Kicking goals and High fives all over the shop

Homework: 18 Feb 2015 - The Final
All his own work (but I did help a bit with the spelling when he asked.)

It was 20th October, when Milo was headed towards finishing Grade 2, and I'd spent pretty much two hours of every Monday during the school year in the classroom helping out with literacy and numeracy learning centres (but not working directly with Milo), I realised, looking at some of Milo's work on display in the classroom that everything wasn't quite right.  His presentation was more than just sloppy.  It was a trainwreck.  Careless.  Unfinished.  Shabby.  Terrible.  It showed a lack of thought.  A lack of effort and endeavour.  Honestly, it was ghastly and I was truly speechless. 

So knowing how incredibly bright and capable Milo is, but also what a difficult time he has had at school with some social issues (for that read ongoing bullying), I asked his teacher if it would be okay if Milo redid the task at home so we could replace the dog's dinner with something a little more complete and polished.

Sadly that afternoon we lost Poppy and the world stopped for a week or so while we mourned her passing.

Poppy watching Milo watching telly (June 2014)

Poppy loved her boy and her boy loved her and things were very sad for a bit.  But life marched on, as it does, and the time for us to tackle the task of the piece of work from school arrived.

We discussed the piece, what it involved, what he had to do, what tools he needed, etc.  And then, instead of me standing over him like I usually would, micro-managing the process ("Tall Ts." "Ps hang below the line." "Leave spaces between words." "Is that an R or a V?"), I just sat back on the other side of the room and observed and let him do his thing. 

It was horrible and terrifying and the most awfully painful thing I'd seen when it came to Milo and schoolwork.

This child, who could talk the weatherboards off a building, was completely stumped about how to even begin. My heart crumpled as he became distressed and stressed and increasingly frantic as he battled to make the ideas in his head materialise on the blank page in front of him.  And after 30 minutes of anguish and scribbling and rubbing out and hair tearing, I approached the table to see what he'd produced and it was the same dog's dinner he'd created at school.  All chaos and mess and confused catastrophe.

And it dawned that my assumption that the work messiness, incompleteness and incomprehensibility being due to a lack of effort and endeavour couldn't have been more wrong.  This kid had sweated blood to put ANYTHING down. I'd been accusing him of not trying, of being slack.  And I couldn't have been more wrong.

So I swept him up into my arms and carried him over to the sofa and I apologised profusely.  And we hugged each other for a really long time. And I told him that we were going to find a way to make this work bizzo a whole lot easier because none of it was supposed to be like this.  None of it was supposed to be hard and confusing and difficult.  There was a way through.  We would find the way together.

We had a break went outside, sat in the grass, played with Bongo for a bit and then came inside spent the next three hours, THREE HOURS, producing a finished piece together. Me guiding.  Him following.  Step. By. Step.  Torturous.

The finished piece took three hours to produce.

It quickly became apparent that the challenges for Milo were on a few levels: the handwriting itself, something he has always resisted;  dumbing down the information so he doesn't have to write; and lastly, but definitely not leastly, not knowing how to divide up the page to organise where and how the information should go.

When we sat back at the end of the exercise, both exhausted, I was confronted with the reality that it had taken three hours (and not calm, enjoyable hours either) to produce one heading, four pictures, fours sub-headings and four short sentences. 

The next day I spoke to Milo's teacher and told him we needed to get Milo assessed because there was clearly something wrong.  Something cognitive going on.  I didn't know what it was, but there was obviously something not quite right.  What was the school going to do?  What were the steps?  What happens?

I was advised at that point, given that we are in the State system, that there isn't funding for assessments, and that I was going to have to seek out assistance myself.  And they pretty much left me with that.

Now if you don't know Milo, you don't know that we're not talking about an average little kid.  We're talking about someone who's presentation to his Prep peers was about Blackholes and Wormholes. He's all about crystals and molten rocks and all sorts of stuff to do with building.  He's developed theories about multiple dimensions  he'll tell you about and he isn't intimidated intellectually by anything.  He's interested in anything and everything as long as there's people who are involved and engaged, because he's a people person and he just wants to be part of what's going on...

