Frozen Peas and Indignation

This morning I decided to boycott the local supermarket.

I have arrived at this point after a catalogue of misdemeanours. I am a wheelchair user and I am utterly sick and tired of having to ask for assistance from sulky staff when it is a question of getting round the damn shop.


It's not a big thing in the scheme of things, I'm not homeless or widowed or alone or having to scavenge for food to feed my kids. I know I'm fortunate. I don't get down about my illness often, it's just that when little things keep happening they become systemic and lack of disabilty awareness in people around me eats into my energy and self-esteem. I am a lone angry person harbouring a grudge and really I wanted to make a big placard saying 'Heellooo!!' and maybe hit the manager over the head with it while chaining myself to the trolley park in protest. Instead I, naughtily and stroppily (not that anyone was an audience to my righteous anger), backed out of their one-way entry system as the entrance - yet again - was blocked by crates of fruit. I was in a bad mood already, probably due to the fact that chocolate should be free on the National Health System - but it's not (potential vote winning policy there...).
I can only get into 4 shops in my town - 2 are bars (there must be a god - make mine a double), one lovely stationery shop which last year installed a ramp and an automatic door and the afore-mentioned supermarket which offers a depressingly challenging experience at the best of times. As you root through produce checking the 'eat by' dates, scouring for signs of mould on cheese and meat and potential salmonella and botulism and as you keep your eyes peeled for open boxes where the contents have been taken in a cunning attempt to beat the alarm system (the funniest is when you can follow the trail of open cakes, open drinks and open crisps and realise that someone's eaten a meal there - brave souls!), you realise that these experiences make you question your own optimism. I realise that I'm always waiting for the supermarket to get better... in fact, I probably spend my life waiting for things to get better, meanwhile life and the 'eat by' dates in the supermarket are both expiring rapidly. So, I'm taking charge. I've given it plenty of chances to improve and now it's just one insult too far - I can't even get in the shop to suffer it. It's like being annoyed when you can't be tortured due to lack of diability awareness and the 'rack' isn't situated on a hydraulic bed to facilitate transferring.

'What if I WANNA be tortured??'

Anyway I have told the kids that if we can't buy it from the freezer shop (which luckily sells bread... and cake), then we aint eating it. I am empowering myself and taking the moral highground while simultaneously sucking on a frozen pea.

And it tastes good.

The monotony of love

'To bother persistently with trivial complaints' - To nag.

I never did want to be classed as a 'nagger', but it seems to be a role I'm slipping into with ease which is a tad worrying because the next stage up from nagging mother is tyrannical mother-in-law and I don't know if I have the energy for that - let alone the inclination... but...

Every day is like the film 'Groundhog Day'.

My son wakes up every day with his memory seemingly completely wiped from the day before, which is a trait I would love. As I'm still stinging from a heated conversation the day before about the merits of putting clothes in the washing basket rather than leaving them to amass on the bedroom floor for so long that they form a small uprising, grow legs and walk to the washing machine of their own accord to escape the pungent aroma of festering underwear and clothes, he is blithely re-starting life stuffing the cutlery down the sides of the settee (again) as he un-stacks the dishwasher not wanting to sort out the knives and forks into their particular spaces in the sideboard drawer.
'Aah! I hear you say, 'why doesn't she just give him two sets of underwear and clothes, so he is forced, by mere clothing deprivation, to put them in the wash?'
Those of you with children like my beautiful but challenging son will be knowingly scoffing at that concept. I tried it, proud of myself for being so clever, only to be outwitted by the latest member of the ‘Guiness Book of Records’ in achieving the longest amount of time the same pair of underpants has been worn by one person – my boy, who thought that spraying his clothes with air freshener cleaned and sanitised them at the same time. If only...

Nagging, lists, notes, contracts of behaviour, self-esteem sessions, counselling sessions, bribery, affirmation, punishment... threats of uploading a photo of his bedroom to Facebook - I have spent years reinforcing every day basic rules hoping that one day some will sink in. And some have. But mostly every day, even now at 15 years old, involves standing over him as he brushes his teeth, washes, does his homework, etcetera, etcetera. I don't mind doing it so much now, 'nagging' scarily rolls off me automatically with less exasperation. Now that we have a diagnosis, I understand him more. Working against us is the unreasonableness of adolescence which doesn't help. In some ways I'm glad we didn't get the diagnoses of ADHD and PDD-NOS earlier because, who knows, we may have given up and just accepted his behaviour as typical instead of constantly reinforcing basic concepts. We just keep going, trying not to keep score - there's no merit in counting - it would just overwhelm me. Every day, the monotony of 'nagging' is only relieved by knowing this one thing; behind every 'nag' there is a subliminal 'I love you so much - I want to help you to grow to your full potential and if that means me constantly reinforcing basic rules, then so be it but I'm not giving up on you.'.

I 'really' tell him I love him most days, scared he'll forget that he is loved in his 'Groundhog Day' world.

I realise that I tell him that I love him through 'nagging' about 30 times a day.

But who's counting?