{A serious piece}
Birdy is in his second term of nursery school and his teachers are concerned because he doesn't play with the other children. Rather, he watches them play and then copies them. More worryingly, he doesn't respond to the sound of his name. If you want to grab his attention, the surest way is to go up and touch him on the shoulder.
The teachers asked me to have his hearing checked. "Oh, he can hear you just fine!" I responded with all my customary charm. "He's just not interested in listening to you." They didn't seem satisfied with that.
Next they asked if he talks at home. "Oh yes!" I responded brightly. "He's a little chatterbox. He talks about Doctor Who, Thomas the Tank Engine and space. Lives in his own little world."
They didn't seem very reassured and responded by asking me to sign an Individual Education Plan for him. I sat down on a dinky chair at a dinky little table and read it. In brief it said:
The Problem: Birdy doesn't talk very much
Desired Outcome: Make Birdy talk more
Action required to achieve this outcome: Talk to Birdy and get him to talk back.
As I sat, grumpily contemplating the near-idiotic superficiality of this problem solving process, two little boys came and sat next to me at the dinky little table. Exhibit A was Birdy, who sat and watched me in silence. Exhibit B was a little boy I had never noticed or spoken to before.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm reading this piece of paper," I answered.
"What's it about?" he asked.
"It's about Birdy not talking," I answered.
"Why doesn't Birdy talk?" he asked.
"I don't know," I answered.
I looked at Exhibit B. Exhibit B looked back at me. Exhibit A practiced burping. I sighed.
"Well, if talking to strangers and asking questions all the time is normal for a three year old," I said to Exhibit B, "then you're normal and Birdy isn't. It's a fair cop," and I signed the piece of paper.
At home I googled language learning disorders. That led me to autistic spectrum disorders, which gave me somthing to ponder. Might Birdy be autistic? He doesn't call me "Mummy", in fact he rarely uses names for anyone or anything, including himself. Although he does talk, if you listen carefully you realise he is saying things like: "Michael Bentine's Potty Time take 1!" This is not only a straight copy from one of his favourite programmes, he even copies exactly Michael Bentine's voice. He's no different from a parrot who has learned to say "Polly wants a cracker!" and who then is puzzled when it gets given a cracker.
I went and asked the Special Needs teacher about autism. She was reassuring. She says it can't be ruled out (well, very little can at this early age) but there's no need to jump to conclusions. After all, our gifted little mimic copies our facial expressions, and seems to do so with the sole purpose of making us laugh. He seems rather to be a clown who doesn't understand the point of language, than a child who can't understand other people.
An alternative to autism is something which is sometimes called Semantic Pragmatic Disorder. This looks like autism but isn't necessarily accompanied by autism. These kids fail to grasp the working of language or to pick up on social clues about behaviour until they are much older, although they do finally catch up and become just like other kids.
Mrs Special Needs Teacher also reminded me that Birdy has two very smart, very much older siblings. If he has only them to play with then his behaviour is going to be unusual. He doesn't play with three-year old toys because he would rather play with (and break) twelve-year old toys. He watches Doctor Who (which he can't understand much of) because his big brother is a Doctor Who obsessive.
Hopefully, whatever Birdy has that is holding him back from talking and playing with other kids of his own age, is something that he will grow out of. Perhaps all he really needs, like his Mummy, is to get out more and meet people.
Wednesday 27 January 2010
Saturday 16 January 2010
Charlie has musical motoring trouble
The further adventures of the Dunwich Family.
E-mail from Charlie to Mary:
Hello Dear!
I think that I need to get Harry to take a look at the CD player on the car, as it seems to be censoring the music I can listen to on the way to work.
It will only play Todd Rundgren’s “A Wizard, A True Star”, the first two Captain Beefheart albums (but nothing after his output became more challenging), and “Sir Henry at Rawlinson End”.
There must be a sensor built in to prevent steady rhythms, or anything working in 4/4, or anything sung by a woman.
As a result my driving is becoming prone to erratic jazz rhythms in 19/16 and 5/4 time which is getting a bit exciting on the icy roads between here and work.
Don't forget we need more bananas. Ben ate six for supper yesterday. I really don't know where he puts them all.
Love xxxxx
E-mail from Charlie to Mary:
Hello Dear!
I think that I need to get Harry to take a look at the CD player on the car, as it seems to be censoring the music I can listen to on the way to work.
