Here I am, sat watching “How to Get Away With Murder”, my daughter is sound asleep at her Nan’s (my mother in law) house, my son is asleep upstairs and my husband is in the back room on his PlayStation. I’m restless and anxious. You see, tomorrow is the big day – the day we are taking our 7 year old son to London for a 3-4 hour assessment of his speech at The Michael Palin Centre for Stammering.
He’s so nervous. His stammer has rocketed today and he’s talking and talking because he’s anxious, so it just intensifies the noise.
Yes, I used the word noise. As awful as it sounds and as awful as I feel for saying it, sometimes, when his stammer is extreme and he’s getting louder and louder as he’s trying to get his words out, I feel as if my head might explode. I try not to show it but I think he probably senses my irritation at times which is so wrong. He shouldn’t be made to feel like I’m irritated by him, by his speech, by the one thing I tell him not to worry about and to sod anyone who has anything bad to say about it. I’m the one he looks to for comfort and reassurance, the one he relies on for unconditional acceptance and absolute patience at every bump and prolongation, every tic and moment of blocking. I’m supposed to be his rock.
And I am. I know I am. It’s just, sometimes, I falter a bit. And that makes me feel like an awful person, a terrible mother. And, although I know I’m not, I can’t stop thinking about it. Those moments when I can feel my face screwing up or my eyes bugging out, my teeth clenching or a snappy reply. His sweet little face, already frustrated, looks gutted for a second. My heart breaks a thousand times in that instant.
So, here I am, still watching tv, my heart pounding and my chest tight. My mind is whirring, working on overdrive, hence the self berating throughout this post!
I should go to bed, we have an early start tomorrow: we’re off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz…