Nowie

 A treat for you today: a guest post from my sister Jess about her little boy Nowie, who you may remember from this blog. 

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I didn't know what I was missing. So I never actually missed anything.

I mean, he's perfect. He was born perfect, born in a perfect manner, at the perfect time on a perfect day, and he looked perfect. The first six months, when we had nothing to do except spend long hot days together, in a relaxed cycle of feeding and changing and cuddling, were the happiest time of my life. I didn't notice that he didn't react to toys, didn't interact with my face, didn't lock eyes with me while he was feeding and didn't care when I was gone. That's just my boy.

It's only now, now his baby sister is here, having hysterics at my face and visibly enjoying me talking to her and doing her best already to talk back to me, that I've noticed the difference.

And that feels beautiful to me - that I had them this way round, that we never felt any lack of anything.

Obviously it's got more noticeable as he's got older how delayed he is. He's said a handful of words, then he's stopped saying them. He's learned to play with toys, but the toys I bought him two years ago. I don't care - I love to see him finally getting to grips with them, enjoying the buttons and lights and noises. He makes a lot of noise himself, and it's no longer indistinguishable from baby babble. He has public meltdowns, when all I can do is crouch between him and the traffic and wait for him to calm down and get up again.

We communicate in our own way. I do everything I know how to encourage his speech, but sometimes it's nice to just know what he wants and to give it without making him wail in frustration first. I like that I understand him.

He wraps his arms tight around me and he's started using his legs to hang on now as well. He makes me feel like the best mum in the world.

He likes helping me change the baby. He passes me her nappy, then her vest, then her babygrow. He knows the order they go on.

He climbs up to the window and waits for his daddy to come home and pick him up and spin him around and make him laugh hysterically. Sometimes he sees the neighbours get in their cars and leave, and he cries and cries - I know how he feels.

He likes collecting things: a set of books, or two handfuls of plastic balls, or a bunch of plastic cutlery. He carries them to his window, and lines them up, runs them through his hands, explores their shapes and colours. He always looks at books the right way round. I hope he'll be a great reader.

I can't pretend I wouldn't love it if he started chatting, but otherwise, I wouldn't change a single thing about him.

He has been officially diagnosed with autism today. I'm so relieved, so happy that we'll get some help. I'm autistic myself (undiagnosed), and I struggled mightily with school, and with making friends.

He'll always know vast wellsprings of love at home. I'm so glad to think he might feel safe and looked after and loved at school, too.

Oh God, Not Again

 We thought we had seen the back of homeschooling, but COVID had better ideas.

The first term of 2020/21 was plagued with small quarantines,v Jack in September, with ?covid that ended up being a vicious chest infection, Alex in October and Jack again in November. Neither of them off at the same time (except for the few days of house-quarantine in September) so it wasn't too bad. But a short-term homeschool period is nothing compared to endless weeks of it.

I took it badly. I cried and a had a panic attack, or seven, and then stared bleakly through time while I adjusted to the horror. But I feel better now. Sometimes, you just have to get on with it. 

This week has been...fraught. Jimmy's school closed in the last lockdown, but there's been significant lobbying to get them to stay open this time. They have closed to many pupils, but Jimmy has a place. A place subject to weekly PCR tests which I am sure he is going to LOVE, but this is a major relief. 

You see, since the last lockdown, I've started a PhD, and yes I KNOW YOU KNOW. But doing a PhD is a weird sort of half-job. I'm not technically or legally employed, and I don't pay tax on my income from it. I don't qualify for furlough, and I'm not teaching so I'm not a key worker...but I still have to work. A lot of this work is reading books, and if you know me, you'll know I read constantly. But there's a difference between reading Jilly Cooper on the sofa, and reading a book and distilling notes into two actual notebooks, a bibliography program and two Word docs simultaneously. My concentration is frequently broken by cries of "MUUUUUUM, I'm BOOOORED, I need a YOGHUUUURT, I want to go to OUTSIDE in a SHORT SLEEVED SHIRT even though it's MINUS TWO!" Homeschool takes up most of the morning. With Jim in the mix as well, it would have taken up the entire day and I would have been found frozen in the garden, dead in a pool of rum.

The work the school have given out is much more structured and focused than last time, which is a blessing. "Remember the book you read four months ago? WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?" was not a helpful work suggestion last time around. But this also means that there's less flexibility. On Wednesday, we had no work for the kids until lunch time, so we did a taste test to learn about the senses and I got Jack to write a choose-your-own-adventure story and put it on Twine, which he thought was AMAZING. But there's no room for that sort of thing now we actually have the school work. I try to make it fun, but as I think I've made clear several time, I fucking hate teaching. 

There are more apps now, a maths app for each of them, a classroom app. As with last time, homeschool is not set up for the technology-less family - I've had to borrow a tablet off my ex to make sure the boys have one each to run the classroom app. 

Alex has come on massively since he's been in year one. He can write:

But this does not mean he WANTS to write. "I HATE doing my work, it's STUPID" he told me this morning, as I valiantly attempted to get him to write an equals sign. "I HATE reading, I don't WANT to read" he stomped, before whispering his way through a Biff, Chip and Kipper tale. 

Jack is still a morose child when made to do anything. He is learning algebra, which he has taken against on principle, despite it being THE EASIEST OF MATHS. I am a halfwit who can't do my seven times table, and I can do algebra. He also doesn't get why he needs to show his working, which SAME MATE.

So, that's where we are. The School of the Mad has reopened, albeit with a reduced cohort and a much busier headteacher.

Soph's School of the Mad: Final Week

My god, it had BETTER be the final week. I have learned much about myself in the last few months, and the main thing is no, I really do not want to be a teacher. But I've done my best, and I don't feel like the older two have wildly suffered academically, and that is the main thing. Alex is a totally different matter. As things stand, they're going back to school in September. Alex will be in year one, Jack in year five and Jim in year seven.

On Monday, Jim did some work on pollination, mainly sniggering about plants DOING SEX on themselves. Part of the work was doing a quiz, identifying fruit and vegetables by the plant. I incorrectly identified a grape vine as 'WINE'. WINE! IT GROWS ON THE WINE VINE!

We tasted honey, we did some pollination using chalk and this amazing diagram:

And we had a really good look at the anatomy of a poppy. Then we declared that we would never look at plant biology again.

Jack wrote a letter to his new teacher, warning her that he has an extremely short temper but "gets over it quickly". The child speaks the truth.

Then me and Jim had a Teams meeting to meet his new teacher and TA for next year. Jim, nervous as hell, ate nine cookies during this half hour meeting and informed the new teacher than people are God's cookies, so he certainly got to sample the madness of Jim.

Tuesday began with a walk to the chemist. Jack proved HIGHLY reluctant to do any work after this, but managed this acrostic poem:

What a wonderful day it was
Everyone outside, playing and shouting
And then, all of a sudden
Thunder destroying everything in its path
Hail knocking people out
Everyone rushed to their homes
Restless and ruined, everyone went to bed

Goth.

