On the eve of school and other stories

It's finally upon us - the first day of Kindy (as kindergarten is called at Tom's new school) is tomorrow.

Working out Tom's schooling up here in Edinburgh was a major deal for us - a big leap into the unknown. It took us away from Tania with all her incredible personal support and marvellous liaision work with the school in Ruddington and it took us away from a group of teachers and professionals who took the time to work Tom out and to ease his transition into the mad world of pre-school.

Finding the Steiner school has made what threatened to be an anxious period somewhat more straightforward.

Describing Steiner to family and friends has been a humorous experience. There have been a couple of 'in the know' friends who have responded with unbridled enthusiasm and cries of 'if only we could...'. A small number think we might be joining a cult and there are those who've needed potted summaries from the ground up.

And it hasn't been so easy to explain beyond a phrase I've found myself using time and again - 'I wish I'd gone there' and I'm so pleased that Tom has that opportunity.

It is the type of school that upholds and lives by those ideals you ponder on and yearn for when you despair of the commercialisation and materialism that so readily engulfs childhood. It is the type of school that will permeate into our lives in ways that prehaps other schools wouldn't and in ways that can only benefit us all.

I think I'm more excited than Tom...

Anyway... the last of Tom's birthday treats arrived at the tail end of last week. I took Friday off and we went to see 'The Gruffalo' - a play based on the hugely influential (in our house at least) book of the same name. Tom was stunned into silence again - barely moved for the full 50 minutes. Live theatre is so much easier than movies or TV for him language-wise, it is hardly surprising that it has the hold on him it does.

A second treat followed on Saturday... Safari Park time and, most importantly, an opportunity for Trevor to meet the family.

Trevor the giraffe is so important that we have a spare. He's in the back of a cupboard somewhere with gleaming white fur and well distributed stuffing. He no longer looks anything like the original and we have developed a whole 'health spa for giraffes' cover story should we need to carry out the exchange.

Anyway - Tom showed a great deal of enthusiasm for the animals... at least until he saw the dodgems and other fairground attractions. The first chink in this new-found enthusiasm for all things natural came in the rhino enclosure where, having seen his fill of these beasts and the graceful antelope that also lived there, he glanced out of the back window and shouted excitedly

'Look!! A Mercedes!!!'

Yes - more interested in the car following us. He's a proper boy isn't he?

Not quite there yet...

This was supposed to be the entry that opened with an excitable, emphatic 'We're in Edinburgh!'... but...

Instead I'm sat at a borrowed picnic table that's serving as a temporary desk, surrounded by empty shelves and wondering just how the English house-buying system ever evolved into this drawn out torture. Like with any of these things, it's the uncertainty that gets to you. Our buying process is currently suffering from information constipation - there seems to be a hold-up a couple of links down the chain that wasn't as close to not being a hold-up as we were led to believe... so plans have got out of sync and, well, we now have the minimalist space we once dreamed of (and there's a little too much echo), a rather limited array of crockery... and I am typing at a picnic table. As you might have guessed, we're a little ahead of ourselves and the majority of our possessions are packed up and gone.

Tom, for the most part, is coping very well with these unsettled times. There's been the odd wobble - the questions about whether he'll still be going to his school and whether Mrs Charlton and Mrs Henson will be there - but for the most part he's finding the process exciting. We were nervous about the whole process. There's a story my parents like to tell about moving house when I was around two - I refused to remove my coat because I wasn't stopping. The length of time that this went on for has, I think, crept up over the years. But we have been sensitive to the little guy's feelings and Nik has done an incredible job of preparing him. We learned very quickly that packing stuff without his knowledge would meet with an adverse reaction and so he has been involved at every step. He helped make the boxes up (and hid in each one), pack some of his toys (his first line one morning was 'I've packed some more of my toys!' after we'd left an open box in his room) and load his push-along car on the van.

The biggest sigh of relief came with the dismantling of the beloved racing car bed. Tom dived in with his screwdriver and, in five minutes, the job was done. He's even loving the whole camping on the floor thing. All we've got to do now is move...

