Hibernation

2 Oct

I haven’t blogged in a while as I have started my new placement and final year at uni, for those of you that don’t know me personally, I am a student social worker…feel free to start hating me now and booing at me like a pantomime baddie I know I’m as bad as a traffic warden!

I’ve spent the last four weeks, nodding, smiling and pretending I know what I’m doing. This blog is kind of going to be a bit flitty between placement land and Ryan land so bear with me.

Placement starts well and I’m asked to attend a big networking meeting conference type thing.  All’s going well, im sipping the gratis coffee and shoving biscuits down my neck as I am starving.  I feel my phone vibrate in my bag so I casually open my bag and blindly root around all while holding court to a group of people about being a student and a parent and I feel an odd shape.  I can’t work out what it is so i quickly look and to my horror i find the inside music box thing of iggle piggle.  Now  this thing is very sensitive you’ve only got to look at it and it tells you that “yes my name is iggle piggle”….oh heck.  I can’t think straight and i panic, we are asked to take our places so i sit and shove my bag under my seat and out of the way.  I’m still stressing but I’m thinking It will be ok. To the side of me there’s a woman that keeps waving her legs round like a windmill and every time she moves i squeeze my bum cheeks even tighter- whilst being good for my bum muscles it’s not good for my stress factor.  I’m sure I can feel her edging closer and closer to the bag.  The meeting starts with introductions, I’ve planned my name and title and run it through in my head and feel that I sound mildly professional, I’m happy and good to go, windmill legs is getting very fidgety, maybe she’s  excited about telling everybody her name ooookay.  Oh its my turn, the whole rooms looking at me and I’m just about to speak when windmill legs has some sort of spasm and kicks my bag and before I have the chance to speak iggle piggle does it for me.  My bag launches into the theme tune from iggle piggle “yes my name is iggle piggle…”  I leap up and shout “no no no” over the music which makes me look like a loon, to make it worse no one sees the funny side to this except me.  Any funny quips elude me and all I can do is say my name and title as originally planned and sit down.  I’m sure windmill legs did it on purpose I think she was jealous of my top, the bitch.  The rest of the meeting goes iggle piggle free and is mind numbingly boring but it had to be done.

My placement is at a performing arts college for students with learning disabilities and I have to say it is fabulous.  I have had a few hiccups though.  Every Wednesday I take part with the students in a street dancing workshop.  I cannot dance for toffee, I either look like I have a pole up my rear lady garden or I look like I’m having a seizure, but I give it a go.  The instructor has a fantastic sense of humour and is really good she actually treats me like one of the students which is good for me, not so good for the poor students who are meant to be looking up to the staff including me for help and guidance.  At the end of each session we have to do what’s called ‘the circle’ I’ve since re-named this with permission to ‘the circle of doom’.  We are all in a circle bopping along to the street music and we each in turn have to do a dance in the middle in front of the baying circle.  I watch everybody else do their bit and I’m hoping the instructor has over looked me, although she can’t miss me I’m wearing a bright pink hoodie.  She points at me and the students start chanting my name and clapping, in I go.  I have no clue what I’m going to do as the music is something I’ve never heard of.  So I do what every idiot does, I pull my leg up from behind me put my crooked arm behind my head and start hopping manically around the circle, which I hasten to say has now changed from a circle shape to more of a get out of the way shape.  I do this for a few hops before my leg threatens to give way and then I go into some strange arm waving Kate Bush style dancing before retreating back to my space, the students thought it was great and I’m sure I saw a few of them copying it as they left the session and laughing, I’m sure they were laughing at how well they copied it because my dance was hard to copy.  I must see if they want me to teach them properly!

At my placement, there’s a south African man there and over lunch we were having what I thought was a relatively intelligent conversation about his home country.  I didn’t do geography at school and I was quite naughty in lessons and spent a lot of the time entertaining the wall in the corridor outside of the classroom.  So here we are chatting away and I get on to the subject of crocodiles.  I calmly ask him if he checks the trees before he walks under them in case of crocodiles, he looks at me incredulously and asks for confirmation of what I just said, I repeat it and then go on to say does he check the trees in case one of them has climbed up the tree with their little stubby arms to jump out on unsuspecting prey.  After he nearly bursts something laughing he very politely tells me crocs cant climb trees, oops.   I then remember having the same conversation with a lovely friend of mine a few years ago and chastised myself for not remembering.

