I didn’t want to have cold toast with thick globules of butter on it on Sunday morning. They enjoy dipping the Teabag (just once it seems) into scalding water for me to sip on gingerly in my semi-conscious state, at some point before 6am, too. They love to snuggle down and press their cold feet against my previously warm and comatosed body whilst I unwrap reams of sellotape from my gifts. And so do I. The whole thing is positively joyful. It’s just unnecessary to thank me, that’s all.

It’s fair to say that we lose a lot when we become a parent. During pregnancy it’s our waistlines, the elasticity of our skin, our social lives;the ability to lay down without getting heartburn; breasts; memories; we lose our minds…then it’s our time; sleep; for a time it’s our sex lives; our confidence and of course we frequently lose our patience…but we wouldn’t change a thing, right?

Because there is nothing else like it on earth. No drug’s going to give you this high [trust me]. And [ladies], no man in the world is going to look at you at six in the morning with the same awe of your own offspring and tell you sincerely that you are the most beautiful woman in the world…

For all of us that don’t fit a Twat-Mart stereo-type; for those of us who pushed a human being or four from within us; or those of you that went through a billion pages of paperwork and red tape to adopt; or ended up on the operating table and went through weeks of recovery in order to meet your child; for those of you who used your own womb, or borrowed another; to those of you who planned to become a mother and those who didn’t, and whether you are married, polygamous, in a same sex relationship or on your own…

Happy Fucking Mother’s Day.

The Weighty Issue of the Dreadlock

Now, I know there are famine, war, poverty and abuse out there…trust me these issues take up a good proportion of my conscious thought time; but bear with me guys, because lately I have been consumed with the want for having my dreads back and it’s not just because washing arse-length loose hair is driving me insane. Though it is. A little.

So what is it then?

It’s a feeling of reminiscence for those days when it wasn’t this hard. When my life did not involve the mundanities that it does now. It comes from a feeling of wanting to be free again. To escape…it only takes a mildly “rootsy” song to waft through to my lugholes and instantly the longing for the chilled life is back. Of course the lifestyle is mine for the taking – changes recently and plans made to travel with break up the monotony of this Suburbia which I have come to resent again. But the hair? why am I even concerned about the hair?

Back then, in my teens, the dreads meant something to me.

In one respect, they were my silent message to the masses that cried “I am not like you crazy people with your eyelash curlers, hair straighteners and ten denier tights…no. I am more real than that [man]” .

Now agreed, this is a shit silent message as far as messages go. But I rather liked it. And of course contrary to wanting to appear ENTIRELY different to everyone else, I didn’t – suddenly I assimilated easily with other people who held my interest and were like me because I was wearing The Uniform.

We could talk about peace and war and love and the universe and when it was going to end and which band had recently “sold out”…

…and it was magic. I loved being me back then. I knew who I was. I knew what I stood for. It was all so simple. (Particularly as many of my thoughts and viewpoints were regurgitated leftyisms from my fabulous crowd…but I digress and I am shattering the rose tints).

So as I grew up, grew older, the pressure for [a white girl with waist length dreadies] me to change came from all directions, I inevitably swayed in the wind. I changed my hair and vowed to stay true to the thoughts and beliefs that had brought me to lock my hair in the first place.

Life gets messy when you make a big change, particularly when you make many changes at once…it’s a right of passage – the changes can break down all of your definitions about yourself and rebuild you in a whole new way . For me, grey areas became my hiding place, I was not quite one thing, not quite another; I was complex and inccidentaly interesting, not to mention that I could not be easily pigeon holed. I was no longer instantly recognisable as the girl with those views, that listened to those bands. Through this change, of course I was liberated from the censor of many other people yet I was considered to have “sold out” by many of my die hard hippy-type friends. Within myself I recognised that I was still precisely the same person of the day before.

It wasn’t just hair, it never was. It was how I defined myself physically for a long time. I revisited the locks a few times. Naturally curly hair like mine dreads up on it’s own so easily, it was an easy move for me to wave in and out of dreadlockdom. Even now, I have three thick matted locks at the back of my head, whilst the rest wafts around my face, unsure as to which way it should blow.

So why construct the hair again? why limit myself to an aesthetic which I have done to death already?

Because I want to opt out again. I am sick of competing. For attention; for praise; for acceptance.