It will only play Todd Rundgren’s “A Wizard, A True Star”, the first two Captain Beefheart albums (but nothing after his output became more challenging), and “Sir Henry at Rawlinson End”.
There must be a sensor built in to prevent steady rhythms, or anything working in 4/4, or anything sung by a woman.
As a result my driving is becoming prone to erratic jazz rhythms in 19/16 and 5/4 time which is getting a bit exciting on the icy roads between here and work.
Don't forget we need more bananas. Ben ate six for supper yesterday. I really don't know where he puts them all.
Love xxxxx
Friday 8 January 2010
Schizotypy and Old schoolmates
(A serious piece)
“Facebook is for sad people” my son informs me . I have just joined Facebook, which has confirmed all his suspicions. I reply that it’s a socially acceptable form of stalking which doesn’t require me to find my shoes.
On joining I was asked to give my school details, and in an uncharacteristic moment of candour, I told the truth. This resulted in me finding several old classmates, triggering a series of flashbacks so vivid and so painful that I had to go and have a lie down in a darkened room.
I wonder what my classmates remember about me? I was painfully shy, with such low self-esteem that I was desperate to avoid attracting any attention. Being a schizotype, I was on a loser there. We tend to attract attention whether we want it or not. I struggled to remember where I was supposed to be and when, what I was meant to do and what clothes I was suppposed to be wearing to do it in. My teachers thought I was doing it to annoy them. I was extremely good (as schizotypes are) at grasping ideas and linking facts together, so I got top marks a lot. My classmates probably thought I was doing that to annoy them.
I hadn’t been diagnosed yet, back in the Eighties the psychologists hadn’t even invented schizotypy. Some are still arguing about whether the condition can present in school-age children. Well, I have some news for them. YES IT DAMN WELL CAN! I was showing all the typical characteristics of a benign schizotype by the time I was eleven. Dreams seemed real, reality seemed dream-like and some days I thought I was dead. Schizotypy isn’t a mental illness, but it predisposes you to anxiety, paranoia and depression, which you can do without in your teenage years. I didn’t have a social life and hadn’t learned social skills; if your parents are anxious, paranoid and depressed you tend not to.
My teachers, like my parents, were more concerned with the state of my socks than my mental health. As long as I did my homework (and frankly it was easier to spend my evenings studying than to sit with with my parents) then the teachers left me alone. I missed a lot of school in the Sixth Form due to depression and stress-related illnessed. I tried to leave but wasn’t allowed to because it would have upset the timetable or something.
If I were in that environment nowadays I would study languages and write witty, satirical pieces about what it is like being misunderstood. In those days I didn’t have the words to express the muddle in my mind and didn’t have the courage to keep trying to explain it to people who weren’t listening. I avoided all subjects which require you to speak, stuck my head in my books and kept it there until I was finally through the system and allowed to get away.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not writing this to feel sorry for myself. Life is good and it keeps getting better. I’ve travelled places and met people and done stuff. I've had treatment and I am no longer stalked by the demons of Anxiety and Despair. These days, when I talk about my experiences of mental illness, people assume I am joking and politely wait for the punch line.
What concerns me now is that my children have a better time of school than I did. My son is a schizotype, lower on anxiety but with a double order of hallucinations. He was acting noticeably oddly by the time he was nine. I went to the school and Had a Quiet Word with his teachers. Although puzzled, they were sensible enough to realise I wasn’t going to go away and so agreed to give him the support he needed. Mostly this involves helping him not to get overstimulated, as the hallucinations start when his brain overloads on data. Even a loud carpet can make him hear things.
He started at upper school last September. I went to the school and Had Another Word. I put it to his teachers that they had two choices: they can support him and watch him soar through school, picking up awards and inspiring others; alternatively they can crush his spirit with unthinking conformity and institutionalised bullying, which is likely to push him into a series of depressive episodes and ultimately screw up his academic career. It’s gratifying how readily his teachers come round to my point of view when it is expressed in those terms. Obviously, he is expected to work hard and do his best to be a credit to his school. Sometimes, however, teachers need reminding that being an individual is not in itself against the School Rules.
Imagination is a powerful and life-enhancing gift, and forgetfulness, poor timekeeping, a tendency to see and hear things that are not entirely real, and an ability to misunderstand simple instructions are not things that we should need to feel ashamed of or apologise for. The most important lesson I ever learned from my time at school is that you don't have to pull your socks up, shut up and copy everyone else just because that makes life easier for the grown-ups. I just wish I hadn’t left until now to learn it. It is knowledge that would have done me more good than everything I learned all the Double Maths lessons that I ever tried to turn myself invisible in.