So why Edinburgh? Well, if you're in the UK and follow such things, this might be reason enough but we have a few others too. The company I work for has opened an office in the city (on the Royal Mile no less) and, after four years, I am done with working from home. Nik did her studying in Edinburgh, loves the city and she has family there too. For Nik and I then, the city is perfect but what about the wee man?

First and foremost, there is a pretty solid financial incentive. When we move, Tom's 'private' implant will no longer be our responsibility and will become state funded. I've checked. Twice. Just to make sure. If Tom had had meningitis in Scotland, under current legislation he would have had bilateral implants automatically and we discovered that this level of support applies to incomers too.

So that's good news for him... the sort that leaves a bittersweet taste given the number of children and adults with single implants in this country who don't have this option open to them (and NICE are yet to rule either way - current expected date September 2008 with a 4th appraisal committee meeting on 17th July). We have always counted ourselves fortunate in being able to push ahead with the second implant in spite of the decision made by the PCT and have prepared ourselves financially but this is an enormous relief and provides some stability and assurance. Until the NHS goes belly-up that is.

We've also found a wonderful school a few minutes walk from where we're going to be living. It looks like a fabulous fit for Tom - a little offbeat, small and focused on the individual. It's worthy of its own post but here's a primer on Rudolf Steiner schools. I've just watched one of the dvds posted there and discovered that Tilda Swinton is a Steiner parent. Now I'm not one to get starstruck but she does say the very thing I was going to finish on - the school makes you wish you went there and you can't get a much more positive recommendation than that.

Sports Day

I must admit to not being fully prepared for Tom's Nursery Sports Day. It was only a matter of hours before its start that I even considered going but thank goodness I did. I could dress this post up in so many ways and the sports day would serve up the necessary material in spades.

Firstly, and most personally, the hour-long burst of races was a testament to the incredible progress that Tom has made in terms of his balance and mobility since the meningitis. His running stride is elegant and, to my only-slightly-trained-eye, straight and true. For evidence, I submit the following:

These two pictures were taken during the final race which, according to the program, was the 'Let's have a drink in the garden... but watch out for the bees and wasps!! race'. Which leads me neatly on to the second subplot - the event was devised by a comedy genius - or geniuses - who had come up with a series of eight races. Under the theme 'Gardener's World', each race had a subtle twist designed, presumably, to keep the interest of three and four year olds. In keeping with your average Pixar production, this had the possibly inadvertent effect of also making adults howl with laughter.

The first race set the stage perfectly - the 'You need to get a big bag of compost home from Asda' race (US translation: Asda is a proud member of the Walmart family) saw half a dozen earnest kiddies in pushalong cars grinding their way down a 50 yard track with, seemingly full bags of compost strapped to their roofs. Aaah heck, you need to see it...
Note the stockcar style being adopted by some of the drivers - it really needed to be seen to be believed. Little legs sticking out of the bottom of the cars, going ten to the dozen and going nowhere fast.

Every race had a new twist... 'Now collect your plant pots in your wheelbarrow' needs little explanation. Nor does the 'Your plant needs water to help them grow... you will need your watering can' race. Suffice it to say, it kept us all highly amused and utterly refreshed by the lack of guile or competitiveness on show. I lost count of the number of times that the leader, streaking ahead and only yards from the line, stopped and waited for a friend. One little boy, in the 'Time to cut the grass... again... can you mow in a straight line?' race, flew in the face of convention and worked his way across the track in neat strips, turning neatly at each side just as he'd seen his daddy do.

I had time to enjoy that... seeing as Tom had creamed everyone in that race.

Did I say it wasn't competitive?

Please note the 'Tongue of Concentration'.

Given that the week to come is the last for Tom at this school, sports day was a sweet finale to his first school experience. All fears about how he would cope in a mainstream environment have been dispelled. While supported well by the school, he has needed less and less individual or special attention as the term has worn on and will excel in mainstream education.

So thank you James Peacock School, Ruddington. We will miss you.

Hello again...

I've thought about posting so often over the last month but events have always moved on and the moment has been lost. There have been holidays and trips that I intended to share...