I never craved one of these whilst I was that free-thinking dread-head of days gone by.

So maybe the beeswax will come out tonight, maybe not; but the thought is there – consuming me still – reminding me of how simple life used to feel.

New Moon…and other miracles

Imagine if you will, being woken from a dream and finding that you had given birth to four children in your sleep, to a seemingly wonderful man who you barely knew, because even after waking, you hardly ever saw him. Imagine being left to care for the children, knowing that you possessed the skills, being aware of their schedule and requirements, but being unaware as to where you aquired this knowledge in the first place. Imagine now that you were also in a foreign country, feeling helpless as to who to turn to.

This has not been my reality, however it has been my perception of my life over the past few weeks, such was the magnitude of the depression which hit me out of the blue. I have lived the last three months in a fog of confusion, unable to make fully coherent decisions or really interact with people in the way in which I usually do. Getting out of bed irritated me, staying still even for a moment enraged me and other people’s problems consumed me as a means of escape from my own mind.

TODAY:

So today started as it usually does…it was dark outside, there were shirt sto be ironed that I was too knackered to iron last night. But there was the most exquisite change because as I woke I felt different; calmer, more complete – perhaps the storm was over? I daren’t hope.

But it continued. The children duly dressed themselves and we left on time to walk to school. They were funny, they made me laugh. I was happy of course if slightly unsettled. The children hugged me goodbye at the school and my heart lept. As I walked back, I noted my surroundings and fell in love with them, knowing that it was for the millionth time, but feeling so blessed that I could feel these things again.

A new moon . New beginning. New phase. Thank Fuck.

High Fidelity

So apparently it is fuck-around season.

Reports of extra marital/simultaneous relationships/affairs/falling in love with the “wrong” person seem to be falling at my door recently; from people I would never have dreamed previously would entertain such activities.

Lest it should be implied otherwise, let me make it clear that I do not in any way stand in judgement of decisions taken by anyone but myself.

Perhaps I was naive to assume that everyone was NOT at it.

So, time to [hypothetically] re-examine the flogged horse of Fidelity…the “old fashioned” values of marriage, the commitment of one person to another. Perhaps it is time to churn out the old staple liberal conversations of my early twenties, where Man and Woman; as human beings were never meant to be together monogamously, forever.

( This being a theory which has actually been fiercely contested, due the the monogamous ways of the caveman being thought to be fundamental to our survival as a species… but hey, my version got me laid back then).

So if we really are culturally and intrinsically supposed to want to be faithful to one person, then why is everyone out getting laid elsewhere?

Affairs of the heart are never simple; lust and want obliterate logic on a daily basis, in every office, on everys street and in many otherwise happy homes. Race, sex, creed nor religion stand in the way of the basic need to pro-create (or at least practice doing so); furthermore, the romanticism of each union is fueled by our fundamental fear (modern or not) of feeling “alone” (in my opinion!).

The cycle is, for the most part, futile. Sometimes falling for a perfect stranger’s notion is more natural than taking the next breath, but perfect strangers soon become less-than-perfect partners and none of us can see through rose tinted glasses or indeed beer goggles forever. So the search for the new interest begins again. But should we want to continually restart the same old game? Surely we are all searching and yearning for something more real than Picture Perfect First-Date Syndrome. Surely we all want something more than that first flush of excitement?

Is everyone out there really craving the early days of uncertainty, heart stopping excitement and passion?

Uh, yep, it would seem so.

And what defines fidelity in a society bereft of any actual boundaries anyway? If we fantasise about another whilst in the arms of our lovers, are we being unfaithful? or can we fuck whomever we like so long as our heart remains with our life partners?

What were the rules before us then? There must be some all knowing guru whom I can turn to and hear the rules so that I may live by them correctly, instead of being unceremoniously expelled from this fucked up school of life by getting it wrong?

Someone has to know what’s what, because my generation and I did not invent this phenomenon…we didn’t sit down one day in the early nineties and say, “you know what would go really nicely with this house music that we’ve invented, a bit of fucking around…mmm, radical man.”

And it’s all very well to blame the baby boomers, because, you know, everyone blames them for EVERYTHING THAT EVER WENT WRONG IN THE WORLD EVER, but really it’s not their fault either…in fact “fault” is a term that implies that multiple partners is wrong…and I refuse to be that person.

