“Your son is a retard. He doesn’t do shit, he’s messing up my class and I can’t waste my time teaching him anymore. You need to leave,” said Sensei as he pulled me to one side at the start of B1’s third Karate class tonight.
The actual words were probably closer to “I’ve spoken to my master, Jungle Jim, and we just can’t teach B1 here. This is not one-to-one, and he’s taking up my time, he’s taking it away from the other kids. It’s not going to work”
I walked back into the school hall, and as the other parents watched I put B1’s braces and shoes back on, and walked out while a four letter song escaped me.
Black rot is creeping in.
B1’s stumpy little digits rattled my hand in the night air. My seven year old pleaded up at me. “Stay Mummy, Stay Karate. I behave Mummy. I behave.” His younger brother asked “Why are we going Mummy? What happened?”
I’m the idiot around here. I said “They don’t want you anymore B1”.
There was a time when I didn’t want B1 either. But that was seven years past. Seven years of a growing strawberry blonde rose who has changed my world.
It’s all roses, the Down syndrome thing. Sweet smelling, thorny, black rot, brilliant colour and life sucking aphids. I've gardened through it all.
I composted the gymnastics instructor who told me that B1 would need to wear a nappy in class after he spilled diarrhea on the gym mats.
I green binned the school psychologist who said B1 would never have any typical peers as friends.
I dethorned the woman who called him “Cute, for a retard” in front of the hospital.
I’m not settled enough right now to know how to manage the Karate instructor.
Should he be fertilised? Absolutely not.
Maybe pruned? That sounds attractive.
Or maybe he needs a graft. Yes, that’s it.
He needs a graft from that guy who said “We judge a society on how it treats it aged, infirm and disabled” or some such corny stuff.
I’d like to mulch Sensei and put him in the dog poo pile, but that wouldn’t achieve anything really. I guess I just need to head to the nursery and find a new Sensei. One that thrives on a challenge with gentle encouragement.
The actual words were probably closer to “I’ve spoken to my master, Jungle Jim, and we just can’t teach B1 here. This is not one-to-one, and he’s taking up my time, he’s taking it away from the other kids. It’s not going to work”
I walked back into the school hall, and as the other parents watched I put B1’s braces and shoes back on, and walked out while a four letter song escaped me.
Black rot is creeping in.
B1’s stumpy little digits rattled my hand in the night air. My seven year old pleaded up at me. “Stay Mummy, Stay Karate. I behave Mummy. I behave.” His younger brother asked “Why are we going Mummy? What happened?”
I’m the idiot around here. I said “They don’t want you anymore B1”.
There was a time when I didn’t want B1 either. But that was seven years past. Seven years of a growing strawberry blonde rose who has changed my world.
It’s all roses, the Down syndrome thing. Sweet smelling, thorny, black rot, brilliant colour and life sucking aphids. I've gardened through it all.
I composted the gymnastics instructor who told me that B1 would need to wear a nappy in class after he spilled diarrhea on the gym mats.
I green binned the school psychologist who said B1 would never have any typical peers as friends.
I dethorned the woman who called him “Cute, for a retard” in front of the hospital.
I’m not settled enough right now to know how to manage the Karate instructor.
Should he be fertilised? Absolutely not.
Maybe pruned? That sounds attractive.
Or maybe he needs a graft. Yes, that’s it.
He needs a graft from that guy who said “We judge a society on how it treats it aged, infirm and disabled” or some such corny stuff.
I’d like to mulch Sensei and put him in the dog poo pile, but that wouldn’t achieve anything really. I guess I just need to head to the nursery and find a new Sensei. One that thrives on a challenge with gentle encouragement.
1 comment:
I just wanted to say that I have jsut found your blog and I love the way that you write. I hope there is more to come. I can not get my head around the crulety that has been dished out to you and your boys by others. Please keep writing so you can expose them for the complete fools that they obviously are.
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