This Substack explores what it means to care for children who don’t fit into our school system, but after a very rare couple of days away from my daughters I have been struck by how the pressures my own family are under are just part of a sliding scale. The further you slip away from conformity and the societal expectation of what is ‘normal’ (I hate that word), the more complicated life becomes.
I have been promoting my book, Twelve Moons, at events in London and Oxford. I was speaking on a panel entitled ‘Mothering On The Edge’ with Doreen Cunningham (Soundings) and Alice Kinsella (Milk), and we were chaired first by
(Tender) then Nell Frizell (Holding The Baby). Five women, five mothers, five authors, and several of us also carers. There was something very powerful about the sense of community and solidarity I felt amongst these women, and about the connection we shared with mothers and carers across the world. It felt impossible to speak at an event called Mothering On The Edge without referencing those mothers who are currently living on the ultimate edge, unsure whether they or their children will wake up in the morning. I have found’s words on these dark times gentle and hopeful.The distance offered to me by this trip to the other end of the country uncovered some surprising emotions. As I walked down Piccadilly after our event at the beautiful Hatchards bookshop, my friends asked me how I felt about it all. I wanted to say that I was delighted by the positive feedback, thrilled to have met new readers of my book, so happy to be back in the city. And of course I was all of those things. But at that moment I was suddenly also completely overwhelmed - not by the pressure of writing and promoting a book, but by the immense load I had left behind in Northumberland, and the hurdles I had crossed to carve this time out for my work.
At Hatchards we talked about the politics of mothering and caring, and how the capitalist system is not set up to help us succeed. When success is measured by the size of a bank balance rather than health or community, unpaid carers will always find it harder to thrive. The pursuit for eternal economic growth inevitably means that many of us will never win. It no longer feels enough to consider the issue of education for children who cannot attend school in isolation: it goes far beyond access to learning.
Alongside the many concerns I have about the broken systems that are supposed to support my children to learn, I constantly grapple with the impact on carers of children who can’t attend school. There is great joy in raising four extraordinary daughters, but also huge responsibility - not only to ensure they are safe and secure, but also that they receive an appropriate and inspiring education. I can’t email the school to find out what is on the curriculum - the buck stops with me, and this is a lot to carry. As my friends and I walked into Soho, I willed the overwhelm to soak away into the night, tried to see my own bright light reflected back in those of the billboards flashing high above me. When you are told that your own normal is not the right type of normal, it can be hard to know where you belong.
I know that the pull between paid work and caring is a tough one to sustain - how to be good enough and make sure there is enough of me to go around? At one event we discussed the sacrifices we made in order to write our books: the financial challenges and the compromises involved in daring to try to earn money and cling to an identity beyond caring. I thought about the viruses I have struggled to shake off recently, the way my body has been telling me I should be resting rather than writing as the day bleeds into my room through the shutters. I thought about the cup of tea I make after I have dropped one daughter at her school bus while the sky is still burning, the one I savour while I compose endless emails to people who don’t listen. I want to be crafting words that hold more value, disappear inside my mind and make something beautiful instead of confronting an ugly reality. I thought about how that precious hour before my other daughters wake up and need me has not only helped me to pay some bills but has also grounded me and allowed me to grow. And as I thought about all of this, I realised that the sacrifice is me.
I am sitting somewhere on that scale of mothers, tucked in between privilege and vulnerability. Fortunate in so many ways but invisible and unpalatable to the systems that are supposed to support me. In my last post I wrote about knowing when it is time to stop trying to fit in, but my thinking has shifted a bit - now I wonder whether I have been tricked all along. It seems to me that this world only works for a very small, very privileged minority. Perhaps most of us don’t fit in, we are just going through the motions as archaic constructs crumble around us.
As my train slices through fields towards my station in the far north of England, my mind turns to appointments and medication, tribunals and budgets. My heart clenches when I think about the daughter who has struggled with my absence, and I worry about whether my car will still be broken. I begin to map out a new project for my children that we can work on together, plan the resources I will need and how I will make it accessible to all of their different learning needs. I feel sad when I wonder if my poorly daughter will be able to learn at all. I clear my tired throat, and know that is last week’s virus reminding me that I am the sacrifice.
All of these thoughts clamour for space amongst the words I really want to pour onto the page, and the books I want to write. But the only way forward is to grab the aspects of my reality that are ugly and turn them into something beautiful.
So beautiful. So many things to say but it’s the ending that leaves me most struck - I think the idea that the systems our society have been constructed around work for most people is perhaps the biggest con. Many of us exist in these systems thinking *we* are ‘getting it wrong’, and the pursuit of ‘getting it right’ distracts us from the truth that the systems weren’t built for the majority, they were built by the minority, to serve the minority, and to keep the rest of us so busy trying to keep up that we fail to notice what has happened. It’s been a centuries-long project that we can’t dismantle overnight (at all?)so we have to find the spaces to breathe and rebel where we can and this is what you do so incredibly. Which brings me to something else I want to say - I was there when you said it was ‘too much’ and I misunderstood what you meant. If I’d understood at the time I’d have told you that it *is* too much, it shouldn’t be this hard, AND yet, here YOU are... all my love xxx
Thank you for this. So much of it is familiar and resonates. I have a wonderful 16 year old son who ended up missing his whole secondary education, and as well as SEN and ND also has Crohn's. I have sacrificed much of my writing and creative practice, as am also caring for my Dad who has advanced stage cancer. A good deal of my writing and poetry has been concerned with that experience of being a mother who didn't fit in... but I'm still here, still trying and so glad to read your wonderful writing. Thank you! And wishing you well for all that you do xx