Martin and Hazel Frost Our Life in Argentina

A new kitten is a great way to occupy a week or two. Throw in a poorly child; nothing majorly wrong but just "Not Right", and there's a beautiful distraction from the fairly major surgery planned for child number two.

But there does come a time when, no matter how cute the kitten, the headline news on the radio is that patients admitted to hospital on a Sunday are 16% more likely to die than if they are admitted on a Wednesday, including planned admissions, and the "la la la I'm busy, can't hear you" stops working, and you realise you are in fact heading that way in just two days' time (and yes, going in on the Sunday). It is, however, significantly better than the outlook this morning, when I misheard 16% for 60, and was considering calling the whole thing off.

I could drive myself mad wondering whether there really will be a statistically significant difference for the Little Princess between our Sunday admission and our originally planned Monday admission, but ultimately it's out of my hands, and I either trust the staff (and God) or I don't. We're going in.

But, in the meantime, if the sight of a very confused little kitten trying to suckle an equally confused neutered adult cat isn't distracting enough, then I have a lovely bag of yumminess to explore.

It occurred to me, in one of those pre-dawn-ugh-I'm-not-awake-back-off-world moments that there may well be a considerable amount of down time over the next week. We'll be aiming to keep the Little Princess nicely comfortable, and that should hopefully mean a fair bit of her being asleep. And then of course there's the op itself on Monday when I'm absolutely certain she'll be unconscious and there won't be a great deal for me to do, since for some reason they don't seem to like parents to be involved in the surgery.

And, with a new kitten in the house, crafty type stuff is having to be on the back seat - pretty photos aside, cats and knitting just aren't a natural combination. Hmm, a cat free week; what can I do with that? Legitimate knitting googling; hurrah!

I found myself here (warning: link could be hazardous to anyone keen on rather splendid wool). Free patterns, marvellous! Free patterns for some extremely delicious fair trade hand dyed gorgeously textured ouchily pricey wool. Hey, it's Fair Trade - buying it is a Good Thing, yes?

Just one problem; hospital admission on Sunday, and today is Friday. Our local wool shop doesn't stock the right wool for the pattern I've chosen (although it does stock the silk and lace yarns, check them out!). I call an internet supplier. No problem; they can arrange a delivery for Saturday. Small problem; they don't have the colours I want in stock. I take a look at another site and decide I don't actually have time to arrange a second mortgage. I check a third; equally ouch. I call another supplier, Yarn Box. Handily, Nicola is about to sort out the day's post, and will pick and pack my wools as she does. Even more handily, Yarn Box turns out to be based very locally, and she will drop the yarn round herself - now that's definitely service! And here it is:

Pattern downloaded and printed, needles ready and waiting, and it is only the kitten lying on my lap playing with my hair which is preventing me from making a start already. Roll on Monday; I'm almost looking forwards to it now!

Tia

It seems that the recent cute overload is causing mild ructions in places where the almighty cat is not universally worshipped.

If that's you, then here are some reasons why parts of your family may not be over enamoured of the fluffy little beastlings.
Unneutered, they may at times spray the walls.

they like to scratch their claws, rejecting the very special cat tree you have purchased for the purpose, and instead choosing your child's toy box. and their ideas of suitable gifts are not always graciously accepted.
But still, how can you resist this?

Tia

Everyone up and off in time for school; two girls into chairs with no fussing and two cats sniffing each other instead of hissing.

A long deep bath, interrupted only by the occasional pair of blue eyes peering over the side, querying why on earth I'd want to mess up a good waterbowl by climbing in with bubbles.

A minor panic at the realisation I'd left myself just four minutes to get dressed, and then an inevitable interruption - this time from school saying Miss Mog was all "white and spiteful" and Just Not Right. I did however still manage to be clothed and decent before being picked up; I'm sure my friend was grateful for that.

A diversion to collect a fairly limp and pale Mog from school, and then on to the important business of the day - coffee with the ROSY ladies (and George). Where else can you go, be introduced to someone for the first time, and find people uttering the warning "there's a lot of poo talk, just so you know"? And there aren't many places where you can sort out an evening out, babysitters for that same evening out, and the loan of a changing bench for three weeks in the summer all without having to put your coffee cup down or pick up a phone. Nor are there many circumstances where you can be sniffling over the death of a friend's child whilst simultaneously discussing the creation or arrival of each others' children - conception, birth, death, poo and parties; we cover it all in just a couple of hours.