So in lieu of the baby boomers, we’ve got to look at the church right? Public enemy number whatever:

With even some of the major players in the Bible being depicted as openly polygamous; Catholic Priests in 700AD or thereabouts frequently taking second wives whilst the first were ill or dying [provided they look after the first - rules are rules after all]; even with monogamy being disproved as being from the scriptures, The Church ( sometime after it’s Roman invasion) has imposed both monogamy and celibacy on it’s followers. So here I suppose we can at least see where the hypocrisy comes from, if not the answer to who is making the rules exactly.

I personally think that we are supposed to be of such ego that we discount past practices and out of date and less sophisticated than the society within which we choose to live. You know, we’re more moral than all of that. But we are not. I know first hand the dramatic hurt that infidelity causes, I still bear scars of the same; yet I actually see it as an inevitable occurrence – a trial for the betrayed, a learning curve for the adulterer…to know another person whilst still in the context of a marriage, has to be a life lesson right? one way or another? Seriously. And simultaneous connections with people outside of a relationship are not necessarily the end of the first.

In conclusion, “adultery” is a not so brightly coloured thread through life’s rich tapestry. We will all come across it at some point and we may or may not be undone by it’s impact. But it’s out there. The forbidden sexual, emotional, physical or mental energy between two people that aren’t allowed to touch…

Losing Patience (in which I scare/amuse you all with the thoughts that have consumed me in my absence…)

My patience escaped me recently.  All that I had made safe and comfortable in my life – all that I knew about the way that the adult me operates and interacts with people has become a distant memory.  Furthermore, far from being able to explain this situation away with facts and figures and talk of hormones and stress management, I knew when it hit me,  that this was something far deeper. 

Within myself there has been a change.  Triggered by a chance meeting with someone who reminded me of myself and without warning held a shiny mirror up to myself to reveal me standing quite vulnerable in my honesty before them;  furthered by a sequence of events evoking within me some of the most joyful and profound feelings – discovery of music and beauty in my surrounding on a somewhat remeniscent  level, revisiting feelings long forgotten of rapturous excitement at the possibility for life and love and connection with the world; has in retrospect left me with the most exquisite ecstatic moments of clarity and purpose interspersed with feelings of hopelessness and impatience. 

Only now, at what I perceive to be the other side of this messy and deeply challenging phase of growth, do I realise that through the [worthy] distraction of raising my children, have I neglected and become less aware of those things that I stood so readily for before.  The views that defined me were quite literally left to gather dust whilst I operated on a much more insistent and immediately important level, raising my babies.  Now, I am awake once more and I feel  within me a child-like warrior spirit of my own to make an impact on the world.

 My patience was lost somewhere in the stripping away of those things that have been part of me by conditioning to reveal those parts of me which are intrinsically me.  This has not been a comfortable process. Those parts of me that are both beautiful and less so. The parts for which I have felt shame and the parts of which I have been proud. 

My inate “over” sexuality and inflamed want for pleasure – hearkening to the Tantric/Hindu belief on the energy of Kundalini, such a precious power, an overwhelmingly forceful power that has the ability to destroy/create in so many areas of our lives, not solely in the sexual arena. I now acknowledge and accept this incredible energy within me.

 My warrior spirit which has been mine since birth, which I have been encouraged to dilute to become palatable to polite society.  My selfishness and want for space and solitude at times.  These traits are not my most attractive.  They are however “me” and I have been forced to not only look at them but to embrace them and to use them wisely in order to be clear in the choices which I will make in my life from here on in. 

Those things in life which I find unacceptable can no longer be ignored. 

Hatred and misunderstanding have no place in this world.  Generations of children after my own will not live in peace and will not have sufficient scope for happiness if my own generation do not wake up to the fact that fighting each other hasn’t worked before and will not work in the future. 

 If we fight hatred instead of each other, we will progress. 

My generation has become one of shirking, consuming and apathy. 

It cannot be this way. 

Our children deserve to swim in an ocean full of life;  to breathe air that heals not harms;  to feel the love of another regardless of creed or colour. 

These are my battles.  They have always been so.  I am glad to have come back to them with clarity and impatience.