So I walked away, shattered.  Not knowing what to do.  I mean, how the heck in a first world country can a school not have the means to assess a kid with special needs?  Or not even give a parent a hint of a clue about where to go or what to do?  Seriously? If there's money for chaplains, and I'm constantly being asked to put my hand in my pocket to fundraise...  Who is setting the priorities?  And why isn't something like this on somebody's list? 

Anyway, I went home and rang Parentline Victoria (ph: 13 22 89) and they advised me to contact the Royal Children's Hospital Child and Family Psychology Clinic.

I managed to secure an appointment within 10 days (unheard of, I found out later, as the average wait time is eight to 10 months), and received a truly comprehensive 19 page report with 10 pages of recommendations four weeks later. 

It wasn't until we started answering questions that we realised that things we'd been managing weren't necessarily the way things needed to be or indeed the way things should be.  And what's more, we had the power to change them and make things better.  So much better.

So armed with this report we've managed to get Milo started on a truly intense regime of treatment with specialists and therapies to help make his experience at school and in the world generally a whole lot better.

The biggest thing for me has been to learn that although I'd never thought of Milo as being "of me", per se (I'd always thought of him as being completely his own person) I'd still, to a degree, assumed he'd interact with the world through the prism of paper and pens and words and pictures in the same way I did/do, when that isn't the case at all.  He has his own means and methods of interacting with the world that is purely his own and I can't presume to even understand it.  All I can do is respect that it is him.  He truly is just Milo.

So back to the the goals he kicked yesterday.  Oh my goodness.  He did his homework, albeit with some help.  But he didn't get all shirty and he didn't fight me every step of the way.  He took on my advice.  He did a plan with dot points and didn't resent the extra writing the dot points required (and yes, he enjoyed ticking them off when he wrote the final copy - very gratifying).  He wrote in sentences.  He even cracked a little joke.  It all took about 40 minutes and in the end I asked how painful it was out of 10 and he told me it was naught out of 10 because it wasn't painful at all.

Now I know we have a long way to go.  I know this isn't masterful A+ genius Einstein work.  But if you saw where we were just a few months ago, and you saw what he did just yesterday you would be tripping and twirling just like I am.  The progress he's made is unbelievable. UNBELIEVABLE!  And he starts Occupational Therapy tomorrow.  Can't wait. 

And then Pluto the Puppy comes in seven sleeps and the world will turn on its ear in the best possible way.  Good times are a-foot.  I can feel it in my waters.*

*At this point I'm not even going to go into the costs of the reports and specialists. Suffice to say that by February we have exceeded the Medicare threshold for the year.

Milo's Best Friend. Coming soon.

And (at the time of writing) he shall be known as Pluto.

 
Since we unveiled the image of our newest family member and revealed the timeline for his imminent arrival, I posed the question:  "Is he Pluto or is he Astro?  Suggestions most welcome." 

We all do know that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, and whether he is Ernie or Barney, Gough or Miguel, Comet or Neon, Scruffy or Plato, it's really neither here nor there, since the naming of this little chap is the dominion of Milo.  And this fluffy nosed little critter is set to turn the House at Porter Street on its ear in a fortnight, no matter what.

Milo had decided on Pluto but did want to know what other names people liked.  And what a cavalcade of suggestions have been put forth. He became a little overwhelmed by the breadth of options, so that his eyes began to roll back in his head as I lobbed them, not only, I suspect from not having a clue about the significance of many, but also just from the sheer exhaustion of having to repeatedly respond whilst simultaneously keeping a lid on his excitement by making and exploding fireworks in Minecraft.

Multitasking is difficult for the eight year old brain at the best of times.

Anyway, we'll see which way the wind blows us in a couple of weeks.  We have a couple of weeks...  14 days...  Roll on.

Grumpy Rant Face from Hell.