Move from coffee on to lunch; more chat, more laughs, more yummy food and a good prowl around the antique shop. Must. Resist.

Fortunes safely unspent, and home to the post. No much awaited parcel, just a speeding notice and offer to attend a Speeding Awareness Course or else take points and a fine. Grump.

A Grannie visit, and a photo of my precious newest nephew, born on the 25th. Congratulations to the Scottish contingent! And well done on finding a name which is truly unique and sounds well beside his sister.

And then the best news of all (because new baby news I've had for a couple of days now), two cats sniffing and finally kissing before settling down in different corners of the same room.

Grolly is not best pleased with life right now.

There's a house invader. And he seems to be filling this house just as much as he fills the doll's house.

He's a lap surfer,
A child-fisher (it's possible she's a kitten-fisher, but it seems to be about equal),
phone hogger,

and power napper.

And her nose is seriously out of joint.

That said; it's not going too badly. They've met each other and had the odd hissy stand-off, but nothing more. Overnight, Benjamin has the sitting room and his beloved computer table, and Grolly has the rest of the house and the whole wide world. During the day, they both have most of the house, Grolly has exclusive access to my bedroom and the cat flap . And I'm only feeling a little bit like neutral territory when I have kitten on my shoulder peering down and cat at my knee, determinedly not looking up.

There is more to life than cats right now, but they do seem to be a fairly huge part of it.
Tia

No, not the one family are waiting for (but all the best with that, Y!) Nor yet a temporary fosling. But please meet Mr Benjamin Boots.

Please also ignore any typos, as he's standing on the keyboard trying to help me type.
Unlike Grolly and Gotcha when they came, he shows no fear.
Meep. Please come and play.

Excuse me.
Normal service may be resumed at some point when he deigns to slee.p. (extra full stop delicately inserted by one white paw).
Tia0000 (those OOs too)

Photo from a cobblers we found on holiday.

This letter arrived for Miss Mog the other day.
It's come from the same hospital which has repeatedly sent out letters cancelling an appointment and rearranging it for exactly the same time and date, so when I read the new appointment I initially thought this was the same thing. And then I checked the original date again, and realised that no, this was a genuine shift of date and time,

So why, then, did this appointment time ring so many bells?

All was made very clear when I opened the Little Princess' post
Sorry, tLP; your sister's stolen your appointment.

Shame; for a brief moment it appeared that I would have two children having appointments on the same day with the same consultant. It was very nearly joined up thinking...

Tia

Because things aren't all grim here, and we do actually have quite a nice jolly time most of the time,

A missed photo opportunity - Grolly Beast playing with Mog's switch. Apparently, a toggle switch is just the right shape to really get behind those ears when you're moulting. Apparently, a cat using a switch to say "Hello" repeatedly is the Funniest Thing Ever if you're a girl under ten and living in this house.

And, in other news, did you know, I am the Mother of God? There's promotion for you! Who cut her back aside, the Little Princess' other big query is "Why I not got a Daddy?" And yes, we talk about her life story, we talk about her birth father, we talk about how there's just me so if she wants to keep me as a Mummy, she has to manage without a Daddy. And then we talk about how no one has to be without a Daddy because we all have a Father/Daddy God in Heaven who will be our Father if we love Him. And we talk about how Jesus loves us, and how if we love him and ask him in, he will always be with us, so we will never ever be alone, not even if it's night time and the lights are out and everyone else is asleep in different bedrooms.

We find bits of the Bible where Jesus says anyone who loves him is his brother or sister. And tLP is delighted. She has a Daddy God in Heaven, and now she has a Brother Jesus too. A Daddy and a Brother who love her, and who will always be with her, and who are always ready to listen and to keep her safe. But wait, see, because I am her Mummy. So if Jesus is her brother, well, you see where this is going? My middle name is Mary, after all.

The world can be a very confusing place when you're six. And possibly even more confusing when you're the mother of a six year old.

Oh, question for the wise readers. Anyone got any recommendations for a nice friendly "where do I come from?" type book which is preferably literal enough not to go down confusing side alleys regarding aliens or the laying of eggs, no special sneezes, and ideally one I can adapt to include cesarean sections and adoption too? Failing that, anyone fancy writing one?

Many and varied are the conversations I never thought I'd have. One of the bonuses of having a neuropathic bladder is that you're very familiar with medical names for various body parts. Explaining that no, you don't squeeze babies out of your urethra and they won't block the catheter has to be one of the more unusual things I've done this week.