Jim started work on his All About Me powerpoint. Highlights included:

On Wednesday, Jack and Alex (with CONSIDERABLE GUIDANCE AND HELP) made some thank you cards for their teachers. Can't help but feel they should be making ME cards, but fuck it:

Do you remember Jim did his SATs (for NO REASON) a couple of weeks ago? Well, he got the results. He got 95 in maths, which is absolutely standard for year six. He got 111 in English, which is AMAZING. Considering he did no revision at all, and did them at home, I think he did astonishingly well and actually feel quite weepy about it. It's hard to replicate school at home, and it's 100 times harder to replicate a SEN school at home, but this feels like external validation that I haven't done a shit job.

His teacher came over on Wednesday to take his laptop back to school, so we got to say goodbye. She's gone above and beyond throughout this whole thing, and has become an extension of our family. Alex told her he loved her on video chat, and then she brought Jim a fig tree for being a STUDIOUS GOOSE. I have to say, he's been remarkably amenable to home schooling, all things considered. I think he's enjoyed the routine:

On Thursday, I was woken up by Alex dropping onto my abdomen on both knees, and then weeping at my wailing. I survived, and tried to get Jack and Alex to watch Blue Planet so they could LEARN OF THE SEA, but they were not interested in LEARNING OF THE SEA, so they abandoned ship. I do not think any of my children will be mariners, unlike their forebears.

Jim's school issued a sports day challenge, which he did in the most grudging, half-hearted way you can imagine. "I WILL NOT DO PRESS UPS" he screamed. "I CAN'T DO THIS" he howled, after two laps of the garden. "THIS IS TORTURE" he wailed as he flapped through six star jumps. He will never be an Olympian:

Then he finished off his Harry Potter comprehension and I ran out of work to give him.

We went to the primary school to say goodbye to the boys' teachers at lunchtime. This was EMOTIONALLY NECESSARY for all of us. When Alex saw his TA, he ran up to her and sat on her knee and we all tried not to cry. He hasn't seen her since March! She took him to see his new classroom and meet his new teacher. We also said goodbye to Jack's old teacher who's leaving the school and their SENCo.

Today, Friday, the kids have had a day off, as they would have at actual school. Alex insisted on finishing his reading program:

THE PRIDE!
The big two are planning on watching ALL FOUR SHREKS BACK TO BACK, and I have sorted out all the stuff they've done, filing much into the bin, turning my dining room back into something approaching a normal family room rather than a school (albeit, filled with Warhammer). Tom's got some time off work- actual time off, not working from home - and I've got a PhD to prepare for.

The last day of reception, year four and year six. What a fucking weird year:

Thank you to Tracey, Claire and Louise for keeping me sane, and thank you to ALL the teachers at Discovery for being superstars.

And thank you, o general reader, for reading my weekly blog of madness. Lockdown has been weird and lonely, frustrating and endless. Way back in March, I posted on Facebook suggesting that families try and have a routine to teach their kids because 'they might end up being out of school for six months', never dreaming that would end up being the case. SEN schools weren't supposed to close. They did. Alex was supposed to be able to go back to school. He didn't. Jack, the one child desperate to go back, was never given the option. It has been a bizarre juggling act of trying to teach them, trying to teach ME to be a teacher, trying to meet their SEN needs, and trying to still be mum at the end of it while also working myself.

If I have to do it again, I will. But I don't want to.

Enjoy your summer. Stay safe. CONSTANT VIGILANCE.

Soph's School of the Mad: Week Thirteen

The fifth and final household birthday of the year took place on Saturday. Alex was FIVE! We went to see his grandparents, and he reacted completely normally to being sung to...


On Monday, I asked him to sound out this word:

"SUN-KUH! CUNT!"

No...not quite.

This week, as the end of term draws near, Jimmy has been asked to do a piece of creative writing so his teachers can assess his English ready for year seven. On Monday, we started with some planning, and also looked at Cinnabar moths. Our garden is OVERRUN with cinnabar caterpillars, but apparently they'll all eat each other soon so we won't have a garden of beautiful red moths. Boo.

Jack's topic this week is SPORT. Ostensibly, the cancelled Olympics, but he has requested to learn more about rugby as well. So...I guess we will.

On Tuesday, a relatively quiet morning. Jim worked on his MAGNUM OPUS, screeching with indignation because I disabled the autocorrect grammar tool on Word. He WILL learn what punctuation means.

Jack had to interview me about lockdown life. He asked some good questions: "Do you like Boris Johnson?" (NEWP), "How much beer or wine have you drunk?" (ONE BOTTLE, JUST ONE). We also took a lovely SELFIE:

God, I need to dye my hair. I haven't been this blonde since 2011.

We also got word on Alex and Jack's class allocations for next year, which sent me into a panicked spiral. HOW CAN HE GO INTO YEAR ONE WHEN HE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT A SENTENCE IS???

On Wednesday, Jim got up at the CRACK in order to finish his Great Work. Jack watched some videos about bullying and nouns. Alex did absolutely nothing, because (and I'll own it), I fucking forgot. Jim can go into this mode of being so absolutely overwhelming that you lose the will to live. Full Colin Robinson style. And on Wednesday, he did this with such FEROCITY that I was close to tears by midday.

I also bought some school uniform. Who knows if they'll ACTUALLY go back to school in September? Who knows anything anymore? What ARE plans? What IS the future? Based on this instability, I have refused to pay £6.20 for a single, tiny logo'd polo shirt, and bought supermarket crap. SUPERMARKET CRAP ALL ROUND. Jim gets to wear black polo shirts next year, because he's in year 7. I don't know who's more delighted: him for getting to wear black, or me because I don't have to do a white wash every week.

On Thursday, Jim edited his Great Work (reluctantly):

And illustrated My Shadow by Robert Louis Stevenson. Jimmy HATES this poem. It is for 'babies' apparently. No taste:

We also looked at how far two metres is.

About four times further than he initially believed.

Jack was asked to do a sport related newspaper frontpage, and WE WENT ALL OUT MOTHERFUCKER:

Look, it's been a really long week and sometimes I like to overachieve on my children's behalf.

Alex has spent the week in a post-birthday comedown. Yesterday, he VERY SLIGHTLY grazed his foot and went around for the rest of the day wrapped in a fleece. Then he fell asleep, so we couldn't get him to bed when the time came. Then he had a bath and WOULD NOT PUT HIS SLIGHTLY GRAZED FOOT IN THE WATER, so spent the bath on one leg, like a fucking flamingo. Sometimes, parenting autistic children is a voyage of discovery and genius. Mostly, it's trying to persuade your kid to do things like PUT BOTH FEET IN THE WATER.

C'est la vie.

FRIDAY, FRIDAY, GOTTA GET DOWN ON FRIDAY. Jim did some beautiful botanical drawing, as he's supposed to be learning about plant biology, but apparently 'already knows it all'. Steady on there, Carl Linnaeus:

Yes, that's the real poppy alongside.

He also has some FEELINGS on time travel.