I've been awake today since 3am, so there's a good chance this post isn't going to be coherent, articulate or free of spelling or other typographic errors.  I am, however filled with something of a fury.  So I can promise that there is definitely something I intend to say, and with purpose.  So grab your listening eyes if, indeed you care to engage, and jump on, particularly if you are up for some mixed metaphors and jumbled imagery.  I've got a lot of that going on right now in my delirious and irate brain.

But first, let me set the scene.

This morning I was awoken in the wee small hours by the sounds of my father who was very very unwell.  So unwell, in fact that I was prompted on checking him to pretty much call an ambulance within a few minutes.  The paramedics arrived promptly and on hooking Dad up to all the blinkers and beepers ascertained that he was, yes, in a very bad state.  I'm sure he won't mind my telling you that his blood pressure was hovering around 60 on 40 and his heart rate while they were with him was dropping, and got down to 30.  

You can pretty much ask anyone, and they'll tell you that vital signs like this are not bright, although just one look at him could've told you he was in trouble.

It took about half an hour for the paramedics to stabilise him to the point where they were confident they could get him onto a trolley and in transit to hospital, and to their credit, as always, they were great.  Big round of applause for the ambos who always do an incredible job and should without a doubt have pay and conditions to reflect the amazing and indispensable work they do - this announcement was not paid for by any political party).

So we arrived at the hospital at about 4.15/4.30ish and Dad was handed over and  shunted into a cubicle by around 5am.

It was not a busy morning at the hospital, thankfully.  There was a dementia patient who had repeatedly fallen on his head, poor old love, and another man, who I think was drunk, who kept insisting he couldn't breathe, although apparently all the monitors were indicating he was getting plenty of oxygen.  And that was all there was on our side of emergency.  Sadly, our side of emergency wasn't actually equipped with the monitors necessary to deal with assessing what the suspected was Dad's issue, that is, is his heart.  So for two hours we were parked in a cubicle with no equipment.  

Oh, but there was blood on the floor, blood from a former occupant.  And a few droplets inside one of the stainless steel drawers where they keep the sterile syringes, swabs, etc… Lovely.

Sure, questions were asked of Dad.  Bloods taken.  X-rays.  More questions.  People typed into databases. Bla bla bla.  More staff came in, more questions were asked.

And then Dad was moved to the other side, where there were monitors.  Lots of empty cubicles with monitors and I wondered why the hell we weren't sent over here in the first place.  Dad was hooked up to the machines immediately and blip blip blip, you could see and hear what was happening with him straight away.

And then the nurse on the well equipped side commented that Dad was sent over without any paperwork, but that didn't matter.  He went on to read some notes (apparently) in prep for hand over to the next shift, and conservatively got thirty percent of what he told the new nurse wrong.  But that wouldn't've been his FAULT only because he didn't consult the computer.  Instead, you see, in his wisdom, he chose the superior technology of his MEMORY. (!!! ??? !!!)

In the meantime, the doctor had come back and said that she had received the results of dad's blood tests and they'd not found any markers for heart attack so… and this is the kicker… so he was being discharged.  See you later.

Just like that.

Don't know what caused you to nearly drop off the perch old timer.  But we're crossing one option off the list so you can go now.  Turrah.  And by the way, get yourself out of that bed.  We won't even be bothered putting the sides down for you.  Help yourself.  Hoof it.

I cannot tell you how cross I was.  How cross I am.  He's so unwell still.  Not like he was this morning, but still terribly sick, and they don't even care to investigate.  Or even to put anything in place to begin investigations.  Or even to write up a comprehensive set of notes of what actually occurred so that the GP or anyone could actually refer to it in the future.  The discharge notes are so brief and inaccurate it's a joke.  (But not funny.)

So this is the care my dad received in the ED at the Royal Melbourne Hospital, folks.  Shabby it was.  Shit, in fact.  Really truly not good enough.

And so endeth my rant.