Tia

Sometimes, I can be startlingly slow on the uptake.

For four years, I have rubbed creams into this back. Removed and replaced vests and swapped t-shirts for pyjamas and got cross when she wont do it herself, traced the march of her spine from vagely midline to its current very off-kilter position.
And it only occurred to me a few days ago that the Little Princess has never seen it herself. She rubs it, runs her fingers over the squishy bit and says it hurts, patters delicately down exploring the change in sensation from full feeling to anaesthetic, and occasionally finding a rougher spot. She asks me, and I tell her it is her lesion, her myelomeningocele, her spina bifida. The spot where her nerves came out of her body, and the reason why her legs and various other bits don't work so well. She nods, we talk about the difference between her Spina Bifida and Mog's Cerebral Palsy, and we talk about everything she can do and how whizzy she is in her wheelchair and how much I love her and how precious and special she is to me.

And then she snuggles down to sleep, and I pat myself on the back with how efficient I am at explaining these things, and life goes on.

So this time when she asked, I took a photo. I showed her. "That's not my back. Who cut me?" I explain, once again, that this is her lesion, her Spina Bifida, the bit where there was a bag of nerves hanging out of her back. That no one cut her, but the scar is from where the doctors put everything back inside.

She remains adamant. This is Not Her Back. And I think, should I have shown her earlier? I haven't been hiding it from her; I just never thought about the fact she hadn't seen it. And I realise we haven't discussed scarring from her upcoming surgery.

My little girl has a scar on her stomach from where her VP shunt was inserted, and a weepy oozy hole where her gastrostomy lurks. We've counted up the tubes, and she knows roughly where each one of them will be, but I never thought to ask whether they will need to cut her open too. I assume you can't chop a bladder in half without making an incision to insert the knife at least. This time next month, she will have a pattern of holes and tubes on her front, as well as this new-to-her long scar and birthmark on her back. War Wounds from the battle against her broken body. How do I give her a good body image when we're throwing so much time and effort into, and putting her through so much pain in order to patch up and improve that same body?

She has a zip at the back of her neck, a bald patch behind her ear, a permanent record of previous surgeries. Her forehead has a neat white scar - her fringe hides it, but people have been known to ask if she was shot in the head. Nope, it's another battle injury - the pressure sore formed by prolonged use of the only mask suitable for Non-Invasive-Ventilation when she was much smaller. Smaller, more delicate scars cover her ankles; an unsuccessful attempt to straighten her feet. And a long fat scar winds its way down one hip, the hip which is now firmly attached to the leg which has been surgically shortened in order to reduce the risk of it dislocating again.

All these, she knows and accepts. She sees them and does not question them; occasionally likes to hear the story attached to them, but they are just a part of her. They will, no doubt, be added to over the years. Already we have another major surgery lined up for when she recovers from this forthcoming major surgery. But these she can watch growing. She sees the dressing, spots the stitches, screeches as they are removed, and supervises the scabbing over and the new skin forming.

And now suddenly she has been presented with a new picture. The back she strokes so carefully, stretches gently and twists out of achey postures and into newer ones which can't be comfortable, the pudgy squidgy bits with no bone where bone should be, and the fluffy hair bit where no hair should be growing. All this has been known to her fingertips for as long as she has been able to reach behind her. But seeing it has been a shock. We talk about those other children she knows, or knows about, who have Spina Bifida. We talk, once again, about the job nerves have and how her nerves can't send messages properly. And we look at the picture of her back, o I can talk about her nerves and trace a pattern on her back and on the photo at the same time. But "That not my back. Who cut me?" remains her response. And as she sleeps, the nightmares are back, and she wakes up complaining her back hurts.

And it doesn't matter that I think she's amazing, it doesn't matter that God thinks she's brilliant, it doesn't matter that there are hundreds of things she can do. Because there on her back is a giant great scar, commemorating the quirk of development which led to her disabilities. And she'd like to know who cut it.

Tia

It's just a bit of fun, that's all. Knock on the door, ring the bell, rattle the letterbox then run like fury. Stop at the corner, watch the face of the woman who gets to the door, laugh loudly so she knows it was you, then run some more. All good fun right? Never hurt anyone, right?