At one point this morning, I turned to see Jack's book review descending into madness:

QUITE.

Anyway, one more week, and it's mostly a week of doing FUCK ALL, THANK GOD.

Soph's School of the Mad: Week Twelve

The boys were at their dad's at the weekend, and rather than do anything productive, I sat around in an immense pre-menstrual piss, watching old Glastonbury. Alex, however, went mad in the garden doing chalk lines everywhere

And planting stuff

Then he sorted his cars out into colours and CRIED BECAUSE I WOULDN'T LET HIM RACE THEM ALL AGAINST EACH OTHER.

It would have taken THE REST OF HIS NATURAL LIFE.

Monday dawned.  Urgh. Nobody wanted to get out of bed, least of all me. I've adjusted Jack's timetable again to take the element of choice out of it because I think it was stressing him out. He likes to know what he's doing and get it done.

Meanwhile, Jim was doing some of the craft stuff we didn't do last week because of BLOODY MATHS. We made Stonehenge out of Bourbon biscuits

Surprisingly difficult, but a good breakfast

Then he designed this Iron Age shield. LOOK AT THE DETAIL! LOOK AT THE BOSS! WHAT A BOSS!

On Monday lunchtime, Jim's teacher brought round a stack of SATs-esque papers. Here's the thing with year six SATs. Mainstream schools start telling kids in year five how important their SATs are, how desperately, critically VITAL they are to a good transition into secondary school, which as any fule kno is bullshit. Jim was in mainstream in year five. He firmly believes that he will SIMPLY NOT BE ALLOWED into secondary phase unless he has done his SATs. So he asked to do some tests. I asked him teacher if she could facilitate this (he would have done his SATs if they hadn't been abandoned) and therefore we have had SATs week over a month late. And to be fair to Jim, there has been very little howling.

Jack was asked to do some work on Tim Peake. Jack is thoroughly unimpressed with astronauts. Going into space is his idea of hell. He does not think going into space was the peak of Peake's career. He would not like to go himself, no thank you madam. Oh, and he wants to join Scouts RIGHT NOW, when no groups are meeting.

On Tuesday, we began the SATs. In Jim's school, exam conditions are not quite the same as mainstream, and Jim's teacher had no issue with using cat videos and sweets to keep him regulated while he did them:

And to his credit, he did the whole maths reasoning paper without screaming once. On Wednesday, he did two of the English papers, again without screaming:

On Thursday, two more English papers. Still no screaming.

In non-SATs news, he also wrote a twisted version of the Three Little Pigs in which the pigs mutilated the wolf, because my children are very like me.

Jack's loathing of astronauts continued throughout the week. God, he hates astronauts. On Wednesday, he sulked because I ASKED HIM TO READ A BOOK. The child who normally has at least four books on the go.

He was also horrified by this video. Look at his face. "MUM, THIS IS CRINGE, he yelled.

Tbf, I made him watch Beyonce at Glastonbury on Monday, so he knows what this song SHOULD BE.

I asked Jack to write about what exactly he hates about the idea of being an astronaut. Some highlights:
"You have to wear a big heavy suit that makes you look like an alien. When you get to space, there is nothing to do until lunch except jump up and down, shouting 'WE MADE IT! WOO HOO!'"

Quite.

Alex hasn't done a lot this week. I keep feeling dreadful about him in particular missing out at school. I'm trying to be reassured that everyone is the same, and the school will help him catch up, but I'm still struggling to reconcile this with my terror of his developmental delays becoming intractable. Anyway, he has discovered that he REALLY LIKES Top Gear, and watches it in rapt silence in the mornings while his brothers are working.

I taught him a bit about money:

Not sure he actually understands the PHILOSOPHY of money, but then who does? He knows the nominal value of coins, which isn't particularly useful when everyone's paying on contactless at the moment. And his letter formation is gradually, so gradually, improving:

Bless his little face. He's FIVE tomorrow. Fucking five. Five years ago, it was one of the hottest days of the year, so I naturally celebrated by spending half the day in hospital, missing Wimbledon, and then having my waters break all over the hallway when I got home. Memories!

On Friday, Jim did his arithmetic paper, truly saving the best for last. He did finish it, although I shouted "WHAT IS THIRTY SIX PLUS SEVEN??" at him so loud that it made Alex cry. Oops. Meanwhile, Jack wrote a space book for Alex:

Apocalyptic, I like it.

We got word from all schools that they expect to re-open in September, so I wept openly with relief. Jim, as usual, summed it up rather succinctly in his Harry Potter comprehension:

Two more weeks.

The DWP's Valentine's Day Message

On Valentine's Day, the DWP charmingly sent this tweet out:

Claiming to be living alone is one of the most common types of benefit fraud – don’t ruin #ValentinesDay by failing to declare your true circumstances https://t.co/tZuNYZ5fer pic.twitter.com/ahutOO6NUy

— DWP Press Office (@dwppressoffice) February 13, 2018

And my friends, I took umbrage.

Long ago, in the distant mists of 2012, Tom moved down from Newcastle and in with his parents. He didn't move in with me straight away. We hadn't ever spent more than a week together in one go. We hadn't been together two years. He had just got a job but we didn't know it was going to work out at that early phase. It would have been foolishly optimistic to move straight in together. When you already have two very small children, you do not want the upheaval of a 'new daddy' moving in only to move out a few weeks later when you realise that actually, you can't fucking stand each other.

So, we lived apart. I assiduously tried to find out the cohabiting rules from the DWP, about what counted as living together and what didn't. This was ludicrously difficult information to obtain. You cannot just phone the DWP and ask them because this will arouse suspicion, and provoke scrutiny and you get enough scrutiny on income support as it is. You can find the current rules here. You may notice that they are OBSCURE AS HELL, and there is no more palatable version for the recipients of affected benefits. These rules can be used to define almost any sexual relationship as living together as a married couple, whether the sexual relationship persists, whether or not money is shared, whether abuse is present, whether the relationship is happy. I wouldn't let Tom sleep here more than three nights in seven, I wouldn't let him keep any of his stuff here, I wouldn't let him contribute to any of the household expenses. Even though he categorically was not resident here, I was still terrified that the DWP would decide he was and force that arrangement to become permanent before I was ready, or worse, prosecute me.

When Tom did move in, after a year of this anxious situation, I cancelled my income support the same day. It was the greatest relief.

Here's the thing. There is no room in the DWP's rules to allow you to have a trial run, to make a mistake in relationships and undo it quickly, unless you have considerable external financial and practical support - the sort where your boyfriend can live with his parents without issue, or where you can afford to run two households while you get to know each other. You either declare that you're living together immediately, or you break the law.

It is overwhelmingly single mothers who are prosecuted for breaking this law, as they are claiming the benefit in the first place. Those who are prosecuted are usually in abusive relationships. The partner is not prosecuted. The partner is blameless according to the law.

