And So it begins.

This is not going to be easy. Not that I thought it would be. But the Dingo is so hard to read. I can’t tell if I’m doing the right thing or not. She keeps saying not to to take her expression seriously but I’ve spent my whole life judging a person’s mood by their face. Its a hard habit to break.

I can’t read her expression and she wont give me a straight answer about anything. I’m second guessing every maternal instinct. I’ve given up on doing the right thing. I’ll settle for doing whatever the Dingo likes but I can’t work out what that is.

Fortunately she’s not doing it alone. She’s working with E. She seems nice. And she’ll tell me what she wants to see. And she’s straight with me. I have been to easy on J. He could do a lot more for himself in his own room. I’ve fallen into the habit of doing some things for him because it’s quicker and easier than bugging him into doing it for himself. But he’s 11 years old. He can certainly make his own bed and put his own clothes in the hamper.

Phone Tag part 2

She never did call me back. Eventually I caught her at her desk. And she was able to tell me immediately, and slightly smugly if I’m any judge, when the next contact was set for. Friday. So only 10 days after the last contact. No apology for the gap and when I asked about the long silence.

“Oh I was waiting to see how proactive you would be.”

Words failed me.

“Proactive?” I said.

“I was waiting for you to show an interest in your son.” She said.

“I’m sorry. I don’t think straight when I’m in shock.” I said.

“In Shock?” She said and she sounded genuinely surprised.

“I’ve found things very difficult since the hearing.” I said.

“You sound very tense.” She said. It sounded like a criticism.

“I’m not surprised. Talking to you makes me feel tense.” I said.

“Why on earth would I make you feel tense.” She sounded like she was about to accuse me of being silly so I told her there was someone at the door and I would have to go. It took every ounce of self control not to scream down the phone: “YOU TOOK MY BABY YOU TART. HOW DO YOU THINK I FEEL?”

I don’t think she understands human emotion. Maybe she really is a dingo in human form.

Phone Tag

8 Days.

I’m supposed to have contact with my son twice a week. It’s been 8 days since the last contact and I haven’t heard from the Dingo. I’ve been phoning her every half hour since 9am and leaving messages and no reply. She’s not in the office, or she’s in the office but she’s in a meeting, or she’s in the office but not at her desk.

Why does she get to play by a different set of rules. You can bet that if I tried ignoring the rules set out by the Panel I’d get into trouble but she can do what she likes.

Can’t believe what I’m hearing.

So we’re back to feeling like I turned over two pages at once. I went into the Children’s Panel a mother and came out alone. They took my son.

I genuinely never expected the panel to agree with the Dingo. The report was so badly written, so half arsed, the woman can’t even spell for God’s sake, that I was sure they would see through it.

Anyone who see’s me with J can see that I love him and he loves me. To take eccentric urination as proof of abuse and neglect when there is literally nothing else there seems like madness.

But now he’s gone and my life is empty and bare and my only hope is to comply with the Dingo. She’s going to assess my parenting skills. Somehow I have to prove to her that I’m worthy to be a mother to my own son. I have to prove her wrong. She doesn’t strike me as a woman who likes being proved wrong.

Turned over 2 pages part 2

When the Dingo arrived I was actually glad to see her. Can you believe that? Course I didn’t know her true nature back then. J had been excluded and she was coming along to see if I needed help with him. It never occurred to me to ask which team she was with. I didn't even know there were separate teams. I thought a social worker was a social worker. J had special needs and this woman was coming to help.

That’s her thing. Like a real Dingo she looks harmless.

She doesn’t even look like a Dingo. More like a Pig. She has a round face with tiny piggy eyes, over-sized ears and dark blond hair. Her body looks like an apple resting on a couple of lolly sticks with her round stupid head on top and no apparent neck. She dresses like a student. A broke student and she has terrible teeth. I’m sure she smokes, though I’ve never smelled it on her, that’s the only reason I can think of for her terrible teeth.

She came into my home and she told me she was there to help and God help me I believed her. And I told her everything. All the trouble I had with J. What it was like when he wasn’t sleeping. How hard it was to get him to school every day. How I resented being on my own with him. How he’d driven off most possible baby sitters and I never got any time to myself. Oh God - time to myself. Be careful what you wish for.

I told her everything and I asked her what I was doing wrong and how we should deal with the urination thing and the fighting and she smiled and gave me a few platitudes.

The next thing I heard from her was also the next time I had that two pages turned at once feeling. It was the report to the children's panel. In it she used every single thing I told her as a weapon against me. Every single weakness that I admitted and asked for help with was in there as an accusation and worded as if she had somehow discovered it by brilliant detective work.

In once respect the report was a work of genius. The way she managed to suggest something without actually saying it. She cast the shadow of abuse without ever mentioning it by name. Because she couldn’t mention it. Because she new I’d had J up to the hospital to be checked over while looking for a cause for the urination. But she let the suggestion sneak into the report between the words.

In every other respect the report was laughable. The woman can’t spell. She has no grasp of punctuation or grammar. She even had J’s diagnosis down wrong.

Turned Over Two Pages

I feel like I’ve turned over two pages at once. Again.

I really ought to be used to the feeling by now. I shouldn’t be in shock but I am and think that’s what makes me most angry. The knowledge that I ought to be used to this by now.

I didn’t feel like this when J was diagnosed. Like most parents of ASN children that was more of a slow realisation that something was wrong followed by the long hard slog to get him diagnosed with something. Anything.

By comparison to that his diagnosis of Aspergers syndrome was almost a relief. Almost.

The first time I felt it was the day I was called to the school in the middle of the day to talk to the head. “We need to talk about J.” She said. And that’s never a good start.

“He’s being bullied.” She said and glared at me like it was my fault.

“Well that’s a common problem that all ASN children have to face.” I said. I wasn’t sure what she expected of me. “I have confidence in your ability to deal with it.”

“He’s being bullied because of his inappropriate enuresis.” She said.

“His what now?”

“He’s been urinating in inappropriate places.” She said.

“How inappropriate?”

“The corner of the playground.” She said.

“Well obviously I’ll need to have a talk with him.”

“I wasn’t finished.” She said.

“Oh.” I said.

“The games cupboard, under the stairs to the first floor and in the music cupboard if it’s unlocked.”

“Oh dear.” I said.

“Two other boys found out about it and made fun of him.”

“I hope you’ve called their mothers in.” I said.

“They’ve already gone to casualty with their sons.” She said.

“Oh my God.”

“We’re not sure exactly what happened but when Mr Smith found them J had W by the head and was smashing him into the wall. F was found hiding in the boys toilets.” She said.

I resisted to the urge to point out that it was an ironic choice of hiding place under the circumstances. “How badly are they hurt?”

“It’s too early to tell. W’s nose may be broken, there could be head injuries. At the very least he is badly cut and bruised and will need a few stitches. F seems to be less severely injured but we’ll have to wait for x-rays to be sure.”

“Is J hurt.” It seemed too late to ask about my own son but I had to know.

“We can’t tell. He refuses to let anyone near him. He’s in the quiet room with Mr Smith on the door.”

It took a while to get J to talk even to me. He swore that the other boys had attacked him first but of course there was no proof of that. And even if we could have proved it his reaction was still completely unacceptable.

And that’s how the Dingo came into our lives.

I haven’t even got to the hearing but I’m too tired to go on. More later.