Well, let me tell you a bit about what happens here in this house when you do that. See, thre's one girl in this house who is hypervigilant. Any noise when she's going to sleep causes her to bolt awake again, panicking, in case Mummy is about to disappear. She's adopted. Whilst she was never abused or neglected, I am her third Mummy. The first one grew her well, nurtured her in her womb for nine months, probably dreamed of her precious new baby. But my daughter didn't go hoe with her. She spent a few months in hospital, then went home with a new Mummy, one who loved her and cared for her, and kept her safe until her forever Mummy could be found. And then she came home with me. And it doesn't matter that all three of those Mummies loved and love her; deep in her soul there's an injury; an abandonment, the conviction that I will one day walk away and she will be on her own.

Every time the door opens - and she can hear the handle turn in her deepest sleep, so deep rooted is this fear - she thinks that's it. She wakes up, scared, needing reassurance. She hears the voice of our visitor, recognises a friend or carer, smells the takeaway I may have ordered, and accepts that this time, it is ok. I am going nowhere, and she can sleep again.

But then you knocked. Who is there? No one. She doesn't understand that. Two boys playing a silly game. She definitely doesn't understand that. She is suspicious; this must be a trick. This time, this really was the time when I was going to walk out, only she has caught me out by waking up. She'd better stay awake all night, in case I try again. And she'd better call out regularly, just checking I am still there.

And then I have an other girl. This one has epilepsy. Loud noises give her fits. Friends, family, carers, they all know to let themselves in quietly if she's gone to bed. So your fusillade was hugely unsettling. Seizures, electrical discharges misfiring through the chaotic caverns of her brain. A stack of fireworks being set off in a small box. Killing off random braincells - and she doesn't have all that many to spare. Epilepsy kills. There's a chance one day that she won't come out of one of these seizures.

And so as I stand at the door, and I see your laughing faces, before you turn around and run off, I don't give you the satisfaction of even thinking about giving chase. I close the door, quietly, and try to reassure one child whilst moving things out of the way of the other, calling out to one girl so that she knows I haven't disappeared whilst piling pillows up against the hard sides of the other's bed, giving her space as her limbs thrash uncontrollably. And then, noting the time, in case I have to give emergency medications or tell a paramedic later, I leave her in her seizure and go to calm the hysteria.

Do you get a bigger laugh out of that?
Tia

Because Miss Mog has found her groove again, this is what we're hearing from after school until the Tizanidine terminates all thought, and from midnight until the Tizanidine does its thing again at 5am.

Don't try to interpret the Little Princess - they both think gobbledygook is funnier.

And, because life is just that interesting, I (hopefully) include links to two of my regular evening noises with no prize other than infinite kudos to whoever correctly identifies them both. Alternatively, this will be yet another blank post with baffling references to invisible links. Bear with me; I can't upload videos any more for some reason so am trying audio files instead.

Edit: because I am not technically literate, this is not something which is going to be happening tonight. Or any time soon. In the meantime, hopefully, here is the video which I couldn't get to upload earlier. Sometimes my life is unnecessarily complex.

Oh, and does anyone know how to convert voice memos from the iPhone into a more transportable audio file?

Tia

Because Miss Mog has found her groove again, this is what we're hearing from after school until the Tizanidine terminates all thought, and from midnight until the Tizanidine does its thing again at 5am.

Don't try to interpret the Little Princess - they both think gobbledygook is funnier.

Tia

It's a family tradition now that we go away for a few days after Christmas and before school begins. Well; mostly before school begins. The company varies, the location changes, but the constant seems to be that we leave extended family behind, gather friends, and find somewhere peaceful then spend the next few days destroying the peace.

A lovely week in Shropshire last New Year; but with a fairly significant disadvantage of a non-accessible cottage. Two steps down to get in, and a picturesque but not pretty precarious steep wooden staircase to get to the bedrooms.

Beechenhill Farm made up for all of that.

Their Cottage by the Pond is an accessible, 3 bedroom cottage converted from an old cowshed. It's beautiful. Big, wide, sliding doors. A bathroom approximately three times the size of ours (although a hoist over the bath would have made it perfect), shower chair and mobile hoist and profiling (though not height adjustable) bed. Two downstairs bedrooms, so neither Friend C nor myself had to be noble and volunteer to carry children upstairs.

Plenty of space for all three wheelchairs (unless one of the three is a six year old who drives a tank and insists on sitting in doorways in it), and a very beautiful wood burning stove in the sitting room.