Single mothers are a great target for abusers. Income support doesn't really give you much money, and usually the shortfall is made up in tax credits when you begin to live together if your income remains low. However, income support automatically entitles you to maximum housing benefit for your house in your area, free school meals for older children, and maximum tax credits as applicable. It is a useful gateway benefit. And it can be held over you by a man who wants to live under your roof for free, abuse you, spend your money, and then threaten you with "If you try and leave, I will shop you to the DWP". This is not recognised or allowed for in DWP rules - they are very clear about an abusive cohabiting relationship still counting as living together as a married couple. Financial abuse is often one of the first signs of an abusive relationship developing, and being on benefits means you are additionally vulnerable to partners exploiting the anxiety and dependence inherent in that way of life.

Since the two child tax credit rule was brought in, there is an additional very real risk of declaring cohabitation too early in a relationship if you have more than two children and have been single since before April 2017. You WILL lose tax credits for any more than the older two. You will NOT get those tax credits back if the relationship fails.

There are some advantages to being on income support. There is reassurance in knowing that you get a certain amount of money at the same time every week or month. There is reassurance in that safety net, particularly when the rest of your life is a mess. You don't get much, and there is almost no financial room for anything to go wrong in this situation. You can't save up for a crisis. But it's more reliable than a zero hours contract, more reliable than hoping someone will swoop in and save you, particularly when someone you loved has let you down. It may be the first time you've ever had to manage your own money, the first time you've truly lived independently.

But in return, you surrender your freedom to run your romantic life as you choose. You surrender your freedom to decide when to make a casual living arrangement permanent. The state decides if you're living as married, according to a set of rules that could apply to almost every single relationship I know; serious or casual, with children or not.

It's a hell of a price to pay for being a single mother.

Tax Credits

So, I signed the petition to repeal the 'rape clause' that forms part of the tax credit policy now. And today, I received a government response which amounted to "you should have complained about this eighteen months ago, tough shit". But one paragraph absolutely INCENSED me:

LET US PARSE THIS STATEMENT

"Families supporting themselves solely through work" are either not claiming the tax credits they are entitled to, or earning more than the income threshold (£25000 for one child, £35000 for two). Look at those thresholds: they are Quite High particularly as the average annual income is £27000. The vast majority of working class families qualify for tax credits. Remember the 'hardworking families" trope? That's them.

"do not see their incomes rise automatically when they have more children". No, but by earning more than the income thresholds for tax credits, they already have a considerable scope for a much higher income. Two children on £35000 a year is very different to two children on £45000 a year. There are always people who fall into the cracks of being just over the threshold, but frankly if you struggle on £36k p.a. with two children (as one who has been doing so on much less for years) learn to budget better. A great deal of necessary public sector jobs have low and locked in salaries - an MAU staff nurse in Peterborough can expect a starting salary of between £22 and £24k; a newly qualified teacher's income is capped at £22k in their first year - which automatically classifies them as both poor and according to this government, an idiot with no idea how to control their fertility unless you threaten them financially.

"The policy encourages families who receive benefits or tax credits to make the same financial decisions about the number of children they can afford to support as those families who support themselves solely through work"

WHERE TO FUCKING BEGIN? The fucking PATRONISING language - "we ENCOURAGE the IDIOT POOR PEOPLE to STOP BREEDING". The whole idea that Only Rich People are sensible enough and rich enough to have more than two children. The idea that people have children for tax credits - yes, the difficult pregnancy, birth and eternity of care I invested in my third child is definitely worth the £50 extra a week. And separating those who claim tax credits - 4.43 million households out of approximately 18 million in the UK at the last ONS count - from those who don't need to as though that is a fair and just way of dividing the nation's fertility choice. Previously, those who were on income support or JSA were the Undeserving Poor of the nation. Now, apparently, it's to be extended to anyone on a low income regardless of how much they work or what classification of job they have.

"while protecting the vulnerable by retaining extra support for families with disabled children." DON'T MAKE ME FUCKING LAUGH. I have a disabled child, and believe me, I had to TAKE THE DEPARTMENT OF WORK AND PENSIONS TO COURT AND THEN THREATEN TO DO IT AGAIN to get them to pay the money rightfully owed to my disabled child. They don't give a single solitary fuck about disabled children.

None of this stops me or anyone else from having thirty two children if I want to, but the fact is that most low income households have included tax credits as part of their forecast income when deciding to have more children, and now they will have to stop doing that. There is an uncomfortable element of eugenics inherent in this policy that reminds me of the Victorian era when it was widely believed that poverty and poor moral behaviour were genetically linked. Stop the poor people having loads of kids and maybe there won't be any more poor people to worry about! Never mind fixing the causes of poverty and social inequality, just financially sterilise them!

But for a whole host of women, this family cap is going to be a real fucking issue. You see, it is applied to children born after 7th April 2017 and to "any new claims". So, if your circumstances change in the near future, and you suddenly find yourself applying for tax credits for the first time, little Imogen the Third Child won't be counted. If your partner moves in, or out, that counts as a new claim, so you may be absolutely fine now as a single parent of four, but if your boyfriend moves in, you will suddenly find two of your children are apparently not eating all your food, requiring clothes, using energy etc.

My situation six years ago was nothing uncommon - boy meets girl, boy marries girl, boy impregnates girl, boy fucks off without a backward glance. I only had two children when I was dumped, but had it been another two years down the line, it could have been three. We could have easily afforded three children - indeed, we both now have three children - but I cannot stress enough how terrifying it was to suddenly lose 4/5s of my household income. My monthly wage didn't cover the mortgage, nevermind anything else. I relied on tax credits. Nobody should have children they cannot afford, but having children when you can afford them does not act as insurance against any financial or personal misfortune in the future. Women with more than two children in abusive relationships will have to think long and hard over whether they can afford to leave their partner.The Tories have also cut bereavement benefits, so if your husband or wife dies leaving you with more than two children, you are doubly fucked.

It will be women who suffer the most through this tax credit amendment. Two million lone parent households exist in the UK - that's just under half of all tax credit claims - and 91% of them are headed by women. Not only do women suffer the brunt of single parenting, they also have this fucking rape clause bullshit to overcome, where their third child only gets benefit if they are a product of rape. Never mind marital rape, never mind the ethics of being obliged to report your rape just to secure a little extra money, what sort of fucking government decides the only reason a poor woman might have more than two children is because she was raped?

It is a toxic, classist, eugenic and misogynist amendment and I loathe it and the party that instituted it with all my heart and soul.

Mother's Day

Mothering Sunday, to give it its proper title, marks the halfway point of Lent. The halfway point of the slog through the days of denial, of sacrifice, of fasting. The day where the end draws into sight, the joys of Easter just over the hill. The day when you should visit your home parish, your mother church, and historically, for many young men and women away in domestic or farming service, your mother.
Of course, fewer people observe Lent each year and the original point of Mothering Sunday is lost in a sea of greetings cards, floral bumf, and internet offers. Just this week, the internet has suggested I should buy my mum flowers, clothes, wine, gig tickets, and cookies.
I would buy her a book. A book of social history, or food, or better still, a mix of both. A book she wouldn't have seen in her semi-regular trips to the shop, or advertised in Sainsbury's magazine. I would buy her a book I know she would love, the sort that she would take to bed, packet of crisps in one hand, book in the other. I would buy her something like the history of the playground I saw in Jarrolds on her birthday, that made my heart hurt with longing that I would never get to give it to her.
I would buy her a card and I would write how grateful I am, and how much I love her, and hope somehow that words would be enough. I would take it round, and all her cards from all her seven children would be lined up in a row on the windowsill, and she'd be nagging my dad to go and see his mother before it got any later, and tea would be prepared, and she would be content.
That is what I would do if I still had a mother.

