Xtreme Space Hopping – a spectator’s sport
The Events Upcoming section of My Facebook page, otherwise known as the ‘wishful thinking’ section, is best left alone for those who have a life. I ignore most of the invitations, or tick ‘maybe’ just to feel the kick of potential, but every now and then, one event sticks out.
When I heard that a bunch of weirdos were gathering in town to attempt a world record at SpaceHopping I felt I had to be there, if not for the good of humanity alone. Somebody had to be there to point and laugh otherwise our civilization would surely collapse under such a weight of silliness.
I attached my children to my person and marched in from the wrong end, to meet barriers and folk who didn’t understand the plight of a sweaty lady with a baby and a five-year old stuck to her. So, I snapped photos and buggered off to lie around in Merrion Square for a while with my homies where I scored a big red SpaceHopper and a bag of Meanies. Puppychild’s puppy eyes do come in handy when I’m on the scrounge.
I’m sure a big red SpaceHopper will come in handy for something some day!!
While my blog gently weeps
Sir Fartsalot, at the tender age of seven weeks has already surpassed his nine-year-old brother in terms of physical ability.
I wrote that sentence a week ago and got stuck, couldn’t find the right thing to say after that. One child is a novelty and eclipses the other where adoration is concerned and that’s hardly fair. Writing about it, even thinking about it is unfair to Laughingboy, but I can’t help it. It’s frustrating that he hasn’t progressed, hasn’t passed a single developmental milestone since he was a year old.
One has tiny nappies that make my boobs hurt with the cuteness of them, the other has giant nappies, the type they don’t bother to print pictures of Pooh bear on. One child stares into space at vague impressions of shapes but cannot make any sense of them, while the other has already learned to fix eye contact and goo toothless pleasantries at his admirer.
They both flail their hands wildly in an effort to suck a thumb and gauge mild surprise when they accidentally whack themselves in the face, but one has learned that a set of knuckles is just as nice to suck on, while the other is content to grind, grind, grind his teeth instead.
They both scream for my attention. One is screaming because of short term mammory loss, the other because he has a whole array of possible annoyances and is quickly becoming dependant, if not immune to pain killers because he can’t voice his woes.
They both have a sister who is slowly learning to live without my attention, but who will soon have the adoration of a younger brother who will hang on her every word and will leave his older brother behind on his hopeless island of developmental delay.
It’s pointless moping about it all, and stating that usual bullshit about Laughingboy being the light, an angel sent from above with smiling eyes just doesn’t cut it, it just makes me sad when I hear other mothers of disabled kids say it. We have broken children, I feel like telling them. Let’s just say it. Broken children with no future.
Except that’s wrong too. Laughingboy has a purpose, a glorious purpose that will enlighten somebody or something in time to come. Just because I can’t figure it out doesn’t make it not true.
People goo over my youngest son and tell me how lucky I am, and I agree. They jokingly ask me if I wouldn’t like him to stay at this adorable age for ever, but to this I don’t react at all.