This one actually dates back to an Easter trip to Grandpa and Savta. Grandpa and Tom were bestest buddies for a week. Grandpa has 'holiday cars' - you can only begin to grasp just how exciting that is.

There has been another trip or two too - hasn't it been a long time? Or are we just having too many holidays?

Tom gave my mum a run out on the beaches of Normandy.

It hasn't all been excitement and play. Well actually, it just about has as far as Tom is concerned but there was one sad day in late April. My somewhat neglected but kind of loved car failed its annual MOT test in dramatic and expensive style. This photo is from the drawn out goodbye ceremony and endless run of 'last plays in daddy's car'.

He has since told everyone about how daddy's car went to the garage and didn't come back. I thought he might pine a little but he shows no outward signs of grief. I think his passion for 'the-car-that-flies' has seen him through. It's not as if the obsession needed any encouragement but Nik's aunt, uncle and cousin did it anyway and took us all to see the stage version which is currently touring the UK. Given Tom's tendency for role play and completion immersion in character, it won't surprise you to know that he went to the theatre dressed as Caractacus Potts.

He has told his teachers once or twice that that's his name.

So that's the story of the last month or so... one of car-obsessed, carbon-footprint creating travel and revelry. Tom has adapted to nursery extremely well and - whisper it - he already seems to be at a place where he doesn't need any additional support. That's not to say it isn't on offer or hovering in the wings but we've had the sort of conversation with educational professionals that starts 'I realise that I don't treat Tom any differently to any other child...' and 'I have never had a deaf child that I've thought could do this well...'.

Things are going well... so its time to shake things up.

We put our house up for sale in the same week that the run on Northern Rock began. Not the finest or most astute piece of timing but, hey, when you've gotta go...

Nine months and several price drops later it has sold and we're now a couple of weeks away from moving. Boxes are piling up, lists have been compiled and plans made. By the end of June we'll be living in Edinburgh and starting a whole new chapter. Tom's needs have been at the forefront of our minds throughout the process and, now I'm back in the blogwriting groove, I'll explain a little more.

Next time.

A bumper news day!

In the interests of preserving some sort of historic record, the last month or so has featured a few highlights worthy of record, in retrospect at least. That is to say, events that do not include 'that slave-driving company that I work for finding even more things for me to do' which may well be Nik's abiding memory of this spring.

Schools and all that

So... there was the Saga of the School Places which gripped Ruddington over the Easter period. The first we heard of it was via an email we received while in France and it darned near spoiled our holiday, let me tell you. We had applied for a place at the local infants school for next January as per instruction and the email informed us that the Local Authority had turned down our application.

I should mention that this is the only infants school in the village. It is the infants school to which the nursery Tom currently attends is attached. It is the infants school that has received funding to carry out improvements to the infants' classroom - in preparation for the arrival of a deaf boy with cochlear implants (yes, that would be Tom). It is the Local Authority that employs Tom's Teacher of the Deaf and had her train the infants school staff in all matters cochlear implant ahead of... well guess...

One has to admire the foresight, planning and communication at work there.

We came home to find a village in uproar. Okay, not quite; Tom was one of 17 children turned down, including Joe-the-boy-next-door, the daughter of 'that couple from ante-natal' and the daughter of the greengrocer. The school was full - its 60 places (class sizes are restricted to 30 by law for the first couple of years of school) taken up by children living closer than us. We tapped in to the 'word on the street' and the ruthless cut-and-thrust of school places was made plain to us. Stories of grandparents' and shop addresses being used on applications surfaced. Ruthless tactics for appeals hearings were shared and honed. Things were starting to look ugly.

Just as the torches were being lit and the posse rounded up however, our righteous indignation was punctured by the news that the school had found room (an extra classroom that it had misplaced or something) and there would be no need for the banners and marches.

So that's all fine then... but one might imagine the number of times phrases such as 'What is WITH these people?' passed our lips. It makes you think that this county just isn't THERE for us at the moment...

On a lighter note

Apropos nothing, Tom suddenly remembered our visit to Sundown last spring. In particular, he remembered a ride on a particularly tame river ride with a few strategically placed water jets.