Ryan, my now three-year old pickle has started nursery, something I have been excited about but  scared for the poor teacher.  Ryan and I went in for an hour the day before so he could get a taste of nursery.  All is going well and I’m chatting to another mum and then the teacher and Ryan is settling in very well.  It’s time for the children to play outside and a big thing is made of the children putting on their coats and wellies.  Two things that I haven’t got with me.   I quickly eject Ryan into the garden coat less- I mean it was only spitting with rain what’s the problem he’s gets wetter in the bath.  The teacher booms across the playground to me and asks me where Ryan’s coat is and I have to make up some long-winded story about how we dashes to the car to get here etc etc.   He has to borrow a coat to which he takes great fancy to and assumes that it is now his coat.  The rest of the time goes ok until I have to take the coat from Ryan, we start with a low-level paddy like a dog growling just to warn me that he will bite.   I’m using my gritted teeth parenting style whilst thinking in my head what a little git he is.  I have to shoe horn this coat from him while he is thrashing about on the floor- tantrum status updated from low-level to mount Vesuvius level.  I’m thinking I am going to have to beg or even pay the teacher to have him back into the nursery the next day.  I drag him out of the classroom and straight into the path of the headteacher- who I have to say when we had our tour of the school I didn’t actually realise she was the head, I thought she was a teacher that had been harassed so badly by high school kids that she had gone into supply teaching but only in primary schools!  She makes some bizarre comment about  what a lovely boy Ryan is, this is while he is doing a lovely gymnastic floor display and then sidles off.

My eldest son, the huffer puffer, was being hollered at to get his behind out of the front door quickly a few weeks ago and in the process he whacked his toe.  Yes this hurts and hurts and yes he did complain, but he was still managing to walk to school and do sports and the usual bits so I didn’t think too much of it.  Admittedly he did complain on and off about it hurting.  I do have to point out at this stage that instead of being called Bradley he should have been called Peter as in the boy who cried wolf!  He came out of his youth club thing on Thursday really complaining about his foot, I was in my pyjamas driving him and his mate home and I was literally ready for bed.  He seemed really upset so I looked at the bloody foot, it looked slightly swollen and he revealed to me that he was playing football and had kicked the ball and his foot hurt really badly afterwards.  I decided to take him and told him that there better be something wrong with it otherwise I would make something wrong with it as I was in no mood to sit in casualty for hours.  All of this was said in jest as I would never hurt him purposely….!  We entered the department and as usual there were no seats and the place was heaving.  I’m trying not to let the steam of fury escape from my ears and remind myself that I am a responsible mother.   We get called through and placed into another waiting room like a farmer herding cattle.  after the obligatory two-hour wait we get to the triage stage, at this point even the nurse wasnt convinced of an injury, but we have to wait another hour, the doctor then comes in and she was sure nothing was wrong- this does not help my mood as they now decide Brad/Peter needs an x-ray sorry couldn’t they have x-rayed  at the triage stage?  but that’s too much like common sense.  Just as we are packed off to x-ray so are another family and it was like a race to get to the x-ray department.  Poor Brad/Peter is hobbling along and I’m marching off in front and trying not to let the family get in front of me but I have to let this one go and poor Brad/Peter has lost me and I’ve turned several corners and almost have to turn my phone sat nav on to get back to him.  While we are waiting the mother of the other family tries to engage me in chat and tries to gauge whose child has the worst injury.  She concludes that her son with the hurt thumb is so much more badly injured and will need extensive physio and treatment and my son is a cry wolf-er..we will see.  Was it wrong at this point to want to win this battle?

Brad/Peter has his x-ray and we had barely got back to his cubicle when the doctor appears, I’m waiting for the usual “it’s badly bruised” and “lots of rest” but when she produces a piece of paper to draw the injury you know you’re in shit!  Brad/Peter- ok I will let him off now he can be Brad, has broken his foot!  Oh my goodness me, I’m normally the mother that takes their children to casualty at the slightest thing only to sit there for hours to be told that there’s nothing wrong and the one time I decide to wait it’s actually serious.   After several different opinions on how to proceed treating brad’s injury they decide to send him home but to come back the next day to see the physio.  Long story short we have to wait until Thursday before we get a  final verdict, he is currently on crutches and being a pain!  Ryan thinks the crutches are guns and is shooting things off of shelves, items from the fridge and the sensitive T.V. screen deep joy.

I did see the other mum whom I was in competition with on the way out and her son was being told the badly bruised routine and I have to say she looked sick when she overheard Brad’s diagnosis because I know she was listening because I always do!

Final thought to end this rather long blog, which I hope was worth waiting for, this is actually longer than one of my uni essays,  Would I really be a good social worker or shall I just write blogs for a living? lol

Much love xx

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