[The characteristics of schizotypy are explained here if you can stand the long words: http://schizotypy.totallyexplained.com/].
“Facebook is for sad people” my son informs me . I have just joined Facebook, which has confirmed all his suspicions. I reply that it’s a socially acceptable form of stalking which doesn’t require me to find my shoes.
On joining I was asked to give my school details, and in an uncharacteristic moment of candour, I told the truth. This resulted in me finding several old classmates, triggering a series of flashbacks so vivid and so painful that I had to go and have a lie down in a darkened room.
I wonder what my classmates remember about me? I was painfully shy, with such low self-esteem that I was desperate to avoid attracting any attention. Being a schizotype, I was on a loser there. We tend to attract attention whether we want it or not. I struggled to remember where I was supposed to be and when, what I was meant to do and what clothes I was suppposed to be wearing to do it in. My teachers thought I was doing it to annoy them. I was extremely good (as schizotypes are) at grasping ideas and linking facts together, so I got top marks a lot. My classmates probably thought I was doing that to annoy them.
I hadn’t been diagnosed yet, back in the Eighties the psychologists hadn’t even invented schizotypy. Some are still arguing about whether the condition can present in school-age children. Well, I have some news for them. YES IT DAMN WELL CAN! I was showing all the typical characteristics of a benign schizotype by the time I was eleven. Dreams seemed real, reality seemed dream-like and some days I thought I was dead. Schizotypy isn’t a mental illness, but it predisposes you to anxiety, paranoia and depression, which you can do without in your teenage years. I didn’t have a social life and hadn’t learned social skills; if your parents are anxious, paranoid and depressed you tend not to.
My teachers, like my parents, were more concerned with the state of my socks than my mental health. As long as I did my homework (and frankly it was easier to spend my evenings studying than to sit with with my parents) then the teachers left me alone. I missed a lot of school in the Sixth Form due to depression and stress-related illnessed. I tried to leave but wasn’t allowed to because it would have upset the timetable or something.
If I were in that environment nowadays I would study languages and write witty, satirical pieces about what it is like being misunderstood. In those days I didn’t have the words to express the muddle in my mind and didn’t have the courage to keep trying to explain it to people who weren’t listening. I avoided all subjects which require you to speak, stuck my head in my books and kept it there until I was finally through the system and allowed to get away.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not writing this to feel sorry for myself. Life is good and it keeps getting better. I’ve travelled places and met people and done stuff. I've had treatment and I am no longer stalked by the demons of Anxiety and Despair. These days, when I talk about my experiences of mental illness, people assume I am joking and politely wait for the punch line.
What concerns me now is that my children have a better time of school than I did. My son is a schizotype, lower on anxiety but with a double order of hallucinations. He was acting noticeably oddly by the time he was nine. I went to the school and Had a Quiet Word with his teachers. Although puzzled, they were sensible enough to realise I wasn’t going to go away and so agreed to give him the support he needed. Mostly this involves helping him not to get overstimulated, as the hallucinations start when his brain overloads on data. Even a loud carpet can make him hear things.
He started at upper school last September. I went to the school and Had Another Word. I put it to his teachers that they had two choices: they can support him and watch him soar through school, picking up awards and inspiring others; alternatively they can crush his spirit with unthinking conformity and institutionalised bullying, which is likely to push him into a series of depressive episodes and ultimately screw up his academic career. It’s gratifying how readily his teachers come round to my point of view when it is expressed in those terms. Obviously, he is expected to work hard and do his best to be a credit to his school. Sometimes, however, teachers need reminding that being an individual is not in itself against the School Rules.
Imagination is a powerful and life-enhancing gift, and forgetfulness, poor timekeeping, a tendency to see and hear things that are not entirely real, and an ability to misunderstand simple instructions are not things that we should need to feel ashamed of or apologise for. The most important lesson I ever learned from my time at school is that you don't have to pull your socks up, shut up and copy everyone else just because that makes life easier for the grown-ups. I just wish I hadn’t left until now to learn it. It is knowledge that would have done me more good than everything I learned all the Double Maths lessons that I ever tried to turn myself invisible in.