But I don't. And I don't like today. Today hurts.

When your mother dies, you don't merely grieve for the person. The wonderful, hilarious, intelligent woman I grew up with, who was my guardian, my educator, sculptor of my life and my personality, my friend. How I grieve for her. Her phone number in my 'last called' contacts falls further and further down the list and will never come back up. Her things are still where she left them at home, but they don't move a few inches to the left or right, the way things do when they are in use. I still expect to see her when I go in my dad's garden. I call it my dad's now - it was always "mum's house". Although we have inherited the look of her, her voice and her image are now only in recordings. The smell of her lingers in her clothes, but it will never be replenished.

In a million tiny pinpricks and sledgehammers of pain, I grieve for Jo, a woman who happened to be my mum, who was hundreds of things to hundreds of people.

But I grieve for the loss of my mother, for the loss of a mother's love, for the loss of a mother's guidance. For the loss of the person who was there first, who recognised my presence before I had a brain, who felt my first fledgling movements, and who knew me best. For the loss of the stability and foundation you only have through good parenting, through good grounding. Many people are not lucky enough to experience this type of attachment, but I did. We did.

I feel at sea: lost and abandoned and young and frightened. The fear on a child's face when they lose their mother in a shop momentarily, only magnified. When I was little, I was plagued by nightmares, and I would pad up to my parents' room and try and wake my mum up to tell her. She would rarely manage to wake up - poor woman was shattered - so I would sit by her head, and snuggle in to her until I felt safe enough to go silently back to bed. And that is what I long to do, to go and snuggle up to her for a bit until I feel safe enough to go back into the world.

Five months tomorrow. I feel like it has been five years and five minutes. But what really bothers me is that this is for always. That she won't come back. I can't have her back. Maybe if I wait a really long time, and be a really good girl, maybe we will be back together. Maybe.

When Mum was dying, she said she didn't mind dying herself, but she minded terribly about how it would affect us. She knew what it would do to us. I didn't mind Mum dying too much in the end. It felt very natural for her to die. It felt very unnatural to try and prolong her life. There comes a point when it doesn't feel wrong anymore, much as when you are pregnant, there comes a point where you really want it to all be over. So many parallels between entering and leaving the world.

But this grief, this all consuming and powerful grief: that's something to mind. That's something to tear you apart. Particularly on Mother's Day.

Two Child Rule

In the turmoil of Brexit, I had completely forgotten about the forthcoming changes to tax credits. From April 2017, only the first two children in a family will be supported by tax credits, and children born after April 2017 will not. I cannot find anything about what happens if you have more than two children and are already claiming tax credits for all of them. Perhaps the government haven't thought about that. Maybe I will have to choose a child to stop claiming for, a Sophie's Choice. Also, when my eldest ages out of payments, do I get to claim for the other two again? How is this going to work?

I mean, there are other rules that are frankly ridiculous like single parents now having to look for work when their youngest child turns three (from January 2017). It's ridiculous because you only get 15hrs free childcare per week and childcare costs literally cost all your wages - the reason I don't have a job at the moment is because I cannot get a job that would pay more than the FOUR HUNDRED AND FORTY POUNDS it would cost me for 40 hours childcare in an educational setting per week. There's a reason the old rules required parents to look for work after their youngest child was in primary school - the school-age children account for a mere £60 of that.

The pension age has also gone up, which means the scope for grandparents offering free childcare to the working is much reduced. And yet the government's broad family policy takes for granted that there is a reciprocity of care in family units. The idea that Mummy and Daddy have two children, Daddy goes to work, Mummy looks after the kids until they are a set age then finds a job for 'pin money', while Granny picks up the children for her and then, later, Mummy uses the first years of her retirement to look after Granny and Grandad and Granny and Grandad in law is still very much the typical scenario visualised. If informal care was taken out of the equation, the cost to social services would be astronomical.

Take, for example, my mum. Mum has been eligible for hospice care now since approximately 1st September (probably a little longer than that). Instead, my wonderful dad has taken a sabbatical from work and is looking after her himself. If we children were older and had less tiny children, we would be doing more to help. Inpatient hospice care costs £446 per day, on average. That's almost £20000 my parents have saved the government simply by coping. The hospice care provided at home costs approximately £20 a day, a very different price indeed.
When older people go to nursing homes, they now usually have to sell their homes to fund their care (approximately £2000 a month, depending on care home). Those who have never owned homes have their care entirely funded by the government. It is much cheaper for the government to rely on familial care, and people staying in their own homes: the population of older people in nursing homes is around 295000 out of a potential population of eleven million.

The tradition of intergenerational caring is as old as humanity, but is rapidly being outpaced by modern life. Since the 1970s, the average age of childbearing has increased as women pursue careers and, indeed, are expected to pursue careers. My mother had me at 23, which was about the average at the time. I had my eldest at 23, but I am a young mother among most of my peers. I cannot care for my dying mother because I am tied to very small children, a thing that would have been less of a concern if my mum had developed this illness in ten years time. My mother, still working until her bowel exploded, has never been able to offer free childcare because of her own career.

But back to my original point. I had forgotten about tax credit changes, but was reminded last night of it by this article in the Independent. Women who have their children as a result of rape will be exempt from the two-children rule. That is the right thing to do, but it very much frames the idea that poor people have children for benefits at the feet of...women. What of men? Take, for example, my middle son. Conceived within a marriage where both parents worked and barely qualified for tax credits (NEWSFLASH: the vast majority of families claiming tax credits are working), yet born into a single parent, workless family. It's not his fault that things changed so quickly. It's not my fault things changed so quickly. It certainly wasn't something I anticipated when I got pregnant with him, although he wasn't conceived in abuse. I don't know whether I should have aborted him, as to not to cost the taxpayer money. It is women who will continue to suffer the brunt of these cuts. The woman happily married with three children until her husband leaves, or dies, and suddenly only two of her children are acknowledged by the state as actually costing money to raise. The woman whose contraception fails her, but can't bear to have a termination. The woman who loses her job.

The proposal that women who have more than two children and claim tax credits ARE EVIL unless they are RAPED is so offensive to me. I don't understand why more people aren't talking about this.

If

If we acknowledged that every time we saw someone, it could be the last.
If we put that much meaning and significance into every encounter, every quick chat, every hug.
If we recognised the ubiquity and unpredictability of death.
We would all go mad.