'Yes! It wet daddy's teeny-tiny hair!' accompanied by thumb and forefinger held very close together.

Over the coming years I suspect that my son will say much less kind things about my rapidly disappearing hair than this.

A Grand Day Out

And bringing you right up to date, today Tom took part in a study being carried out by Rosie Lovett and Professor Quentin Summerfield at the University of York. Given this link, I'm guessing the project is sponsored by Deafness Research UK. The study is one of a number trying to fill the gap in terms of published research regarding the benefits of bilateral implantation.

Rosie's study involved Tom playing numerous listening games in the University's 'ring of sound', testing his ability to detect the direction from which a sound is coming and hearing in noise.

We'll get his official 'results' in the next few weeks but it certainly looked to us like he was performing pretty well.

We'd prepared Tom for his trip to see Rosie and the Professor, telling him about the exciting games they had lined up. He was a little overwhelmed when we got there, turning mute and hiding behind the furniture, and more than a little impressed with 'the Mufessor'.

As he eased himself into the day, Tom's cheekiness returned although he stuck resolutely to this title for Prof. Summerfield even after being invited to call him Quentin. On the first of many trips to the toilet during the day, he declared proudly 'this is where the Mufessor wees!'

Back to the old routine

For a glorious three week stretch through the middle of January Tom has been professional-free. Following a tuning session with the audiologists on the 4th, there were no early morning motorway excursions down to Bicester therapy sessions; no psychological torment in the QMC’s bizarrely obstructive multi-storey car park and no house callers armed with ring binders and bags stuffed with aurally challenging toys. Strange times: no ‘interventions’, no assessments – just us.

This hiatus came to an end with a visit to the nursery/infants that Tom will start attending in September – an occasion that succeeded in being both curiously reassuring and intrusive simultaneously. We draw strength from the affirmations of Tom’s progress that generally accompany the appointments; concerns accumulate like weeds in the kitchen garden and, while we’re both becoming more accomplished with the hoe, they keep coming back and expert advice is required.

So we met up with the marvellous Tanya, Tom’s Teacher of the Deaf, for an appointment with the school’s new Head teacher to discuss the preparations required for Tom’s arrival. The impact our son is about to have on this school is multi-faceted and will include training for staff on the more practical aspects of dealing with our wired-up bionic boy, the potential adaptations to the fabric of the building that should make it easier for Tom to hear and possible support provision.

The school, thanks to Tanya’s forward thinking and organisation, is ahead of the game and I came away reassured that things will be OK. Now, a few days on and with wearying predictability, there has been a stirring up of emotions. Between Nik and me, it’s safe to say, there are a surfeit of emotions and their stirring up is a fairly frequent occurrence. Some of them are predictable anxieties tied up with transitions and the thought of our baby going off to school; the sort of every day anxiety we like to wallow in, celebrate and adorn with associated worries such as ‘must get the little blighter potty trained’, ‘he will NEVER sit still’ and ‘he’s too little!’.

Others, though, are a little more specific and, for me at least, hark back to unspoken expectations about my son and his glorious progress; a triumphant, joyful, painless romp through childhood featuring a modestly worn yet undeniably keen intellect, prodigious sporting talent and an ever-present smile.

This vision did not include support teachers, nor did it include a strikingly obvious difference that marked him out from day one. The tale I had woven for Tom is typical parental aspiration - the emphasis was on triumph and there was a noted absence of adversity.

We have met and continue to work with some talented, caring people because of what has happened to Tom. They have an enormously difficult task to do because, of course, we would rather have never met them. If we’d gone through life with only a vague understanding about the devastation that meningitis can cause and the impact of deafness on a child’s life then, let’s face it, we wouldn’t have worried too much.

The way it is though, Tom’s implants are working – his understanding and his spoken language is flourishing thanks to these audiologists, therapists and teachers. As Jacqueline Stokes tells us every time we see her, he is a clever boy and is going to flourish. The bigger challenges, I think, are social and, rereading this, making sure his dad doesn’t fuck him up in an appropriately Larkinesque way. The last thing he needs is the baggage of my expectations.