[The characteristics of schizotypy are explained here if you can stand the long words: http://schizotypy.totallyexplained.com/].
Tuesday 5 January 2010
In Which Ben has a Bath
It was Christmas evening and we were giving Ben his first bath.
Charlie was stumbling around in the loft, looking for some of James' (or, at a pinch, Minnie's) old clothes. Minnie was clearing up the mess downstairs with very bad grace.
Ben had had an envigorating first day. He had met people for the first time, got named, encountered various parts of his body and explored his living space. He had laughed for the first time, cried for the first time, and taken his first ever sip of water. He had also pulled the Christmas tree over on top of himself, dribbled on the TV remote control and poked Dodgson in the beak (earning himself a nipped finger). Clearly he was enjoying life outside his growing tank.
"Why does Ben have blue eyes when yours are brown?" I asked James. Ben was showing great interest in the bathing process. Àfter giving the soap an exploratory nibble, he weed in the water (another new and exciting experience) and then began to chew the rubber ducky. We wrestled the soap off him and put it to its usual use.
James shrugged. "Data errors," he said. "Clones are never exact copies. They have to check each one to make sure it's in proper working order. Some of the early ones had bits in the wrong places."
I shuddered. "I hope Ben's got all his bits in the right places!" I said fervently.
"Kate checked him over," answered James. "She said his heart and lungs were working properly, She wants to be a doctor when she grows up."
"Maybe we should get him checked over by a real doctor," I mused. I wondered how our family GP would react. "Here's our brand new three year-old, Doctor Proctor, I wonder if you could check him to see if he's correctly assembled?" She'd review my medication quicker than you can say Prozac.
We lifted Ben out of the bath (to the accompaniment of a howl of protest), and towelled him dry. Ben was not impressed and tried to free himself by biting his way through the towel.
Of all the things I find disconcerting about my newly-born son, the fact that he doesn't talk is possibly the strangest. He has the body of a three year-old, and he seems to have the mind of one, but he has no understanding of language and doesn't even go "goo-goo".
"I suppose he'll learn to talk in time," I mused aloud.
James nodded. "Virus says they soon pick it up," he assured me.
I sighed. "I don't put much store in Virus' parenting skills!" I grumbled. "I thought he was decidedly cold towards Ben."
James grinned. "Well, he is supercool!" he joked.
I grunted. I don't usually take an instant dislike to people, but I must admit I hadn't found my great-grandson at all appealing.
"Covered in permafrost would be more like it! He didn't treat Ben with the least warmth or kindness. What kind of person can hear a child cry and not try to calm it down?"
James shrugged. "I don't think Virus considers Ben to be a real person. He's just a home-made bendy to him. A science project, not a kid you want to keep."
I took a deep breath. I could feel a Moral Stand coming on.
"I want you listen to this very carefully, James Dunwich," I said flatly. "Ben is alive, he's human and - even more to the point - he's one of us. He is every bit as important and special as me, Dad, you or Minnie. He's not going to be disassembled, fiddled with, examined or experimented on. I hope I make myself clear?"
James looked affronted. "Of course, Mum!" he protested. "I don't think like that about Ben. I said that's what Virus thinks. Virus is soooo twenty-second century. He even eats meat! And he's really old."
James thinks his grandson is old. I decided not to think too hard about that in case my brain melted.
A crash, a muffled expletive and a dull thudding sound reminded me of my husband. I went out to the landing to find a black sack full of slightly musty children's clothes.
"Guess what, Ben!" I said brightly. "I've got a whole new sensory experience for you. These are called pyjamas, and you are going to wear them!"
A spirited but brief struggle later, Ben was thoughtfully contemplating a set of My Little Pony pyjamas from the inside. I lead him to the big bed (since he doesn't have a bed he'll have to sleep between me and Charlie) and read him, to his immense puzzlement, "Wibbly Pig can build a Spaceship".
He snuggled into the crook of my arm and drifted off to sleep, while I wondered how to explain his existence to the Authorities. No-one was going to believe that he was really our son, even though a DNA test would proves that we are his parents. Would Social Services accuse us of stealing him and take him into care?
He was going to need some proper documentation. A birth certificate at least. How many computer records does it take to be legally born in this country?
"I think I'm going to need the services of a mad computer genius and a time machine," I whispered to the sleeping child beside me. "I'd better bake a cake!"
