Safe spaces and spoon theory

I’m not normally one for metaphors, but this one rang a discordant bell with me.

Have you ever heard of spoon theory? Here’s a short summary for those who haven’t: Every morning when you wake up you have a number of spoons in the drawer that you can use. The number varies from person to person. Some have a lot, others very few, but every morning you wake with some. Every activity and interaction you have uses a spoon, once dirty it can’t be used again until you clean it. The more you have to do, the more interactions you have, and the more intensive those interactions, the more spoons you need to use. If you are lucky enough to have a lot of spoons, then this is not an issue. If, like most fae children (and people with depression or anxiety and a plethora of other conditions) you don’t have a lot of spoons, you find that you run out by mid-morning or lunchtime at the latest.

At this point, you can shut yourself away and rest (wash the damn spoons so you can use them again) or ‘borrow’ spoons from tomorrow’s drawer to get you through – the downside being that you will then have less spoons for the following day. 

For a lot of people, stopping and taking time in the middle of the day to ‘wash the spoons’ is simply not an option, so we blithely borrow from the tempting “tomorrow drawer” until we can stop. 

For children, school is basically 5-6 hours of unrelenting intensive interactions. We hope they are mostly good, but realistically everyone has bad days. By the time they come home, often they have burnt through all their spoons for the day, and maybe even a fair proportion for the following days. They are done with being able to cope with the mountain of unclean spoons they are buried under, and collapse. We see this as a meltdown and outburst of anger because, from our perspective, we asked for something trivial like ‘take your shoes off’. For our child, this is one spoon too many, and they are done. They don’t mean to make us tear our hair out, but from their perspective, people have been demanding one thing after another from them for hours.

Is there a solution? Honestly.. Not really, but you might be able to recognise the signs and mitigate the symptoms. First off, reduce the number of spoons they need and, where possible, put off anything for the first hour after they come home. We are fortunate to be able to provide our daughter a bedroom and a playroom/sensory room. I recognise that this is not normal, and some children don’t even have their own bedroom, but try to find some space where they can go when they first come home and be left in peace. Even if it’s just a pop-up tent.

Research has shown that tablets are helpful in supporting the development of neuro-divergent children. Our fae loves Khan Academy Kids and Duo ABC. So when she comes home, before anything is demanded, she is offered the chance to curl up for a bit with her tablet to ‘play’. 

Even if it’s just a “soft corner” in a room with a stack of pillows and blankets, so long as there is no background noise, or demands made, it will give your child a chance to regroup and ‘wash some spoons’. 

If at all possible, give your child simple choices: do they want to get changed now or in 5 minutes? (If later, set a timer they can see that will let them know when time is up). Don’t take it personally if they don’t want to talk to you: let them come on their terms. 

Recognise that trying to discipline the behaviour, or sanctioning it, is going to get you nowhere: they are not being naughty, they simply can’t cope. Something I think we can all relate to from time to time: I would have written this up earlier, but I didn’t have the spoons.

I can’t help you when you’re being this logical

This fantastic statement was made to me by a therapist the one and only time I went to see one. Several of the agencies I have been referred to have suggested, cajoled and eventually coerced into speaking to a therapist. Apparently they felt it would be good for me, and consequently good for my fae. The famous “you can’t pour from an empty jug” analogy was dragged out (as swiftly downgraded to a metaphor when I pointed out I’m not a jug) as well as other nuggets of wisdom such as “your stress bucket is full, you can’t cope with much more” (again, not a bucket – stop comparing me to inanimate fluid receptacles). 

At any event, that’s how I ended up in the therapist’s office. From the get go, I didn’t get on with the therapist I was assigned: I was told by the receptionist to go up to the office and knock, which I did. He opened the door and informed me that I was 2 minutes early, and in future I should wait on the seats at the other end of the corridor. Right, fine, but I’m not sure how I was supposed to know that. Put out that I was inconceivably early, I was abruptly directed to a seat, read a (compulsory) GDPR statement to sign, informed of the (few) expectations of privacy, and basically told anything I said would be used in evidence. After this inauspicious start, as though a switch was flicked, said therapist changed personalities from administrator to full on ‘I’m here to listen’ stereotype mark 2 (the one with the crossed legs, head tilt and long pauses between blinks). I find this type of thing rather disconcerting, and (whilst counting how many cliches he went through) mostly studied how many interesting patterns could be found in the paint on the wall. There was an array of paint drops that looked strikingly similar to the Great Bear constellation.