Finding Self

So…yes.  I have been gone from the realm of Blog for some considerable time, most of which has been spent with my head up my arse “processing” and re-evaluating my life and my core belief system.  If I were American I might say that this has been a time of extreme growth, however as I am but a wafty British girl (despite living in the warmer climes of paradise as I do) then I shall retire on the subject, safe in the knowledge that you will know that predictably I have been over- analysing my life, doing yoga, meditating and having lofty conversations with like-minded and amazing individuals.  It has been most pleasing.

I may return soon. I hope so. My arse hurts.

Of family, friends, joy and pleasure…

Here ends a three week visit from Mama and Papa Femme.

From the moment they kissed my face and hugged me hard at Heathrow one year ago, sending me away from my homeland with selfless wishes for my happiness; I kept the Part Of Me That Longs For My Parents [to hold my hand through life], numb. I anaesthetised it so that it didn’t hurt to be away from them. Sometimes it would awaken via a long distance phone call or a broadcaster unwittingly playing an emotive song on the radio, but I soon quelled it with thoughts of the beautiful life Himself and I have created here in Australia and dreams of Mama Femme and Papa Femme’s first visit to see it all.

Then they were here. In the flesh. They didn’t seem a minute older than the day we left them. They were familiar and comforting, yet exciting and new all at the same time.

I listened to my Dad’s stories, some of which I have heard a hundred times and we laughed until we both had tears streaming down our faces. I succumbed instantly to my Mum’s way of cleaning up after every activity rather than “leaving it til later” as is my wont. I watched her cook and simultaneously entertain our guests and make everyone welcome, as is her natural talent.

We argued over who should pay for dinner; we swam in the pool; we breakfasted on the beach; we chilled and read books in amiable silence; we talked all through and over the top of my favourite television programmes; we school run’d together; we road trip’d together; we marvelled at the “Australianness” of our surroundings and the incidental Britishness of ourselves and I felt whole.

The blessings which we bestow on ourselves are those which we often taken for granted; almost as though because we have chosen them ourselves, we do not deserve them in their fullness. I chose this land as my home, but I leave behind a family whom I love.

The path which we choose for ourselves is a road less travelled, filled with uncertainty and often with comprimise; but the wholeness achieved in three short weeks in which time I have felt that I “have it all” both emboldened me in my future choices and made even more firm my relationship with those whom I have physically left behind. Friendships that I have formed since my life in Australia began are exquisite to me, so incredibly precious that I am thankful for them everyday. I look at the world afresh, with renewed optimism and a feeling that “I can have all of this, and them (my parents) too”. Nothing has been lost.

So it was a great trip. A wonderful experience through which I no longer have to feel numb, rather blessed.

To my wonderful parents: We are apart but not lost to each other. See you soon.

The Boy and I

So it’s all official – it’s ADHD right?

I have been diagnosing my eldest since he was out of hospital after winning his fight with Meningitis. Mentally, vocally, in private and on the public stage; I have dissected his being and tried to piece together a way to help him; have tried to define him and pinpoint his issues; have tried to coexist alongside him and use appropriate discipline, have tried to reach out to him, to nurture him and make his life comfortable, without giving into his every desire. I have spent years trying to treat him similarly to his siblings, all the while knowing that he is not like them in so many ways.

His disposition and “condition” have lead me along many dark paths, wondering whether fault lay with me, my parenting skills or perhaps even my decision to have subsequent children. I have questioned, researched, lived and experienced more ups and downs than I ever thought possible. I have spent nights awake staring at a luminous screen, trying to find an answer, a reason and a way to help. A way to make him happy; to help him take responsibility for his own happiness; a way to see that gorgeous smile more often.

A usual day with Poetboy will comprise many ups and downs. Confrontation is a fact of life. His resistance will frequently be to an idea or request that maybe yesterday he did with no complaint, there is no forewarning that he is suddenly going to decide not to brush his teeth, or wander into his bedroom to get changed into school uniform only to walk out half an hour later in his pyjamas with a book in his had in which he is absorbed, or a picture that he has drawn me, or a game that he has devised. His mind wanders like no one else I have ever known.

Until he was nearly three years into school (age 6) , I put every garment on his body each morning myself. There was no point asking him to dress himself or even asking if he would help me as I dressed him. I would have to painstakingly clothe him, piece by piece, “Poetboy, would you stretch your toes out so that Mummy can put on you socks, please?”

“NO.” “NO.NO.NOOO!” my answer, as limbs flailed and tensions grew.

