I never thought I’d be one of those mothers that begs and pleads and prays their child gets into their school of choice. As a teacher, I know there is no such thing as school choice. But, then, I also think that most schools fit the bill.
But, I didn’t bet on having a brain-damaged daughter. In the world of the brain-damaged, there is no nursery of choice. Out of the hundreds in our area, five fit the council’s strict requirements. Of those, four have waiting lists up the wazoo.
Which leaves the most expensive one. Second mortgage expensive – and I don’t even have the first mortgage.
Fast forward to today and the result is me, embarrassing myself on multiple fronts. Like insulting nannies with ridiculously low offers at salaries. Or, even looking for a nanny at all. Or, brown-nosing childminders. Tonight, I emailed a childminder, who I met today and liked. She will read my email and think I feel she is the most maternal, philanthropic woman on Earth.
I want May to have it all. All her specialist equipment. Her therapists to be allowed to visit her at nursery. The childminders trained up by May’s team. But, mainly, I want people to be kind and want to work with May.
So, I jump through the hoops and hope for the best.
Tomorrow, along with a routine hospital appointment with The Boss – the kind of routine appointment that will tell us if she can see, if she is having seizures and if he thinks she is making progress developmentally – I will go to the nursery, with May’s physio, for a risk assessment. That’s like an entrance exam for the brain-damaged.
So, nothing stressful about tomorrow then. Just an average day in the life of my little May.