Charlie was stumbling around in the loft, looking for some of James' (or, at a pinch, Minnie's) old clothes. Minnie was clearing up the mess downstairs with very bad grace.
Ben had had an envigorating first day. He had met people for the first time, got named, encountered various parts of his body and explored his living space. He had laughed for the first time, cried for the first time, and taken his first ever sip of water. He had also pulled the Christmas tree over on top of himself, dribbled on the TV remote control and poked Dodgson in the beak (earning himself a nipped finger). Clearly he was enjoying life outside his growing tank.
"Why does Ben have blue eyes when yours are brown?" I asked James. Ben was showing great interest in the bathing process. Àfter giving the soap an exploratory nibble, he weed in the water (another new and exciting experience) and then began to chew the rubber ducky. We wrestled the soap off him and put it to its usual use.
James shrugged. "Data errors," he said. "Clones are never exact copies. They have to check each one to make sure it's in proper working order. Some of the early ones had bits in the wrong places."
I shuddered. "I hope Ben's got all his bits in the right places!" I said fervently.
"Kate checked him over," answered James. "She said his heart and lungs were working properly, She wants to be a doctor when she grows up."
"Maybe we should get him checked over by a real doctor," I mused. I wondered how our family GP would react. "Here's our brand new three year-old, Doctor Proctor, I wonder if you could check him to see if he's correctly assembled?" She'd review my medication quicker than you can say Prozac.
We lifted Ben out of the bath (to the accompaniment of a howl of protest), and towelled him dry. Ben was not impressed and tried to free himself by biting his way through the towel.
Of all the things I find disconcerting about my newly-born son, the fact that he doesn't talk is possibly the strangest. He has the body of a three year-old, and he seems to have the mind of one, but he has no understanding of language and doesn't even go "goo-goo".
"I suppose he'll learn to talk in time," I mused aloud.
James nodded. "Virus says they soon pick it up," he assured me.
I sighed. "I don't put much store in Virus' parenting skills!" I grumbled. "I thought he was decidedly cold towards Ben."
James grinned. "Well, he is supercool!" he joked.
I grunted. I don't usually take an instant dislike to people, but I must admit I hadn't found my great-grandson at all appealing.
"Covered in permafrost would be more like it! He didn't treat Ben with the least warmth or kindness. What kind of person can hear a child cry and not try to calm it down?"
James shrugged. "I don't think Virus considers Ben to be a real person. He's just a home-made bendy to him. A science project, not a kid you want to keep."
I took a deep breath. I could feel a Moral Stand coming on.
"I want you listen to this very carefully, James Dunwich," I said flatly. "Ben is alive, he's human and - even more to the point - he's one of us. He is every bit as important and special as me, Dad, you or Minnie. He's not going to be disassembled, fiddled with, examined or experimented on. I hope I make myself clear?"
James looked affronted. "Of course, Mum!" he protested. "I don't think like that about Ben. I said that's what Virus thinks. Virus is soooo twenty-second century. He even eats meat! And he's really old."
James thinks his grandson is old. I decided not to think too hard about that in case my brain melted.
A crash, a muffled expletive and a dull thudding sound reminded me of my husband. I went out to the landing to find a black sack full of slightly musty children's clothes.
"Guess what, Ben!" I said brightly. "I've got a whole new sensory experience for you. These are called pyjamas, and you are going to wear them!"
A spirited but brief struggle later, Ben was thoughtfully contemplating a set of My Little Pony pyjamas from the inside. I lead him to the big bed (since he doesn't have a bed he'll have to sleep between me and Charlie) and read him, to his immense puzzlement, "Wibbly Pig can build a Spaceship".
He snuggled into the crook of my arm and drifted off to sleep, while I wondered how to explain his existence to the Authorities. No-one was going to believe that he was really our son, even though a DNA test would proves that we are his parents. Would Social Services accuse us of stealing him and take him into care?
He was going to need some proper documentation. A birth certificate at least. How many computer records does it take to be legally born in this country?
"I think I'm going to need the services of a mad computer genius and a time machine," I whispered to the sleeping child beside me. "I'd better bake a cake!"
Monday 4 January 2010
Fragrance sensitivity
I've found out what I'm allergic to! Unfortunately, it's everywhere.
It's perfume, or more accurately, one or more of the many chemicals that manufacturers are permitted to put in large quantities in toiletries, cleaning products, even paint and glue. They don't have to state the ingredients on the label. Even products marketed as "unscented" can be perfumed. "Unscented" in this business just means "not as strongly perfumed as some of our other products".