Each morning, I would dress him, Elmo and then Looney, who was just baby at that time. I would spoon feed them their breakfast on the days when Poetboy refused to feed himself and of course, with both dressing, eating and other perfunctory tasks, Elmo would copy-cat Poertboy’s resistance each time, making my mornings quite the ordeal. I would brush their teeth myself, wash their bodies myself in the shower or bath, arrange their hair, make their lunches and walk them to school. Some mornings Poetboy would strip his clothes back off after I had dressed him, I would re-dress him and then half walk half drag him kicking and screaming to school. On our arrival, he would run off to play with his friends as if he were just like them – “normal” and I would stand self consciously with the other parents who had had time to wash their own hair or apply deodorant that morning, until I saw him sit down in his class. Many were the days that I would be called back for briefing on his anti social behaviour, or because he was curled under a desk and refusing to come out. He ran away from school, on one occasion, making it all the way home. He was five. I developed a certain resistance and resilience to the temper tantrums and we got on with it. Slowly. Poet boy was learning that life was more fun and that he was allowed treats when he was compliant. I beat myself up that I was bribing my son to behave “normally” with extra cartoon time on Television, or ten minutes extra story time at night, when other children just did these things with a little encouragement from Mum.

I stripped his bedroom of toys once as punishment as he punched me repeatedly in frustration and blind rage. “But I’ll be GOOOD now!” he wailed. “No, Poetboy, you were given your chances. Mummy will return your toys when you are calm and I have seen some improvements.” It was the first time that I realised that one day he would be bigger than me and he may still take out his frustrations on me. I learned that I must not allow the other boys to treat me the same way and I would physically remove myself from Poetboy when he was in a rage. I would be distraught that he might hurt himself. He would feel such remorse after his rages that he would pull his own hair out.

I grew used to people surmising that he was “naughty”. I would defend him but have no excuse to offer. “He is not quite the same as other boys” I would say. It was feeble, but it was all I had. Each time I had tried to get some form of assistance, I was told that he was fine and that he would grow out of it. Of course, the fact that I had left his father wouldn’t have helped, and so really I had made my bed and I should shut up and lay in it (this was not even an implication – more a statement that was churned out time and time again).

Buy Poetboy and I had an understanding. Still do. Just for occasional moments in a month. A few minutes of clarity where he holds me and says with all sincerity, “I love you so much mummy”. When the other stuff has gone away and there is no difficulty in his words. When he is not declaring his love to gain something more. When the simplicity of his arms around my ribcage and his breath against my shoulder are enough. When the scream has gone from his tone and he is my beautiful young man. Then the feeling of parental pride and love is magnified, and makes me so happy I can instantly forget the problems that we face so frequently.

So label it ADHD if they must, if they please. Meanwhile I shall continue to teach him and love him and endure what I must to give him some sense of self and “normality”.

He is who he is. As am I.

What Hell Looks Like

A recent post by the lovely Eliza has made me “OK” enough to post this.

Poetboy has had conflicting Diagnosis’ recently that I haven’t posted about because it’s just to exhausting; crap and entirely in the minds of men and women that don’t deal with the ramifications of Poetboy’s problem everyday of their lives.

There was a storm last night in W.A.

Crop farmers were happy, because we haven’t had enough rain this year – Sheep Farmers brought their animals in because the ferocity of the wind and rain could have resulted in deaths. In the City, the impact was far less. At least in my garden anyway, when I woke this morning, the trampoline was just when I had left it; the swimming pool was full to the brim; the cars in the driveway were glistening with rain. The only evidence of the storm were the Tear-streaked cars and the loose tile on next door’s garage roof. It was calm and grey outside. Dull.

So we went about our day. A fairly standard Saturday: We drove Poetboy to his Mixed Netball Game. We drove home again for our lovely neighbour’s son’s birthday party. We went to the hardware store; we went grocery shopping.

Oh, and Poetboy beat me up.

We were ready to leave our neighbour’s house. Himself had gone into the office for an hour, so I was herding my little flock out of the party on my own, back to our place next door. I’ve done it a million times. It was no big deal. Full of post-party sugar, they merrily traipsed out of the front door, thanking our host as they went.

Except Poetboy.

I could see the defiance in his eyes as soon as I approached him to ask him to say thank you and leave. “Here we go” I thought.

