I have finally found—after, I admit, a lot of searching (to the point that Meta’s algorithm eventually cottoned on to what I was looking for)—a charity to help us train our puppy into a reputable service dog. They’re recognised by the government and the NHS, so yay. They also charge north of £3,000 per annum to support training.
Three grand. To help train a dog.
They do say you might be able to get funding via the NHS, various grants, or DLA—provided you have the correct words on the EHCP, have prayed to the correct god of finance, and burnt sage under a full moon on the second Monday of the fourth month. Or something equally likely. My daughter’s EHCP review meetings happen annually and I haven’t seen her updated completed copy since 2022. That is how far behind the process is running. It’s stupid, but true.
Now, I know some people would argue that maybe we don’t actually need a service dog (we do, but that’s a separate conversation). Or they’ll argue we could just save the money. But that’s not the point.
The point is this: this is simply the latest item on an endless list of expenses that come with raising a SEND child—costs that parents of neurotypical children simply don’t face. I started totting it all up. Some of it we’re in the fortunate position to afford, and some we only managed by selling a house in the South-East and moving to a deprived area in the North so we could pour every penny into our daughter’s needs. I know that isn’t possible for everyone. But when you remote-work and you have no options left… drastic becomes logical.
So. The SEND tax:
£3.3k for service-dog training (not including standard puppy classes or the actual cost of buying the dog, feeding the dog, or keeping the dog alive).
Childminders: £40 per hour.
No nursery would take her without one-to-one support. The paperwork required it. The nursery refused without it. The council refused to fund it. So we paid for childminding.
£10k on air conditioning.
Not optional. She overheats and vomits. We need to maintain the temperature of her room. She also needs a weighted blanket to sleep (sometimes under it, sometimes hugging it), so the room must stay at 18°C all year round. We installed solar panels to offset the AC cost.
£200 per month for gym membership and lessons.
Also not optional. And frankly cheaper than the £40 per session it would cost for ASD-specific classes. She needs to regulate by running and throwing things, and the kids’ club is ideal. Plus she can smack water in the pool to her heart’s content and get all the sensory input she needs without me worrying she’s going to injure herself—or someone else.
A play/sensory room.
She can’t have toys in her bedroom because she will overstimulate and never sleep. So we needed a separate room for play. It also has a sensory corner with lights, blankets, and balance boards. I’m not even working out the cost of buying a house big enough for this. I will cry.
Two X-Rocker gaming chairs: £70 each.
(We wore the first one out. Obviously.)
Bubble lamps, sensory toys, ear loops, ear defenders…
Don’t even get me started on the number of hairdryers, hairbands, clips, and accessories we’ve gone through to find ones she can tolerate. Or the amount of food that gets binned because she can no longer eat the thing she ate yesterday.
So when people tell me we got her diagnosed for the “benefits”…
Please, show me what fucking benefits.
I had to turn down a £50k per year job because childcare and transport would have cost more than staying home and looking after her myself. Not to mention the number of meltdowns, emotional crashes, and pure stress that would come from breaking her routine. Absolutely insane.
But sure. The £500 a month from DLA is totally worth it.
A drop in the ocean.
A polite splash on the surface of a financial black hole.
At this rate, in six months—if we buy nothing else, forgo food, heating, cooling, transport, and clothing—we might manage to pay for the first year of service-dog training.
Maybe.
Raising the Modern Fae 