Busy Day

Out of the house by 7.30 this morning, off to the hamlet of Luis Sauce to collect disabled kiddo and mum at 8.00 in order to take them to meet the school in San Francisco at 8.30. Oh flip but it’s all very medical model isn’t it. Long in-depth discussion about the pregnancy, the birth, and every minute detail of kiddo’s medical history ever since. The major sticking point that I had feared wasn’t because the village will only pay for three days worth of transport, but that kiddo doesn’t have an official diagnosis; fully in-keeping with a total-medical model approach. Even having a certificate of disability doesn’t count if you don’t have a diagnosis. So we were sent off to the hospital to get a diagnosis. The hospital don’t give out appointments in advance, you pick a day and go and stand in a queue for a few hours, and then they give you a numbered card, which you can then swop for an appointment time several hours after that. We’ve decided to try for Monday at the clinic of the neurologist who we are assured will be able to invent an official diagnosis. I don’t really know how things are categorised in Argentina, but I can only assume that there are a bunch of “one size fits all” labels given out to people who don’t tick any other boxes, so I expect we’ll end up with one of those. I hope it makes the school happy; I’m due back there next Wednesday with the completed paperwork.
Back in the car from San Francisco to Luis Sauce, drop mum and kiddo off at home. On to Quebracho Herrado for another meeting in a different school at 11.00. Not very useful meeting as the person who’d set it up wasn’t there, but we moved a few things around and remade contact with a couple of folk who I hadn’t spoken to since the end of the last school year. Home in time to cook lunch for Joni coming out of nursery.

4.00 do the rounds and pick up a couple of people, and drive back to Quebracho Herrado, arrive at 4.30 to find the usual reprobates waiting for me outside our room. I’d brought along some jigsaws to entertain the noisy kids, which they were more pleased about than I’d imagined they’d be. Note to self; buy a few more of those. Meanwhile I was working with two very sweet shy little girls who are both well behind at school, and Joni was entertaining himself by scribbling on the table and throwing crayons around the room. We walked the little girls home afterwards, and snuck in a crafty trip to the plaza which they were happy about; mum keeps them on a fairly tight rein, but she didn’t show any signs of minding when I told her why we were late, so hopefully we’re not in too much trouble.

Back to San Francisco “home to Joni’s house”, build train-track on the floor, watch some Wibbly pig, bath, food, four stories and bed. Our boy is traumatised. No, not by the life of his crazy mother; he’s well used to that. It’s his Nativity book. I thought it was quite a traditional cutesy illustration of the stable scene; strangely European looking baby in the manger, with strangely clean animals looking in at him. Zero points for accuracy, but hardly enough to disturb a two year old. “No sheep! Go away go away! Don’t eat the baby!” At this point I would like it to be known that despite all my mad features, I have never threatened to feed my child to the sheep.

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