Throughout the next hour, I was asked some questions. Not as many as I thought I would be, and each was followed by a protracted silence. For those who don’t know, this is an overused and very irritating technique, designed to ‘allow room for answers’. It’s supposed to give you time to think & reply, and also develop an awkward atmosphere to encourage the other person to speak. The problem is, when you are aware that it’s going on, all it does is irritate. Frankly, I don’t find silence that awkward (it’s only disturbing if I haven’t got eyes on my daughter as it means she’s up to something) and in this context, I can stay silent indefinitely. I had already decided that this therapist was not going to offer anything useful, so I used the time to mentally write a shopping list, design a few blog posts, and debate if he would be offended if I pointed out that his clock ticked second slightly out of time. 

At one point he did say “if you want to use this time to sit quietly, that’s fine.” This amused me, as it obviously wasn’t fine, and he was trying – and failing – not to show his irritation. Which probably wasn’t helped when I then asked him to repeat the question. When he asked about my troubles with my daughter, the answer “It is what it is” apparently wasn’t what he was looking for. His exasperated “But how do you feel about it?” I thought I answered appropriately by listing the fact that the situation can be frustrating, and those frustrations can lead to despair and anger, which is why it was important to tap out on occasions and keep lines of communications with my husband open. He told me to stop analysing. I told him I didn’t know what he expected, he said that was the problem. When I said I thought the problem was how to manage the impacts on me of the behaviours linked to my daughter’s autism, he rolled his eyes and came out with the “I can’t help you when you’re being this logical!”

…

…

Well that was informative. I thanked him for his time as he back-peddled desperately and tried to explain that what he meant was I needed MUCH more therapy and I should come back next week. Right, ok, we’ll agree to disagree on that. 

So apparently I’m too logical for counselling. I’m not too sure where to go with that. Anyone know a good therapist?

Caring for Carers

Today I had another highly depressing conversation with another professional – well, a charity worker (are they professionals? I lose track) – about what help I need to look after my daughter. I find these conversations rather trying, because the first part of the conversation is always the same – and always very depressing. They want to go through all the behaviours and foibles of your child that you find difficult. So you have to recount all the battles you have, every time, and because you never talk to the same person twice – or they are so overworked they can’t remember what you said the last time – it doesn’t matter how many times you talk to an organisation, they always do this. 

Today, it got to me and in a moment of pique, I threw my toys and basically said “don’t call me, I will call you”. I love my daughter, I love her more than life, and sometimes she is all that keeps me going. I find the neverending recounting of her personality quirks (I refuse to call them faults) heartbreaking and distressing. I feel that all these people have completely the wrong idea about her. 

They hear ‘autistic’ and picture a screaming, violent daemon in a child’s body. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she has her moments.. but they don’t seem to grasp that she has a smile that lights up the world and a heart of gold. This little girl, who is still trying to decipher the world she is in, will bring you a blanket if she finds you napping on the couch. She will offer her last sweet or crisp to you. She kisses your ‘owwies’ better and treats them with antiseptic cream (no, she WILL kiss them better and treat them with cream, you don’t get a say in the matter). My darling daughter leaves the house in the morning for school only after telling her daddy she will miss him and giving him one last hug, even though she struggles to form the words. And wants ‘big hugs’ the moment she’s back, too.

Yet I sit and listen to call after call telling me she’s ‘pre-verbal’, ‘non-toileted’ and ‘routine driven’ like this is the sin of a century for a 4 year old. I get it, she’s not in standard parameters, and she is hard work because she has no sense of danger. Believe me, I know, most lemmings have more survival instincts than she does. But she is improving: she now looks before jumping off the staircase. We can now ask her what she wants to watch, and at least she understands the question. 

If all you are going to do in these phone calls is list what you see as her negative attributes, then ask me what support you can give me (seriously, how would I know what I need that you can give, I’m not psychic) and then promise to call back in 2 weeks to do the same thing again, the biggest thing you can do for me is sod right off.

Things you notice raising a neuro-divergent child

It’s been a voyage of discovery raising our daughter. And not just learning about her, either. We have sat in meetings with professionals whilst they assess her behaviour, and been shocked by the statements they have made. Being told that behaviours that you thought were perfectly normal are actually ‘stereotypical’ for a specific condition has raised some eyebrows: both my husband and I have responded “but I did that!”