I've suffered from general allergy symptoms for years, but because these "fragrance" chemicals are everywhere, I only found out by chance what was causing it. This weekend, while
queueing in the chemist, I got bored and sprayed myself with a perfume tester. It was like being hit with mustard gas. My eyes stung, I started to cough and gasp and retch. My daughter, similarly sprayed, was unaffected.
The next day we went to the supermarket, and my daughter accidentally smashed a bottle of hand wash. Again the "gas attack" reaction, again the nausea. This time the stuff hadn't even touched my skin. Airbourne particles were enough to trigger a reaction.
The products that made me sick contained linalool, limonene, benzo-something, hexa-something else and "parfum", which is code for "we're not telling you what gunk we put in this to make it smell nice". A quick search of the kitchen and bathroom turned up about twenty products containing some or all of these, many of which I put on my skin every day. I have bathed babies in this stuff! Is this twenty-first century child abuse?
I did a google search and found out about "fragrance sensitivity". The North Americans are ahead of the British on this one (when are they ever not ahead of us?) Second-hand fragrance is starting to be condidered as antisocial and unhealthy as second-hand tobacco smoke. Some workplaces in America are even starting to ban perfumes. I'd love to know how effective such a ban is in practice.
A perfume ban, even if it could be imagined on these "it's not polite to make a fuss" shores wouldn't be nearly enough though. I felt sick this morning after my husband used deodorant while I was in the same room. Last night he used too much conditioner on my little boy's hair, which made my eyes smart all evening. A deodorant, shampoo, conditioner, soap, shower gel and handwash ban would never catch on here. Especially when it's so difficult to find products that actually are fragrance free.
You have to love the irony though. I have been in contact with every unpleasant organic substance a small child can produce.You can roll me in vomit, half-rotted compost and hamster poo, and unpleasant as the experience will be, it won't make me sick. If I have a nice bath to wash it off and use the wrong type of bubble bath, I'll feel sick and itch for days. Someone up there certainly has a sense of humour.
It's perfume, or more accurately, one or more of the many chemicals that manufacturers are permitted to put in large quantities in toiletries, cleaning products, even paint and glue. They don't have to state the ingredients on the label. Even products marketed as "unscented" can be perfumed. "Unscented" in this business just means "not as strongly perfumed as some of our other products".
I've suffered from general allergy symptoms for years, but because these "fragrance" chemicals are everywhere, I only found out by chance what was causing it. This weekend, while
queueing in the chemist, I got bored and sprayed myself with a perfume tester. It was like being hit with mustard gas. My eyes stung, I started to cough and gasp and retch. My daughter, similarly sprayed, was unaffected.
The next day we went to the supermarket, and my daughter accidentally smashed a bottle of hand wash. Again the "gas attack" reaction, again the nausea. This time the stuff hadn't even touched my skin. Airbourne particles were enough to trigger a reaction.
The products that made me sick contained linalool, limonene, benzo-something, hexa-something else and "parfum", which is code for "we're not telling you what gunk we put in this to make it smell nice". A quick search of the kitchen and bathroom turned up about twenty products containing some or all of these, many of which I put on my skin every day. I have bathed babies in this stuff! Is this twenty-first century child abuse?
I did a google search and found out about "fragrance sensitivity". The North Americans are ahead of the British on this one (when are they ever not ahead of us?) Second-hand fragrance is starting to be condidered as antisocial and unhealthy as second-hand tobacco smoke. Some workplaces in America are even starting to ban perfumes. I'd love to know how effective such a ban is in practice.
A perfume ban, even if it could be imagined on these "it's not polite to make a fuss" shores wouldn't be nearly enough though. I felt sick this morning after my husband used deodorant while I was in the same room. Last night he used too much conditioner on my little boy's hair, which made my eyes smart all evening. A deodorant, shampoo, conditioner, soap, shower gel and handwash ban would never catch on here. Especially when it's so difficult to find products that actually are fragrance free.
You have to love the irony though. I have been in contact with every unpleasant organic substance a small child can produce.You can roll me in vomit, half-rotted compost and hamster poo, and unpleasant as the experience will be, it won't make me sick. If I have a nice bath to wash it off and use the wrong type of bubble bath, I'll feel sick and itch for days. Someone up there certainly has a sense of humour.
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