It's not sustainable. It's something we all unconsciously reject day in day out, because it is too painful. Imagine. There would be no such thing as a quick phone call, no such thing as 'just popping in', no such thing as a nod and a smile in Tesco. Every "see you later" would become racked with meaning and significance. We would all go mad.

My mum could have easily died three and a half weeks ago. In fact, protocol dictated that is what should have happened, but thankfully Mum's surgeon decided to turn a blind eye to the shadows on the xray and save her anyway. We consider this 'extra life' that she's been granted a huge boon, and we are so grateful to the team at Scarborough Hospital for doing us that enormous service. But it is not going to last long.

The greatest thing that has come out of it is that Mum can see how much she is loved. How deeply, how extensively she is loved. How many lives she has touched, how many people adore her and admire her. Too often we leave it too late to let people know how much we love them, tearfully gathering at the graveside with regrets, wondering years later why we never took the time when we had the time. You always think you will have more time.

Mum has the privilege of experiencing her posthumous tributes while she is still here to enjoy them, and she loves it. She has stopped batting away compliments.
Meanwhile, we have the privilege of being able to concentrate all our love and care on her as she has always given it to us.

This week, we have reunited with family we haven't seen in decades, and my mum is so overwhelmingly happy. It's a strange paradox, that this awful time makes us all so happy. Sometimes, I feel as though I'm full of wet sand and I can't breathe because I'm so afraid and so upset. Mostly, I am emotional yet joyful that Mum is still here, still baffling the doctors, still joking and giving out recipes, and making enormous lasagne, still full of love, still here. Still here.

I told my older children that Granny isn't going to get better yesterday, and that was difficult. Difficult enough, but when you have to take all the calming euphemism out of it for an autistic child, more difficult. And they told me that as long as we remember her, she will never leave us. I expect they heard it on a TV show, but they're right. We continue to make memories, (which is a phrase I FUCKING HATE under normal circumstances), to take photos, to be together while we can.

I don't really have a point today except to encourage you to tell your family you love them while you can. Maybe you already do tell them. Maybe you think they already know. Maybe you don't see them as often as you'd like. Maybe you don't have the words. Just tell them. Regret is so much more painful than embarrassment.

And please donate to Macmillan if you are able and want to do something help.

Mum

This blog has been written with the full consent of both my parents. My mum would love to read any (nice) comments or messages you would like to leave, either on here or twitter/facebook.

Food is inextricably linked to both memory and comfort. What's the best thing you've ever eaten? This isn't a question where the answer is likely to be "the tasting menu at The Fat Duck" or "lunch at Le Manoir aux Quat'Saisons" (though Lord knows I wish it was). This is likely to be a question where the answer is so personal it's almost secretive. An answer that requires all the senses and memory. An answer that won't necessarily tally up to anyone else's idea of a good meal.
Christmas dinner when I was about 7 and still believed in Santa, high on the magic of the thing, eating in the dining room by candlelight as it slowly got dark, with fairy lights and people everywhere. Every Christmas dinner for that matter, especially the one when my kids gave me a round of applause afterwards, even though most of it came from Messrs Marks and Spencer.
Soft beetroot sandwiches in the old van - not like a people carrier, but a Transit with seats bolted in the back, the only thing we'd all fit in - on the way to the seaside, where more beetroot sandwiches and squash awaited.
Chips in the back of that same van. Chips that I didn't like because, for some reason, I had a mortal hatred of them until I was about 14. I used to eat monstrosities like pineapple fritters to avoid the horror of chips. On holiday, we would sing all the way back to the caravan at the tops of our lungs, full of chips and warm coke from a sandy plastic cup.
Then later, much later, a massive cheese toastie, a kitkat and a pint of tea, after a night of illicit drinking down the Wellhead.

My mum's roast beef dinner, with all the trimmings and homemade cheese sauce. A meal to revive the soul. A meal I won't get to eat many more times.

My mummy is going to die.

We all know our parents will die. We have that factual knowledge, because that is what happens. Death is the trade off for life. Everyone dies, hopefully in a generational order. It is the right way of things. We reach adulthood under the care of our parents, and then the caring reverses (eventually) and we look after our parents as they die.
But really, we all think our parents are immortal. We think we will have them with us until we are old ourselves, and being old ourselves is such a distant concept that it translates to near-immortality. We've heard the statistics. We see the Macmillan cancer adverts on TV. We know so-and-so's daughter died of cancer when she was only 15, 25, or 40. But until it happens to you, you do not think your parents will die until YOU are ready for it to happen.

My mum found out she had cancer in an unusual, and quite dramatic way, after a few weeks of illness explained away by other causes. She says she's had a good idea about it for a while, but was afraid to get it confirmed. Afraid of the tests, and the internal prodding, and waiting for the results, and the grave consultations. So, instead, she waited until all hell broke loose within and found out off her merry head on morphine in an ICU, far from home. Her official diagnosis is metastatic ovarian cancer. She prefers to simply say she's dying. We don't know how long she has left yet.
But, we will have no false hope here. No platitudes. No denial. There will be no mad dashes to America for some bizarre, unproven treatment.

What we will do is look after her. My mum has had a lot of babies. Our ages range from 37 to 15. She has an army of carers, not least my wonderful dad. The joy of a big family is that when this happens, it's not one or two of you bleakly staring at each other over a deathbed; it's a platoon of you giggling over memories, being able to take over and stop each other getting too exhausted. It's a web of support that you don't need to go and look for, with different skills and styles of care. Mum doesn't want to be in hospital, surrounded by strangers. She wants to be at home with us, so she will be.

But back to food. My mum has been cooking professionally for years, mainly in care homes but also for weddings, parties, christenings and wakes. If you've been to a family 'do, you've probably eaten Mum's sandwiches. If you haven't, then you are Missing Out. Her illness has recently meant she's stopped enjoying food, because she hasn't been able to eat. She's even stopped thinking about food.
I can't think of my mum without thinking about food. This is a woman who's most common phrase is "GET OUT OF MY TRIANGLE", meaning sink/oven/surface. A woman who once, halfway through a family quiz, fell asleep until the question "How do you make a roux?" came up.  She opened her eyes, recited the ingredients, and went straight back to sleep. She taught me how to roast a chicken, how to poach eggs properly, and how to manage a kitchen. She has been bulk catering regularly since about 1990. She gave me my own obsession with cooking books - I used to read her hideous 80s cooking magazine collection as a small - and then plundered it to read herself.

I can't eat now. It's not exactly grief because she's not dead, and we shouldn't waste our time wailing about her being dead until she actually is. It's a grief for the future that would have been, if this disease hadn't happened. It's a selfish grief for the imminent  loss of such a wealth of advice (particularly with parenting) and love and care. It's fear. It's a little disbelief because how? She's 54. I thought I might get another twenty years, at least. I can't imagine myself without her.