It seems that the penny has been in the air for quite some time – around 40 years in our case – but it is becoming more and more apparent that there is a strong hereditary aspect to her autism. The only difference is that we are committed to making sure that our fae doesn’t feel like she needs to conform, nor pretend to be something she is not. After so many years of faking it, both my husband and myself are very adept at it, but the mental toll is astronomical. 

I taught for 12 years (I may have mentioned this before once or twice!) I fell into teaching because I ended up doing a degree in the sciences. I don’t regret my degree, but I absolutely regret taking advice from a well-intentioned but misguided parent who insisted that I would be lonely if I took a career in writing, which would have been my preference. So, I ended up teaching. It was exhausting! I was good at it, don’t get me wrong, but the constant social interaction burned through my reserves twice as fast as anything else.

Every night I collapsed and needed a nap before attempting paperwork. I could never understand how my colleagues had the energy to go out to the pub, clubs or even stay up and watch TV. I had no life outside the classroom and paperwork. I never seemed to find a balance. A room (or café – I’m very fond of working in cafés providing I can have noise cancelling ear plugs!) and a keyboard, and I’m very happy. I only have three real friends and they all live at the opposite end of the country to me – I chat online with them as and when I can. Apparently the total lack of want for actual human interaction is unusual, and for a lot of my family they can’t get it. I don’t want to talk to people. 

I have been assigned a counsellor – they keep insisting all my ills will be cured if I would just, please, interact with the community. I tried; I went on a walk with 5 people who are supposedly in the same situation. They felt better, I needed to sleep for the rest of the day. I don’t want to be social, it’s too much. I can cope with my husband and my daughter, and that’s it. My husband is the same – it’s why he works from home. We are always in. All the delivery drivers and postmen now use us as a local delivery depot as we take in all parcels for the street. 

I don’t understand why extroverted people think that introverts need ‘curing’. We don’t, but after years of faking it, you would be surprised how many people think that I’m loud, chatty and generally out-going. It took me until the birth of my daughter to realise that I was none of those things, and if I didn’t have alcohol to help the situation, all I wanted to do was go home and sleep. 

So we’re weird, quiet, and have no interest in interacting with anyone most of the time; and that’s ok. And if my fae grows up to be the exact opposite, that’s ok too. The only thing she has to be is herself, and not pretend to be something she’s not.

I wish someone had told me that as a child.

Bikes and other fit things.

I have been attempting to get fit. I have mentioned before, this is not out of some sense of high virtue, but rather in self-defense against my fae, who seems to see sleep as an option that frequently isn’t selected, and believes any illness or injury can be run off (you just need to run fast enough).  To this end, I have joined a gym and bought a bike. The bike was an abject failure, the chain wouldn’t stay on and, whilst it looked cute, it didn’t manage any of the paths in my local area. So, sighing at my incompetence and despairing for my daughter, my parents bought me a second one, that was actually able to deal with the abuse I threw at it.

This turned out to be a life saver since, having joined the gym 4 months ago, I have managed to set foot in the place precisely 3 times. Once when I joined up, once for an induction with a rather unpleasant instructor who referred to me as ‘hon’ throughout the half hour we spent together (it was supposed to be an hour but instead of showing me anything she just waved in the direction of the weight section and muttered ‘there’s some weight machines over there’). Turned out she referred to me as ‘hon’ because she didn’t bother to remember my name, and wanted a shower more than to show me round.  The last time I went, I tried to work out but found that I couldn’t find anything, on account of not really being inducted properly.

I have been cycling more often, though, and am now a fully paid-up member of the Strava cult. I know what a KOM and QOM are, and I chase PRs to the detriment of my safety. It also means that I can now tow my daughter on her bike to the lakeside cycle path, so she can practise cycling in a safe place without worrying about cars or noise. The downside is, the lake area has a play park, so she thinks I tow her there so she can play on the big slide for a bit. Then tow her home again. One of us has the wrong idea. At the moment it’s a toss up which one but I know who spends the most time on the slide…

A Ranty Update

So, I have been very remiss over the past two weeks at updating this blog. I can only ascribe this to a need for routine. I fear I may have become slightly institutionalised since the birth of my fae, and now that she has started school, I find myself at a loose end and unable to cope with the hours of free time. 

I am also not good at getting anything started, knowing full well that in a matter of a few short hours (well 6) I will need to be back at the collection point. So, by the time I have returned home I have lost half an hour; breakfast and a cuppa and another half hour has disappeared. It takes half an hour to return to the school… well, not really, but my brain operates in half hour intervals of time so I have to make sure I have at least this much to go get her. This isn’t helped by her often being out early (very early; school official finishes at 3:10 but she is often waiting with an LSA for me at 3). So an hour and half is already accounted for so I’m down to 4.5 hours.. which my brain tells me isn’t a day’s worth of time, and therefore it’s not worth starting anything. 