And views like these from the windows. Well, mostly views like the one at the top on the left there, or huge great walls of cloud, the High Peaks apparently having their own little mini micro climate mostly consisting of thick blinding rain. But with views like this on the one day it didn't rain, we'll not complain about the rest. Even in the rain, it was a spectacularly beautiful place to be. Soul food.

Stomach food too; we were able to buy milk straight from the milk tank, and had eggs, sausages, bacon, so-fresh-it-was-still-warm bread and a nice pile of readymeals all waiting for us when we arrived.
We tried to persuade the chickens waddling wide-legged around the yard to lay extra fresh eggs, but sadly they didn't oblige. The Little Princess did get to go on a mini expedition to meet the calves and refill the milk jug though; it probably doesn't come much fresher than that.

We will be back; a thick folder full of ideas for accessible outings and even rating accessible pubs and restaurants (we decided to avoid the one where only the crisps were recommended) and we didn't begin to scratch the surface of it. I think we may need to see this place in all its various seasons.

And then a nightmare of a run home, with a poorly Mog who decided the vibrations of the van were the perfect percussive chest physio. This would have been helpful, if it didn't mean we needed to pull in every 15 minutes or so to suction the loosened gunk, turning a predicted 2.5-3 hour journey into an epic 6 hour marathon. She's looking great now though; it was clearly exactly what she needed.

Oh - and how could I forget? A new first for us; enough electrical sockets in the bedrooms that we could hook up CPAP, ventilator, humidifier, 2 feed pumps, sats monitor, video monitor, and still have a spare socket for reading lamp without having to use a single extension cable. We can't do that at home!

We will be back.
Tia

It's definitely a touch more rural (for which read: miles down winding single track roads with sheep grazing (unsuccessfully) in the middle) than we've done for a while. It's warm, cosy, the company promises to be excellent, and it's home for the next few days. Oh, and the views aren't bad either!
Tia

and if you've been at Christchurch for a while you're now singing along. If not, then just for all you lovely people who don't have the pleasure...

Christmas, it's Christmas,
It's Christmas once again.
The Birthday of Jesus,
Born in Bethlehem.

The Lord, who was that tiny baby
Existed long before the birth
He laid aside his heavenly glory
To be Jesus, Saviour of the Earth!

Christmas, it's Christmas....

The Lord, who was that tiny baby
Grew up to show the Father's love.
He laid aside his life to bring us back to God
Raised to life, he's back in Heaven above.

Christmas, it's Christmas...

I'd insert a video here but apparently we and Cupar Old Parish Church are the only people who ever sing it. In the gospel according to Google, anyway. I am truly sorry I can't share the earworm. Tried to find something equally irritating catchy for you, but failed.

So am sharing this again because it still makes me grin.


I'm finding myself wondering at the moment. Nativity stories love to include the innkeeper. The Little Princess has been Inky the Wife more than once (I guess innkeepers' wives spend a lot of time sitting down). But, you know, there's no mention of an Innkeeper graciously or begrudgingly allowing Mary and Joseph to sleep in their stable. Just the fact that they did. And I can't help picturing them waiting until the middle of the night, and slipping in amongst the animals, dragging themselves up early again the following morning before they were discovered. Or wondering how many other people were already crowded in with the animals in some kind of temporary refugee camp. I wonder how many nights they'd been there before Mary gave birth. And how many nights it took them to get there from Nazareth. And what they did for nappies. I'm thinking that a Heavenly Host of angels and a flock of shepherds probably blew their cover if they were hiding out.

And then, warned by angels, Mary and Joseph took the baby and fled to Egypt. Shortly before Herod killed all the male babies in Bethlehem. I wonder how much stigma they suffered there - a potentially illegitimate child, certainly one conceived before a betrothal became a marriage. Refugees, who somehow mysteriously managed to escape a mass infanticide no one else knew was coming. How long had they been in Bethlehem before that? How many of those mourning mothers had been Mary's friends, supporting her as a stranger in a strange town around Jesus' birth?

And I wonder what it was like growing up as Jesus' little brother or sister? We know the oldest in the family is always the perfect one (nb: I am the oldest in our family), but how must it be, realising your older brother really IS the Perfect Son? What must it have been like for Mary, having an average child or even an exceptionally wonderful child, after having the perfect, sinless one?

What happened when they finally went home from Egypt? What happened to Joseph? Did Mary save that Myrrh and use it on that fateful Friday 30 years or so later? Or was it sold, used for other relatives? Did that gold fund their exile in Egypt? And at what point did Mary realise her son's Kingship would kill him? How about Joseph? What was it like, being God's Stepfather?

