Back to School

It’s my first day of freedom, with three children in school and the day, filled with unknown promise, stretching out ahead of me. I pour myself the perfectly brewed mug of tea, sit back and luxuriate.

Actually, that’s not strictly true. Monday was my first day of freedom, or would have been if Pip hadn’t had an anxiety attack at college, phoned me and begged me to let him come home before he was cut off over there. I managed thirty minutes of ‘getting used to an empty house’ time before the phone calls started. The next hour passed in an adrenaline fuelled haze, as I contacted his school, his day release college and finally his taxi driver to sort things out and get him home while I still knew where he was. We spent the next three hours sorting out his emotions and reassuring him that I wasn’t angry and that it really didn’t matter.

I put my freedom on the back burner yesterday, as the school had closed down again. We went to the gym for the morning, so that I could work out and he could sit on a training machine, gently lifting his legs periodically whilst staring vacantly at ‘Bargain Hunt’ on a mute TV. My unspoken fear that he will end up in a home seems totally misplaced when I see him sitting gormlessly, watching day time TV. At times like that he wears his body as if he has borrowed it, not totally certain what all the parts do but determined not to break anything through over use. My mind strays and I begin to believe that the fairies used to swap children with changelings. Maybe I should have kept his bedroom windows firmly shut when he was a baby?

We walked back hand in hand, like young lovers. I found it uncomfortable but he seemed to need it so we carried on. As we walked past the Catholic Church he slowed down and asked me if priests had to demonstrate a sexual interest in children before they got the job. I spent the rest of the walk trying to explain to him that no organisation would recruit anyone because they were child abusers. I didn’t need to think of my response, his question was rhetoric, he had already decided that all priests were perverts. I hope he never comes across one, I couldn’t face the embarrassment.

The rest of his day was spent on the computer, internet stalking famous politicians. He seems to have grown out of Martin Mcguinness and now follows my father’s MP. I noticed that Pip’s zeal for northern politicians has spread and half of his classmates are following the man. At least three of them are so fuelled up on the heady mixture of sugar and e-numbers that they probably don’t understand what an MP is. The MP has responded to his comment on Facebook and Pip is delighted. He emails Alex, his bright but scary classmate, a new convert to politics. Alex emails back that he is fed up with the lousy school, the deputy headmistress is beginning to ignore his daily meetings with her and he’ll have to arrange a meeting with the headmistress to explain all his complaints. I laugh, Alex is clearly unaware that Pip completely bypassed the headmistress and complained straight to the charity who run the school. The response had to be a disappointment, so he has been in daily contact with OFSTED for the last two weeks. I sometimes wonder if I should bother to tell them that the half-literate, badly spelt emails they have been receiving from The Most Reverend Pip Asperger are just the ramblings of an emotionally illiterate and disabled boy. Maybe I should warn my Dad’s MP as well.

Today dawned as my first free day and started quite well. By eleven the supper was made, I had informed Pip’s school of his imminent arrival, the washing was on, I had advised the mother of a similarly disabled child about education, welfare and benefits, knitted three rounds of my latest project – much needed gloves, when the phone rang again. It was the school, advising that the weather was closing in and the college would be shutting early, could I re-arrange Pip’s transport? OK, I’ve been thwarted again, but some day this country will warm up and we will be back to the usual routine.