I have recently started to enjoy going out on my bike (something that I never in a million years thought would happen) but this also eats another hour of time plus a half hour shower. So 3 hours left. By the time I have finished browsing the internet, completing a Spanish lesson and generally procrastinating, I have minutes to drag myself out the door to fetch her. 

I don’t know what school dismissal in ‘normal’ schools is like… that’s a lie, actually, I worked long enough to know: it’s like the final scene in an epic jailbreak, complete with screaming and inmates clambering over each other in their attempts to scale the fences before they are brought down by the wardens. The only difference being that in school, the teachers are often desperately leading the charge rather than slowing it down. 

At my daughter’s school, things are more organised, as a fleet of transport buses arrive as one, allowing members of staff to allocate the correct students, their accompanying adults, and equipment to each vehicle. It looks like chaos, but as every child seems to make it the correct destination, one assumes there is logic to it. 

Children who are being met at the school by a guardian stand with a classroom attendant by one of the four numbered doors that lock automatically. I have seen prisons that would envy the security measures here. Her school is designated a special school: at the end of the day, I am assailed simultaneously by relief that she attends a place that will keep her safe, and dismay that it is necessary. I feel a touch of Imposter Syndrome, as other students have needs that physically significantly outweigh hers and I wonder if she is keeping a more worthy or more in need child from a place – I know they are over-subscribed.

Then I remember that she is not toilet trained, she barely speaks and couldn’t follow a rule to draw a straight line. I have to remind myself (or be reminded) that just because others’ needs may be more extreme, it doesn’t diminish what she needs as well. 

The lack of places is not my fault. The fact that she has a place because I know who I need to talk with to make that happen, I have the time and determination to do it, and the ability to navigate the education and health care services successfully to get the support she needs.. is also not my fault. I am writing the blog to try and help those who don’t have those skills, but need them, do the same. It makes me cross that the game is rigged, regardless that I can play it well. Every child should get the support they need. It should not be down to the ability of parent to know the inside track through the maze of paperwork and agencies that you have to fight with to get that support. 

I digress. The reason I haven’t updated is that our routine has been up in the air. Apparently I don’t function well without a stable routine. I may need to look into getting my own neuro-divergent behaviour assessed.

Reluctantly Playing the Main Role in an RPG

Have you ever played one of those infuriating games where, for no apparent reason you have to unlock the green chest with the red key that you got from the one-eyed wizard to retrieve the amulet to make the cat talk so you can get the directions to the hidden forest to save the baby snake from the fire?


Lunch in our house is a lot like that. It can take over two hours to feed our daughter as she becomes fixated on anything other than eating. At the moment it’s ice lollies. She won’t be placated by the idea of a lolly after lunch, she wants it now. Despite being told repeatedly that if she would only eat the food that she asked for then she could have the sodding ice lolly: she refuses. Any attempt to dissuade her from her course to the freezer is met with fierce resistance.


She spent half an hour trying to get to the freezer, banging the table, shouting, and screaming. When this achieved nothing (it never does) she gave up and sulked, so we wiped her down and moved on. After two renditions of Baby Shark (which I believe is against the Geneva Convention) I suggested that we all ate in an effort to encourage her – “monkey see, monkey do” type of thing. Keen to do anything other than watch another rendition of overly-cheerful sea creatures bop along with the top predator, my husband agreed.


Which led to stage one of our mad game – have you got a ball? You need a ball. The ball is used to coax the reluctant fae along the floor into the kitchen – diner. If you don’t roll the ball into the room she won’t come happily. If she isn’t happy, then she won’t eat. So you need a ball.
Stage two: you need crisps, any crisps will do but in this case salt and vinegar (apparently, they go well with chocolate hazelnut spread). The crisps are so your fae can alternate between eating her lunch and your lunch, which is apparently the way to eat today.


Stage three: remember that fidget octopus she has? Well you need it now, as without it you have nowhere to store the ball. If you can’t store the ball, it will be rolled around the table getting in everyone’s food. So stuff the ball in the octopus. Yes, it looks pregnant, but whatever.
Finally, reheat the food. Because after an hour or so it’s stone cold and Fae creatures won’t eat cold food.