Trippin'

So this is my final night in Queensland for this trip.  Members from the other side of the family tree left before lunch and are still apparently struggling to make it home to Sydney, delayed due to some stupidly violent storm activity that's seen their plane rerouted to Newcastle where they were decanted into buses bounded for Sydney airport before somehow, I guess eventually finding taxis home along with the other hundreds of other passengers.  Ah the joys of a three hour journey turned into a 10 to 12 hour epic, eh?

from the ABC website today

Thankfully the forecast for Melbourne is much more benign.  "A few showers clearing." it says.  "Min 15.  Max 21."  That all sounds perfectly civilised.  I always thought Sydney was much too flashy for me.

All you need is...

Today was all about love.

Two lovers dedicating their lives to one another. 

Parents' love for their kids.  

Sibling love.

Love amongst friends.

Love amongst the cousins and uncles and the aunts and grannies.

(I don't think there were any grandpas there, today :( )

Love in all the nooks and crannies.

Love on the dance floor.

Love in the pudding.

Love love love…

The Beatles sang about that a few times.

Two hands.

When something is hideously wrong at the very core of things on one hand while one is surrounded by great celebration and familial coming together and happiness on the other, it can be the cause of schizoid conflict and confusion.

What the hell and I talking about, you ask?  Let me explain...

I'm sitting amongst my family: beloveds, acquaintances and new folk – all gathered at Ken and Merri's, on the night before their eldest gets married, and it's truly the happiest of nights.  Impossible not to be swept up in the fun and buzz and excitement of what will be a benchmark event in our family's life.  I wish my Mum was here.  I wish Milo was here.  I wish Hec was here.  I wish Ev and the girls were here.  But instead I am here.   And I'm soaking it all up for all of them.  And it's lovely and I'm lucky.  And so glad to be the chronicler for all of them.  Tomorrow I will be going crazy with the camera (mental note to plug it in before I got to bed).

But then there's the other thing, on the other hand, occupying me simultaneously.  The great evil.  The thing that doesn't personally touch me but that's done in my name and by my country that is so despicable that I can't, I just can't believe we are so so low as to have let it happen…  Shame shame shame shame shame on us for allowing Scott Morrison to manipulate/blackmail the Senate into passing his draconian migration legislation.  Such an evil and anti-human manoeuvre.  Such a dreadful man.  Such a horrible indictment on this society and community and country to be capable of such cruel barbarity, selfishness, paranoia and shortsighted idiocy.

If I was my friend, I wouldn't want to know me any more for what this represents..

So even though I will be loving my family and celebrating the most momentous of days tomorrow, a part of me is sickened by the the society in which my family is situated because I know the materials the framework of the society is constructed from, are rotten.

And it didn't have to be that way.

Please don't take a-fence

A very bad photo of a truly awful fence.
A metaphor for a pretty shabby post on a terrificly* fun day.

I know. I know.  I was going to try and go to sleep with that being my entry for the day and I just can't.  I've just read "Wendy of the Rock" and now I feel I need to put in a bit more of an effort before my head hits the pillow, even though it's already tomorrow.

I'm sure today (yesterday officially) is/was not what it is/was supposed to've been.  I've had too much fun even though much of it is/was punctuated by my dodging and weaving around a migraine.  You see, my girl Jorj is here.  And when Jorj is here there is giggling and lightness and often mayhem.  Also pondering, confusion, reminiscing and general feelings of buoyancy and good will.  

It's a bit like the circus is in town when Jorj comes visiting.

So that's why I haven't had time to write.  I've been having too much fun.  It's not as though we've been swinging from the chandeliers or anything.  Far from it.  Dropped off the motorhome for a service, doctor visit, coffee, pizza lunch at Milo's school, ran a few errands, dinner, hang out the washing, just stuff, you know.  But gosh, what larks stuff can be when it's done with your identical triplet.  As Jorj and I are.  As evidenced by the snap in the previous post.  Born just 5 days apart to completely different families, with completely different ethnic backgrounds, body types, colouring, features and wholly and completely different interests in every way except some music, we are indistinguishable from one another.  It's uncanny.  

We are also conjoined despite the fact that she lives mainly in NSW (but is something of a gypsy now) and I live here in Victoria.  Extraordinary.

So there you have it.  That's my excuse for not writing a post today.  Sorry.  I'll do better tomorrow.