“NO. NO.NOOOOO. I WON’T GO. YOU CAN’T MAKE ME, I WANT TO STTTAAAAYY!” he screamed in regular Poetboy overload. “come on sweetheart, it’s time to go. We’ve had a lovely time and now we have to go home.”

“NO! NO! NOOOOO!”

“Right. Poetboy [firmly] we are going. Say thank you, please.”

“NO!”

“Sorry, Lovely Neighbour, thank you for having us, we we see you soon.”

“YOU CAN’T MAKE ME GO! I WON’T GO WITH YOU. I HATE YOU!”

So I took Poetboy’s arm and led him to the front door, where to everyone[else]’s horror he started violently lashing out at me. That’s the thing. People see the polite, compliant lovely child that my son usually is and they can’t imagine him being any other way. You have to actually witness his rages to believe them. I’ve been dealing with his temper and his affliction since his birth, so it rarely surprises me; but now Poetboy stands almost as tall as me. He’s a big boy. With a big punch. With a mammoth temper.

I gently but firmly took Poetboy’s arm and held the opposing shoulder to walk him out of the door. More punching and flailing of arms. So I resorted to holding one arm behind his back (without hurting him) and held the opposing shoulder again. I was ejecting my son as a Bouncer would from a club. Again.

Poetboy was incensed. As soon as we were inside our own Front Gate, I let go. He screamed and berated me. He hit and kicked me. Hard. Really Hard. I had to bite my lip to stop myself from yelling out. I spun Poetboy round and bear-hugged him. Holding his arms down and talking gently and calmly. I walked him to his bedroom and said he should stay there to calm down.

“NOOOO! I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU. YOU’RE TORTURING ME. YOU CAN’T LOCK A CHILD IN THEIR BEDROOM. YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED.”

I explained that there was no lock on the door. I explained that I wanted to let go of him and that he needed some time to calm down. He bit me hard on the arm and dug his nails into me.

“YOU HATE ME. YOU HATE ME”.

I cuddled him firmly. I lowered my voice to a whisper. I told him I loved him and that I would be here when he needed to talk. More bites to my arm. I couldn’t loosen my grip on him because every-time he got a limb free, he would hit me as hard as he could.

“I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO YOU. I HATE YOU. I’M GOING TO RUN AWAY”.

He was spinning his head round to bite my face. I could see his eyes and they were full of hate. I couldn’t see my son there at all.

“I’LL HEADBUTT YOU IF YOU DON’T LET GO. LET GO OF ME. I WANT TO KILL YOU”.

“It’s ok baby, Mummy’s here. Let it go. Calm yourself. Concentrate on feeling calm.” I whispered and soothed. I layed on Poetboy’s bed firmly holding him from behind whilst he contorted and screamed. I dodged [some of] the headbutts he aimed toward my face. I stayed calm. I tried to maintain control. I refused to become angry and I just kept repeating that it was alright, he could relax now.

For thirty whole minutes I laid there, trying to keep my wits about me. Wondering when this would stop. Willing Himself back from the office. Gently telling the other children to go put on a movie and I would “be through soon”.

For thirty whole minutes I was unable to let go of my son because of the damage that he threatened to do himself and me if I did. So I waited. I waited for the calm.

Suddenly he relaxed. I told him “I am going to let go now, honey. I want you to stay calm”.

As soon as I let go, Poetboy started fighting again. I stepped out of the bedroom into the hallway and I shut his door.

I cuddled my other babies. They were all crying. I told them it was ok. Poetboy had a rage and he’ll be ok.

“I hate it when he hurts you Mummy” said Elmo. My heart broke. I fought back tears.

Poetboy made a break for the Front Door. But the storm was over, I could feel it. He wasn’t racing at a hundred miles an hour anymore. He was conscious of what he was doing.

“Come. Back. Right. Now” I said. “go sit on your bed and I will come in to speak to you in a moment”.

“Fine” he sulked. A far different child to the one ten minutes before.

Himself came home.

We had a calm evening together. We spoke to Poetboy about his rage. We spoke to the other boys about Poetboy’s rage. We made it OK together. The only evidence of it all being the tear-streaked cheeks of my family and my own cuts and bruises which I soaked in a warm bath.

For now.

Until the next time that the wind blows the wrong way and my son’s storm rolls in.