So the final score to get our child to eat the meal she asked for, we needed: a golf ball; microwave; two hours; and a small silicon octopus. And an ice lolly to follow.

Funny old world isn’t it?

Anyone else had issues like this? Please share I would love to hear it!

Transport Drama (ongoing)

So my Fae is – as I guess a lot of such children are – entitled to transport, supplied by the council, to and from school. This is because she requires extra support, as she has a tendency to Houdini herself out of any harness or seatbelt; has no sense of danger; and can be a bit of a nightmare if she puts her mind to it.

So, over the summer we received our letter informing us of such things, because the school our child is going to attend seems incredibly competent and orgisned it for us. We dutifully filled in our part of the paperwork, sent it back, and all seemed fine and dandy. That was until last week, when a strange man with no identification knocked on our door. 

Waving a list of children’s names and addresses at us, he gruffly enquired if this one was ours. Taken aback by this sudden intrusion, it took me a moment to regain my wits and ask him (a) Who the hell he thought he was and (b) Why did he have my daughter’s details? 

Speaking as though I was an idiot for not knowing, he blithely said he was the driver for school transport. He did not offer a name, nor variation of this. He told me he would be picking her up on Monday at 8am. When I informed him that she didn’t start school until Friday, and even then we would not be starting her on transport until later, as she was autistic and would find this too much – something we had arranged with both transport and the school – he scoffed, made a circling gesture with his hand next to his head and said in a knowing tone “Oh a bit like that is she?”. 

….

….

He was lucky I was too shocked to recover fast enough to do anything but shut the door. Needless to say, my daughter is not going on transport and we have lodged a complaint. This is not acceptable. No child should be subjected to such an attitude, and no parent should feel the need to defend their child against such ignorance. The failure to keep confidential information safe is illegal; the failure to react courteously regarding a child’s needs is a strike against child protection and the disabilities act. 

The scoffing refusal to introduce oneself when arriving unannounced at a stranger’s house is a failure of common manners. This man has no business being anywhere near children, vulnerable or otherwise. 

As I type the council has not responded, I will keep you informed should they do.

So on the 29th of September I got a response! but not from the transport but from ACT. Act is a different department in the council set up to help parents with children with disabilities. I wasn’t reassured when I sent them the same email that the automated response said they would get back to me by January 2022 but I felt I had nothing to lose. THey apologised for the driver and asked for his name (missing I sense the bit where I said he did not intriduce himself) and giving me a form to fill in for expenses. Not really promising but still I filled in the form reiterated everything I knew about the driver – pointing out a bit of basic detection the thier part would identify him and sent it back.

I guess it will be another few weeks before anythign else happens.

Negotiations and getting what you need

There are times that, like it or not, your fae needs to do what you tell them. This can cause conflict: if they have PDA (pathological demand avoidance) tendencies, it can be impossible, or at least very difficult. I have some suggestions for how to get your way with your fae child, some of these come from what works for my daughter (that we’ve made up as we went) but most are adapted from my time as a teacher. You would be surprised at how much overlap there is.

Firstly no matter how tempting it is, and no matter how near you may be at the end of your tether, don’t shout if at all possible. This is for a number of reasons: if you continually shout, it loses its effectiveness – ‘mummy always shouts so I will ignore her’ – or worse it will be seen as funny. Either way, what happens is: they ignore you; and you become more frustrated. Shouting doesn’t work.

Offer choices where you get what you want with either option selected; are THEY putting their shoes and socks on; or are YOU helping them? Either way they end up with their shoes and socks on, it doesn’t really matter how it happens.

Leave plenty of time. There is nothing worse than the added pressure of a deadline, whether it’s getting to school or catching a bus. If you know that they need to be ready by a certain moment, leave time to get them there.

Give warnings of change of activity, it doesn’t have to be 5 mins every time, but give some notice; make it clear and concise; and walk away after. Don’t respond to shouts of NO or protests. They know it’s happening, responding to the protest makes them think they can negotiate it. The idea is to make the clock the enemy, not you. ‘We have to leave in 2 mins, time’s up, nothing I can do’.

If there are tasks that your child really doesn’t like but needs to be done (for our daughter, it’s nappy changes) turn it into a competition. We race our daughter to the bathroom: she loves to win, and then she is happy to have the change done now she’s there. We may also compete to see who can finish dinner first, or get to her fork first – she always wins, but then she eats her dinner.

