Tag: Love

  • I am a Rainbow Baby

    What is a rainbow baby?

    It’s quite a beautiful way of handing heartbreak.  Giving your love and loss a name

    A rainbow baby is a child conceived after the loss of another. A beautiful rainbow that follows the clouds of a heart wrenching storm.

    A rainbow baby helps heal the wounds left from the life altering heartbreak of losing a child.

    So we wish all the rainbow children out there all the love and respect in the world. For helping us in our time of need, and showing us life can get better in time.

  • Motherhood is NOT a Competition

    In life, it is natural to want to the best for yourself.

    But as a parent wanting the best for your children can become quite extreme!

    So this is something VERY important to remember…

    Motherhood is NOT a Competition!

    Motherhood is YOUR Journey
  • Autism: Who am i to complain?

    I have had the great honour of being part of Mums Advice for 2 years now. It’s taught me so much more than I ever knew when I first became a mum at the age of 19. This is for all the mums that maybe going through something similar or are just not sure.

    When I gave birth to our second son at the age of 27, we were so excited having already been parents to our first son Trey and finally taking the plunge and having our second. Tien was born two weeks early and was my surprise VBAC, after an emergency c-section 8 years previous. His birth was the most amazing experience of my life and he was such a beautiful baby, slept well, ate well, was no trouble at all. He hit all his milestones until 8 months when I noticed he wasn’t babbling. He didn’t look when we called his name and slowly he started to appear distant, like he was in his own little world. I remember my husband often trying to make him smile and saying “tough crowd” as he never really responded, he smiled at things randomly and never at things we did to try to entertain him.

    By 15 months he wasn’t saying a word, in comparison to my friends children who were repeating 15-20 words and who were similar in age. I took him to our health visitor and pointed out my concerns, she sent him for hearing tests which came back normal. They put it down to “speech delay” and told me they would reassess when he was 2. “2?” I thought, that’s way too long if there’s really something wrong. Thankfully I had been working with a good friend whose son and grandson are autistic. I often spoke to her about Tien and without saying the words and listening to her experience I knew Tien had autism. He turned 2 and still never uttered a word, instead he screamed and covered his ears at different sounds not necessarily loud or high pitched just noises he couldn’t tolerate. He would point to things instead of asking for them and would become frustrated very easily. By the age of 3, we sent Tien to nursery in an attempt to “socialize him” as we were advised by our Health visitor. Nursery just highlighted even more how behind he was and it brought to the forefront that he was definitely autistic.

    By the time he was almost 4 and before he had his assessment, we already were working towards the fact that Tien was autistic and I had applied to the council for an EHCP for him. Our council had an early autism team who were amazing, visiting us at home and at school for one hour, doing different activities with Tien, working on his eye contact, pen control, numbers, letters and his imaginative play. He thrived on this programme and amazingly he seemed different, made eye contact, using the PECS folder he would bring us pictures of the items he wanted. We were finally turning a corner.

    The day of Tien’s assessment they told us there and then that they believed he was autistic. We were so relieved. The doctor, in shock, asked us why we had not broken down at the news. “Because, we said, we already knew deep down.” Tien’s diagnosis wasn’t the end. It was the beginning of an uphill battle for our precious 2nd son. He did really well at nursery but then the school we had chosen which had an ASD resource began to complain about him. They knew he needed a 1-2-1 but insisted on using unqualified TAs already employed at the school instead of using the funding they received for Tien to hire someone specialised. They are always trying to get Tien removed from the school instead of putting the adjustments in place for him to thrive. They fear the different and instead of trying to be better they try to get rid of the problem. We will never let Tien down though. We will fight for him everyday, making sure he has only the best in life. It is not easy, we have good days and bad days but Tien has now, at the age of 6, started to speak, write and spell. One of the best days of my life was when he called me Mumma. I could have bursted with pride.

    I’m so glad I followed my instincts when I felt something was wrong, my advice to anyone, don’t give up if you feel there maybe something not quite right. Don’t be fobbed off. Prepare for the worst, that way if things aren’t good, you are equipped to hand it. If they are better than you expected then even better. We believe that we were chosen to be Tien’s parents because we are strong enough to fight for him. There are bad days, don’t get me wrong, when I cry in the toilet, wondering what I did wrong in my pregnancy to having caused my beautiful baby to be autistic?, but then I shake myself and remember he’s a gift given specially to me. Who am I to complain?

  • I Became a Teacher Because I Love Children. But Then, I Couldn’t Have My Own

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    Relax, they say. It’ll happen when you stop stressing, they say. Worst advice ever. You never stop stressing when you are struggling with infertility. Go ahead and add working as a full-time teacher to the mix and what you’ve got is a recipe for stress. Relax? I think not.