Christmas; it's a time for children. The magic of a tiny little baby with cute fluffy animals, and kings and angels and fairy princesses, fat jolly men who provide endless wish fulfillment (or provoke a deep terror and tears at bedtime, because either you don't let Father Christmas in because he's scary and then you won't be scared but then you might not get presents either, or else you do let him in but then he's scary, and the suggestion he might not in fact be real is even scarier yet). Pantomimes and cinemas and "specials" for every tv programme. Whilst we the adults wish a longer labour on Mary as we wrap and shop and wrap and bake and clean and decorate and prepare and, well, and maybe, just maybe, manage to spend a bit of time forgetting the trimmings and cutting back to the meat of the story. Emmanuel, God with us, God humbling himself, pouring his might and majesty into a frail human body. Fully human and fully divine; a mystery still dividing the world two thousand years later.

Happy Christmas Birthday.
Tia

When you go to the Theatre Direct Admissions Unit, and the day's patients' notes are all set out neatly on the top of the nursing station.
And you can tell, instantly, what number you're going to be, because your child's notes are not just a neat pink folder but a giant, sellotaped together because it's falling apart because it is so heavy green and white box full of big fat pink folders.

No surgery today, incidentally, just sorting through photos. No surgery next month either, which is nice, ish - been delayed until Feb but should still be over by Easter.

On a not entirely unrelated note, if giving your child a suppository shortly before a carer is due to come and give her a lovely shower, it is probably best to check said carer is actually coming and is not in fact at home making mince pies having completely forgotten about the shower.

On the plus side; I now have no need to share the Chocolate Nutella Sea Salt Fudge I made earlier. Although I'm not sure that a whole batch is necessarily the best thing. I would share it with the girls, but the Little Princess turned her nose up earlier, preferring broccoli. These are the times which remind me she is adopted.

Tia

This is one for those of us living in the UK. You might not have a disabled child yourself, but I urge you to respond anyway, please. According to Every Disabled Child Matters and Mencap, the government is proposing that the premium added to Child Tax Credits for a disabled child (currently £53.62 per week) should be halved to just £26.75 as a part of the new Universal Credit. That's a cut of £1400 per year, or £22,000 over a disabled child's childhood.

The Joseph Rowntree Foundation calculate that a disabled child can cost between 3 and 10 times as much as a non-disabled child over the course of their childhood. Disability Living Allowance covers some of these extra costs, and for families on lower incomes, disability premiums on Child Tax Credits help with some others.

£26.75 a week doesn't sound like much perhaps. For us, that's slightly less than the cost for one session for one child at the only local playscheme which will take both my girls occasionally in the holidays. For a friend, that's the cost of replacing her son's coat because he's chewed through the sleeves on the school bus yet again. For some local families, that's the cost of the additional incontinence pads they are now forced to buy, the PCT having decided to ration children to just 4 "products" per day. For another friend, that's the cost of having someone meet her daughter after school occasionally, in order that she can give attention to other children - her Local Authority having decided their need is only severe, not critical. It's the cost of being able to keep the heating on and high enough to keep a fragile child out of hospital. It's out of season soft fruit, high fibre brown rice instead of Tesco Value, all the dietary supplements needed to keep immobile bowels moving and avoid the complications of constipation. It's taking that duvet to the launderette again, or replacing the washing machine when it dies, yet again.

The recent decision that the mobility component of DLA should be removed for people living in care homes has been overturned, the government apparently not having realised (really?) that people living in care do actually still need to get out and about and lead meaningful lives, and that yes they do in fact need vehicles in order to do that. Full credit to them for deciding not to implement that; please now help to encourage them to think again about the impacts of this decision.

Here's a link to the Every Disabled Child Matters form for emailing David Cameron and asking him to rethink this decision. Personally, we'll be alright here. But that's because we have adoption allowances, and by definition, birth families don't have that luxury. And nor do every adoptive family. And I know too many families who are turning every penny twice before they spend it. Cutting their income like this, whilst food and fuel and everything else continues to go up in price could well be the difference between coping and not coping. And not coping is going to cost the gov't an awful lot more than £26.75 per week, if that child ends up in hospital or foster care.

Tia

I've been trying to get a video uploaded for the past couple of days, but Blogger isn't working. So, here's the still version instead.

The active version is louder. With a little more enthusiasm from Mog, and a hint of outrage from the Little Princess. It amuses me.

Tia