Use ‘when-and-then’ statements. It puts the onus on them to do what you want e.g. “when you put your socks and shoes on, then we can go to the park”. Be clear on what they need to do for you to get the outcome they want.

Warn of consequences that you can follow through on. Never threaten something that you can’t do. We learnt early on that time outs were not the way to go with our daughter, and the punishment had to fit the crime. Where possible, we give her time to change her behaviour (obviously if what she is doing is dangerous, this isn’t possible) I give her a slow countdown from 5. This is enough for her to weigh her options.

If possible, offer a choice; do you want to hold mummy’s hand or daddy’s hand? I don’t care whose hand she holds, so long as she is holding one or the other. It gives her some sense of control over events but also keeps her safe.

Focus on outcomes not methods – what are you trying to achieve? Does it matter how you get them to wear their seatbelt, so long as they do wear it? Do you really care if their clothes are on back to front and inside out, so long as they put them on?

Regardless of how they externally portray them (or don’t), your fae feels emotions deeply: they take things to heart, so take care with how you speak to them; if they are melting down or upset they may need you to name the emotion for them. Give them the words, let them know it’s ok to be angry or frustrated or sad;let them know you understand why they feel that way; and  show them how to deal with it in a healthy way. Above all, be calm: you are their anchor, and if you get angry or distressed, then they are going to be adrift.

Your child is a small human and needs to be treated with respect. That doesn’t mean they get to do what they like, when they like; all children need boundaries. Those boundaries need to be firmly enforced: the harder they test it, the more you need to hold it. If you let them break them, or they can’t find any, then children feel very unsafe and their behaviour becomes more outrageous. Be firm but fair: children don’t need to be insulted or scared into behaving, and they certainly shouldn’t be hit or smacked. Smacking a child doesn’t teach respect, it teaches fear and that is not useful in the long run.

The mystery of the missing Bubble

It’s funny how one small thing can screw up what was otherwise a damn fine day. 

I suppose at this point it would be wise to explain about Bubble. Bubble is a small, green triceratops with a monobrow and a loose thread round his neck. Don’t ask me why he’s called Bubble, I have no idea. My daughter named him (and it is a him, I have been informed quite forcefully). Bubble is one of what we call the ‘bedtime posse’. She has – as I am sure many children, both neurodivergent and neurotypical do – a large collection of plushies that she insists on sleeping with. They include every member of the Paw Patrol (two Chase’s, one with a nightlight), a small reversible octopus call ‘Coba’, Professor Inkling (from the Octonauts; the rest of the crew live in the family room as I drew the line at another 8 characters joining in); a small stuffed dalmatian called ‘Tiny Marshall’; and Bubble. Out of this menagerie, only three leave her room – Tiny Marshall who goes *everywhere* with her (he’s very important; Pro life tip: if your child has a very special toy, have multiple copies in case one gets lost or mislaid. We have 5 Tiny Marshall’s); Professor Inkling goes to the family room to visit the other Octonauts; and Bubble comes down to read in the evening. 

Last night, we couldn’t find Bubble. This was beyond a crisis: instead of a calm bedtime routine of doing jigsaws and reading, the time was spent tearing the house apart trying to find Bubble whilst my daughter plaintively cried for him in each room. We went through all the bedding in all the rooms; the cushions in the playroom; and dismantled the couch. Finally we gave up and hit the “break glass” and pulled the spare ‘Bubble’ from hiding. Unfortunately this was rejected. Unlike the ‘Tiny Marshall’s’ which are so similar that she can’t tell them apart, Bubble 2 didn’t have a loose thread or a monobrow. 

I suggested we call him Bubble 2, and this was grudgingly accepted, but she still searched for OG Bubble in the family room. And then during reading time.. she managed to lose this Bubble too! She spent the rest of the time crying for both Bubbles and didn’t want to go to bed. It was exhausting. In the end she agreed to go up with “Big Bubble” (a somewhat bigger and more realistic triceratops that her grandparents bought her a few weeks ago.)

After she went to bed, instead of falling headfirst into a bottle of rum, I went back through the family room and found Bubble 2 (hidden in the back of the couch, go figure) but still no sign of OG Bubble. 

We gave up. This morning, out of desperation, I pulled her bed apart. Literally: mattress off, bed away from the wall.. and finally found him! He was on the floor, squashed between the side and the wall (no idea how he got there). I also found the plushie Everest that I hadn’t even noticed she’d lost. It’s possible that she has too many soft toys…. 

Anyone else had their entire day trashed by something small? Please share in the comments!