Let me tell you something about my mummy. She is as strong as an ox. She has given birth to eight babies (my tiny brother Thomas didn't make it) and never had pain relief - one of us weighed nearly 11lb. She has had this cancer for an unknown amount of time, long enough for it to really take hold, and carried on working full time and caring for her home and children. She has coped with her parents dying, with having all these children, with all our dramas - god there's been some dramas -with faith and humour. She has had an acute life-threatening illness and dangerous operation that would have killed less hardy people and sailed through it. She laid in her hospital bed, still very physically unwell, bitching merrily about everything, expecting my dad to be psychic, totally her normal self (aside from immediately after morphine when she started asking about Uboats and hearing tingling). She has taken this awful news on the chin, with black jokes and sorrow and love. She says she's not strong. She says she's not brave. She says she's a coward or she would have gone and got it sorted out before. She is wrong. My mum is being strong and brave and an example to us all.

Mum has requested that, if you feel inclined to do something and can afford to, that you please donate to Macmillan Cancer Support through this link. They are truly being wonderful at the moment.

Education. Not employment.

When I was a child, my dad was obliged to work for most of August, which meant our family holidays generally took place in May or June. We were pulled out of school en masse (there's seven of us), and returned, slightly sunburnt, a week later. The school probably complained a bit to my parents, but gave us consent to go and we didn't suffer for it. Quite the opposite, in fact. My childhood holidays are some of my happiest and most vivid memories, moreso against the backdrop of my primary school experiences.

Now, of course, this is forbidden BY LAW and also THE COUNCIL. If you take your children out of school in term time, you and their other parent can be expected to be fined £60 each per child. In my family's case, that would have meant a £840 fine, doubling to £1680 if my parents hadn't paid within three weeks. Most people don't have seven children, so for an average family with two children in school, that's a £240 fine.

Compare that to the cost of a holiday in term time vs a holiday in August. Here's a handy price comparison for a week's holiday, for a family of four. The first price is the second week of June. The second price is the second week of August. 

CENTREPARCS ELVEDEN:  £1138 vs £1878

STATIC CARAVAN IN YARMOUTH:  £173 vs £599

BUTLINS SKEGNESS: £382 vs £1234

PRIVATE COTTAGE IN ST IVES, CORNWALL: £464 vs £769

CARAVAN IN SOUTH OF FRANCE: £190 vs £1081

MAJORCA WITH THOMAS COOK INC FLIGHTS: £1506 vs £3142

LEGOLAND RESORT (two nights, midweek) : £889 vs £1121

DISNEYWORLD FLORIDA INC FLIGHTS: £2550 vs £4114 

(Prices correct on 18th May 2016, identical accommodation compared)

Suddenly, that £240 fine seems a fair price to pay for an affordable holiday. Or a tax on parenthood. Whichever.

The government have become obsessed with attendance in schools. My eldest son got sent home from school yesterday and isn't allowed to go back in until Friday because he had a small episode of diarrhoea and is now absolutely fine (and driving me mad). But every week, the newsletter tells us to send our kids to school even when they're ill, because apparently teachers will send them home if they're not well. It shouldn't be a teachers' responsibility to either judge the severity of a child's illness or to have to shepherd a load of unwell children through the day. More to the point, it should be a parent's prerogative to decide when their child is too poorly for school.

Primary schools do not employ children, yet the rules of employment seem to apply more and more to kids. Too much sickness: BAD. Too much holiday: BAD. They can't SACK the children for persistent absence, but they can persecute the parents, fine the parents, make the parents harass doctors, and take the parents to court. 

The jargon of the board room is even filtering down to the taught content. I flicked through the sample KS2 English SATs paper earlier. What is the relative clause of a sentence? What is a prepositional phrase? I don't know and I studied English Language at A Level. Do 11 year olds need to know what an antonym is? What's wrong with saying opposite? What's the active voice? What's a determiner? 

I was stunned last year when my six year old told me about split digraphs. He meant 'magic E' as taught by Wordy and Look and Read. I suppose Magic E is too rave culture for the modern Department of Education. 

Jargon is most commonly used as a signifier of special knowledge, to exclude others and exalt the group who understand it above others. A good example is medical jargon, frequently used to talk about patients without them understanding it, as well as to give status to the medical profession. After all, a fracture of the 5th metatarsal sounds a lot more interesting than a broken little toe. Jargon is frequently used in office conversation to try and improve the status of relentless administrative meetings. "Let's touch base, yeah, before the close of play" sounds like something interesting, something...productive, unlike "we need a meeting before you go home". Jargon is endemic in academia, which is perhaps part of the problem.

English is now taught to little kids in linguistic jargon. Now, there's some stuff like synonyms that don't really have a simpler form. Verbs and nouns are just that. But the present perfect tense? When parents - well educated parents with relevant qualifications - don't have a fucking clue what children are being taught anymore, then perhaps it's time to have a rethink and stop treating children like they're in higher education, or work, already.  

Being bullied

TW: Sexual assault, violence, self harm.

When I was five, I looked like this.

Then, when I was eleven, I looked like this:

Now, I look like this (on a good day):

But in my head, I will always look like this:

You see, I was born with a malformed top jaw. Not something you notice much when your milk teeth come through, but my god, when I got my adult teeth, it was about as noticeable as you could get. I developed trichotillomania when I was 11 and scalped myself. So, going into secondary school I had the teeth of a deformed chipmunk and the hairline of Friar Tuck.

I suppose, all things considered, bullying was inevitable.

But this is the thing. I was bullied from starting school.

I don't know why. I was a fairly innocuous child. I was probably fucking annoying and a know it all because some things never change, but for some reason, a few girls in the year above me took against me and took up arms. I remember, aged five, being held, face-first, against a wall. I remember them telling me to come to the toilet with them in lunch, to be told a secret, and instead called names until I cried. 

Then my adult teeth came and lo, the bullying went up accordingly. I was already an easy target, probably because I didn't have many friends and didn't socialise outside school. But it's one thing to be targeted by a couple of bored girls, and something else to be targeted by everyone. They even stole my fucking lunch. It reached something of a nadir in year six, when I was first sexually assaulted on school grounds, and later had the shit beaten out of me by four boys, on the local park for the crime of being there. It followed me everywhere. At least when I was on holiday or at home, I could get my older brother to come and look threateningly at people. At school, I was mostly on my own. 

No wonder I ripped out half my hair.

And then. Secondary school. Oh the endless fucking DELIGHT of starting school looking like a morlock and having six foot tall, sixteen year old boys think nothing of calling me names across the playground, because all year seven girls need that on their plate. I developed a cruel and crude sense of humour to deal with it, and tried to give it back as good as I got. It occasionally got me into trouble, and being called names is not the worst thing that's ever happened. Of course, it felt like it at the time. Nobody ever had a crush on me, for example, because of the awful shame associated with being attracted to a morlock. I used to get in fights outside school, because I didn't want them to call me names anymore. There was a small crowd of 'cool' boys, who really took umbrage at my existence, particularly in shared lessons. One of them decided the best way to make his mates laugh was to put a piece of the cheesewire we used for cutting up modelling foam in DT around my neck. I couldn't breathe. I nearly knifed him in the face with a handy craftknife. I believe they left me alone after that.