    Let me be clear: I am not, by any means, implying that infertility was more devastating for me because I worked during this time. Infertility is awful for everyone. Literally everyone. My personal journey just happens to involve being a practically eggless employee.

    I’ve been a teacher since I was 23 years old. I chose this career because I love kids and love the idea of doing something different each day while making a difference. It’s also a job that has zero downtime, and certainly is not for the faint of heart. When there are over 100 students counting on you to deliver daily, you deliver. Period. At the age of 31, after quite some time of trying on our own, my husband, Jon, and I discovered that we couldn’t have children the old-fashioned way, and no amount of “relaxing” was going to magically fix my defunct ovaries.

    New plan: Off to the doctor we went, every other day, actually. Every other day I would leave my house at 5 a.m., drive to another state by 6 to get blood drawn, sonograms administered, pills prescribed and sticks to pee on. Then I would get back in the car to arrive at work for my 7:30 a.m. class. Talk about stress! Every night I would come home from school, exhausted in all ways one can be exhausted, and become a human pincushion. My husband gave me injection after injection in my stomach while I prayed for a miracle.

    This routine went on for a year. An entire school year, from start to finish, of starting each working day being reminded of how broken my reproductive system was, and then having to go teach a sea of children. Children. I had to, with professionalism and a smile, look out to a sea of faces and deliver, all the while feeling like no teacher would ever look out and see my child because I was told it was quite probable that I wouldn’t have any. So even though I felt like dying inside because my body had betrayed me yet again—another chemical pregnancy, an ectopic pregnancy and the removal of one fallopian tube, no mature eggs to be found in either ovary—I still needed to stand in front of my students and deliver. When administration came in to observe me after I’d been curled up on the bathroom floor the entire night, crying, bargaining, and begging some higher power to make the impossible possible, I had to deliver. Going to work every single day was like salt in my very gaping wound: Here I am fighting like hell to try and have children of my own, but must go to work where I care for so many children. It was an ironically cruel joke.

    Teachers can’t escape to the restroom to cry. We can’t stop and take a moment to catch our breath when we are overcome with emotion from things going on in our personal lives. I’ve said for years that teachers are like swans: We may appear calm and graceful, but sneak a quick peek under the surface of the water and you’ll see a pair of feet kicking like crazy to keep everything afloat. I’m amazed I didn’t drown.

    I finally did get pregnant, but it happened, coincidentally enough, during summer break. Was I magically relaxed? Perhaps. I will honestly never know the real answer to that question. Maybe it was the perfect combination of medical intervention and space away from the stresses that come along with teaching. I actually had enough time and peace of mind to go in for IVF without feeling too worried about missing school. Facing multiple classes full of students that September was much easier for my heart to handle as a woman about to welcome her own child. I realized my body wasn’t broken, just my spirit, which has since healed greatly, thanks to my two miracle babies, Logan and Layla. But I also realized something that surprised me; it was very likely that, as I looked out into the sea of children, many of them were quite possibly the miracles wished for by their parents. Understanding and knowing that has certainly made a difference. You never truly know the inner struggles anyone is facing, regardless of how calm the surface may appear.

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  • Living in Silence

    One of the nicest things as a parent is chatting with your child, hearing all the exciting and crazy things that go on in their heads…

    But what if your child can’t tell you about their day?

    This is Dexter, my 4-year-old son.

    Dexter doesn’t talk.

    It’s not that he can’t, more that he just doesn’t want to.

    Everyone says that they will talk when they are ready. That’s true. But what about when you are ready for them to talk to you, but they won’t?

    Seeing my son, he seems happy and I have to believe that he is. But it can be truly heart-breaking. Seeing all his classmates coming out of nursery calling for their mums and dads, telling them about their day, what they had for snack or what they played with. But Dexter, he comes out silent. I get a big cuddle and he’ll stretch out his arms for me to pick him up. But when I start talking to him, asking him all the questions a mum wants to know:

    “Did you have a nice day?”

    “Who did you play with?”

    “Are you happy?”

    “Do you have any friends?”

    All I can settle for is a smile and maybe a nod or the shake of a head.

    We work very hard, he attends one on one speech therapy, has done for two years now and truly it has helped. But honestly, I want more. I want to be able to chat with him, hear his stories, his thoughts, his dreams.

    Don’t get me wrong, I’m lucky, I have a kind, loving, gorgeous little boy and I wouldn’t change him for the world, he is who he is and that’s okay.

    Hopefully one day, this will all be a distant memory. All we can do is carry on working together, and hope.