I hear a sound through the darkness. It is quiet at first, then the noise gets a bit louder. I lie still as a rock, not wanting to give away my awake status to the occupant sharing my slumber zone.If I just stay still and pretend I am in some sort of deep sleep – the game of patience, the game of who breaks first. I am strong, I will not break. The murmurs continue,

Three years ago there was one question I asked every person I met, every professional and every support group. It is a question I now get asked all the time, and a question which I see asked on support groups every week. That question is “When did your child start to talk?” The answers are always varied. You get the one word responses detailing the age of people’s children, and then you get more specifics,

I remember sitting on a hard chair, going through the motions, listening to the analysis of my son – the reports and information which had been collated on him. We spoke about his delayed speech, his lack of interaction and his low levels of engagement. It was hard dissecting every level of my child. Documenting where he was behind. Discussing where he was not meeting the grade defined by the milestones of the standard parenting

I was put in jail today.Let me start at the beginning…It didn’t go well from the very beginning, as I helped Rhys into the car for our weekly shopping trip. “Here’s the shopping list” I said, handing him his list of pictures in the same way I do every week. But he had other ideas and with a returned response of “No!” he threw the list on the car floor, followed by, “It fall down,

Lonely That’s I how I felt! It was the feeling of being left behind. The feeling of everyone else being part of a crowd that I did not belong to and could not belong to. We didn’t have the criteria to go along with the crowd. The crowd whose children were running around together, being surprised by new adventures, making their first friendships, talking and conversing with each other in a natural untaught way. There