I developed a few bad habits to deal with the constant angsty pain of existence. A bullied teenager is a most unhappy sight. I drank. I drank a lot. I drank often. I used drugs, now and then, mainly to deal with crippling social anxiety (sorry mum). And I beat myself bloody, because I hated myself so much I wanted to be anything else. 

Now. I am 31 years old. I have grown up. I have three gorgeous children. Despite being so hideously ugly, it has been constantly remarked on since I was five, I have got through two husbands. I know! The greed! Three years ago, I went back to my old secondary school for a reunion. I didn't want to go. I got so drunk the night before, I ripped a hole in my stomach lining. Then I got drunk in the car park before we went in. I couldn't bear the thought of being back in the torture chamber. I drank more as we went around to deal with it, disguised as orange juice. Then we went to the pub. It was that sort of a weekend.

And do you know something? There were quite a few of my former tormentors there, and none of them said a thing. They smiled. They nodded. They moved on. They remembered me, because I'm fairly memorable, but they don't remember every word they said to me fifteen years ago. That would be silly. They have moved on.

I have not.

I will never be wholly comfortable with the way I look because I was told every day for twelve years that I was hideous, either directly, or through a look, or a snigger, or a whispered comment. I will never really believe that I am worth a second glance. I hope I will stop hating myself for the way I look, but then worry that my children will be bullied in turn when people tell me how much they look like me. I doubt I will ever be cured of the anxiety I now recognise has been part of my life since I was pre-pubescent. Anxiety that people will shout at me, that they will follow me down the street threatening me. Anxiety about walking through a group of teenagers, because even at 31, they make me feel fourteen and a target again. I rarely go back to the town I grew up in, partly because it's a shithole, but mostly because it's full of memories. That's the alley I ran down when those boys were chasing me. That's the street those men threatened me on.That's the part of the park I was beaten up on. That's where I used to sit on my own with the dog because I had no friends. That's my loneliness. That's my pain. That's my lack of safety. That's my teenage years in a shitty nutshell. 

And therein lies the problem with bullying. Kids will be kids. Kids will shout names at others. Kids will take against what is different. Kids will hurt. Kids will fight.  Kids don't mean it. 

They didn't mean it.

How To Appeal A DLA Decision In Eight Easy Steps

One of the things that has struck me most over the last four months of fighting this appeal is how bloody archaic and unnecessarily difficult it is. I suspect this is deliberate to discourage people from appealing. So here's how to appeal, and what happens when you do.

1. Ask for a reconsideration

If your child is turned down for DLA, they don't tell you why. You have to ring up and ask. I rang the number on the letter, spoke to a helpline operator, and a lady called me back that afternoon. You have to give reasons as to why you want a reconsideration,  but they won't tell you why they turned your claim down until they call you back. So it's easy to get flustered. Your reasons are used in issuing the reconsideration and are used in your appeal, so make sure you fully explain to them why you want one.

2. Wait for the reconsideration decision to come through

For us, this stage took five days. If you're lucky, they will reinstate your DLA immediately. If you are not lucky, you will get a letter that tells you how to appeal, and, separately, a Mandatory Reconsideration Notice. You get two copies of this notice, and you must send one in with your appeal.

3. Do your appeal paperwork

THIS IS THE CORRECT LINK TO ACCESS APPEAL PAPERWORK (valid April 2016). The link in the letter was wrong, and it took me ages to find the right paperwork. You need form SSCS1, which is the first listed. You then download it with a left click:

Courtesy of justice.gov.uk

The form is reasonably simple to fill in. You are your child's representative, so you don't need to fill out Section 4 unless someone else is helping you with the appeal and willing to deal with the paperwork for you (e.g. a social worker). You have a small box to fill out with your reasons for appeal. You can write as much as you like: just attach it on separate sheets, with your child's name and date of birth at the top.
My advice is to write the reasons you are appealing in as much detail as you can. If you can get people to write supporting statements (e.g the consultant, the teachers and SEN staff from school, psychologists involved in care) then attach those as well. Take the reasons the DLA have given you for turning your claim down and refute them. We were turned down for mobility and care allowance, so I contested both separately.
You also need to decide if you want to go to the tribunal. Since Jimmy is autistic, there is nothing additional to be gleaned from the courts seeing him, so I decided not to go. If your child's disability is obvious, or you are more eloquent in person than in writing, it may well be better for you to attend. It is entirely up to you.

All this paperwork must be submitted within one calendar month of receiving the Mandatory Reconsideration Notice. You need to send:

 - The form, signed and completed

- Any additional supporting documents

- A copy of the Mandatory Reconsideration Notice

Send it by recorded delivery.

4. Wait

First, you will get a letter from the DWP acknowledging your appeal request and telling you which tribunal court your case will be heard at. It all gets a bit legal at this point. You should receive a letter from the tribunal court asking you to confirm what kind of hearing you have requested.

Within a month of your appeal being acknowledged, you will receive a truly terrifying wodge of numbered paperwork from the DWP. In it will be a copy of your original DLA application, all the supporting documentation you have sent, a copy of your reconsideration request, and the DWP's arguments against your appeal.

This huge wodge of paperwork is your case, as it will be presented to the tribunal. Keep it: you need to take it with you if you go to court, and it is also useful for reference.

5. Wait Some More

About two weeks later, you should get more information from the Courts and Tribunals Service. If the DWP are being particularly shit, they will demand an oral hearing and you will get a letter inviting you to attend. This completely threw me - I didn't realise they COULD do that, but they did in our case.
I did not attend. I did send a final statement, however, which refuted each of the DWP's reasons for not awarding DLA, systematically and concisely. You can do this, and also send through any additional evidence you might have gathered in the interim, as long as it reaches them at least a week before the court date. Send it recorded delivery though.
I also spoke to the Court twice and found them to be absolutely lovely and helpful. If you have any worries, ring them! If you do go to court, there's lots of information in the letter about how to claim your costs back.

6. Court Day

I don't know what happens if you attend, because I have other things to do smack bang in the middle of the Easter holidays than blush and fluster through a hearing, but rest assured, I sat worrying all day. The hearing consists of you (if you go), a DWP representative (if they turn up), a disability expert, a clinical expert and the judge. They decide the outcome there and then. The court write up the decision and send it out to you by first class post. Our tribunal was Tuesday, we had the decision on Friday.

7. The Decision

The decision is on one side of A4 paper, which came as a bit of a surprise after all the bumpf we got before. It tells you what they decided, and any extra notes. Ours was super short - it told us that the paperwork and case was in order and safe to be heard, it told us what they had decided to award our son, and that was about it. There is a lot of detail in the extra notes about what happens if either side dispute the ruling, how to appeal the appeal, and that the tribunal court cannot enforce the decision.

8. Next Steps

We won. The following Monday, DWP rang up and asked a few questions to confirm the rebate of funds and said they would be with us within ten days. I also phoned Tax Credits to get that part reinstated - they can decide whether to backdate your payment four weeks or for the full amount it was stopped, but if they're kind, they'll give you the full amount.