How true it is about the assumption that someone with disability cannot be leading a normal life. One of the questions I have to tackle is how, despite being blind and therefore incapable of reading anything printed, I remain a "writer". Well, the logic of that beats my wit and I had to pause for a long moment to explain how I work. Funny but also frustrating since it is hard to demystify certain "strong assumptions".
Subramani -----Original Message----- From: accessindia-boun...@accessindia.org.in [mailto:accessindia-boun...@accessindia.org.in] On Behalf Of Sanjay Sent: Friday, November 06, 2009 1:29 PM To: accessindia@accessindia.org.in Subject: [AI] I'm Blind--and I'm a Good Mother Please don't blame me for its nontechnical nature. I hope many blind parents of this group--both present and future will enjoy reading this article. I'm Blind--and I'm a Good Mother (By Amie Slavin. From The Guardian, U.K., (c) Aug. 8, 2009) Hard labor, as a lifestyle choice, has more to recommend it than I could have guessed. From those first few hours of holding Sophia, my firstborn, curled on my forearm learning to breastfeed, to the most recent round of pre-breakfast "Ride a Cockhorse," bouncing two "fine ladies" on my tired knees, I have been a fan. But I always knew that parenting would present different challenges for me, compared with more mainstream mothers, because I have been blind since 1997. The practicalities of bringing up children without eyesight are not, for the most part, nearly as hard as you might think. Changing nappies isn't especially difficult if you're used to doing everything by touch. There's no mystery about it. I don't explore fecal matter with my fingers, neither do I leave my baby half-cleaned. I simply use a combination of touch and smell to determine how cleaning is progressing, and if it gets out of hand and I begin to lose the will to live, well, 10 minutes suffices for a bath and change of clothes: foolproof. Feeding is also achievable, if slightly more exciting. In the early days of weaning, I would collect a spoonful of food with my right hand while lightly resting my left hand on her right shoulder. In this way I could monitor the position of her head and use my thumb to assess the in (and especially out) flow. I didn't aim the spoon directly in but used my fingertips to detect her mouth and its degree of openness. Next would come the lightning transition from obliquely hovering spoonful to precisely administered tasty mouthful without jabbing the gums, touching the soft palate or twanging the lips or tongue. Running my household is more complex, yet still not impossible. Recently, for instance, while sorting laundry, I flicked the corner of a duvet cover into Sophia's abandoned water cup, tipping it on to the floor. I reached for the kitchen roll and knocked over a brand new bottle of multi-surface cleaner which, defying its "sealed" status, sloshed its contents liberally over the kitchen's cork tiles. Throwing kitchen roll onto the spilled water, I set about wiping up the surface cleaner. My wonderfully helpful (and terrifyingly valuable) new guide dog instantly joined in, diving first into the surface cleaner (to my panic) and then, on my rebuff, seizing the water-soaked kitchen roll and dancing off with it. Flustered and swearing by now, I chased and caught the dog and paper, sending one from the room and the other to landfill; mopped up the surface cleaner, recaptured my laundry and began to congratulate myself on a household crisis averted. Brimming with competence, I returned to make the supper I should have started half an hour earlier. Deftly chopping three huge garlic cloves in record time and hurling them at the hot pan ... I missed completely! Still, avoidance of these annoying minor disasters is possible by taking extra time and using forethought. I am working hard to establish good enough relationships with my daughters that they don't get any ideas about taking advantage of my blindness. So far, I've come down hard on Sophia's "I've finished my food but I don't want you to feel," (obviously unfinished food then), and her plaintive aside to her father, "Don't let her touch my wrist because she'll make me wear long sleeves," and it seems to be paying off. I'm hoping to instill in them the understanding that I am able to detect bad behavior by means more sophisticated than mere eyesight. I'm unlikely to win future battles with my girls along the lines of "You're not going anywhere dressed like that." I'm actually quite at ease with the reality that they must be taught to respect and value themselves enough to make their own good decisions on dress and behavior as they grow into their teenage years. But the most difficult thing to deal with is not changing nappies, or feeding and cooking, or the exhausting minefield of sightless household management (even the most difficult of such things are possible to overcome by letting go of pride sufficiently to ask for help, if all else fails). No, the really difficult and demoralizing challenge I face is other people's attitudes to impairment in general, and to blind parents in particular. There aren't many blind parents and we are consequently marginalized. My health visitor tells me that while she can easily get me the free Book Start pack in any of 26 languages, there is no possibility of getting it in braille/print, a combination of print and pictures with braille text that allows blind parents to read with sighted children. There is, in fact, no source of such books for sale in the UK, despite the fact that they are relatively easy to produce. Equally shocking to me was the absence of any of the NHS pregnancy and birth information in either braille, audio or electronic formats. I embarked on motherhood blind, in more than one sense. But all of this pales into insignificance when compared with the way people treat me. Traffic slows down to watch me walking with my guide dog and children. Strangers, and even friends, will seize the slightest chance to ask my husband if I can cook and change nappies. People gawk shamelessly every time I wipe a nose or tie a shoelace and openly express surprise that I am not oblivious to my children's actions when they are not physically attached to me. As Sophia grows bigger and cleverer, the suspicion among the general public that she is my carer is becoming almost tangible. Just last weekend, for instance, her adherence to the highway code prompted an admiring comment from a passer-by. I turned to smile at the onlooker, pleased that our road safety training was being appreciated, only to find the words being hurriedly bitten back, the person moving swiftly away, as they apparently drew the conclusion that the careful road-crossing was not for my three-year-old's benefit, but for mine. I am regularly quizzed about my ability to feed and clean my children, the skeptical tone of the questioning barely concealing the suspicion that it's really my husband who does everything. Some people will even ignore my girls' cries for mummy, assuming that, with a mother like me, they must be meaning daddy (which has led, on several occasions, to a gratifying clarification as their screams intensify until they are returned to me). The truth is that some aspects of blind parenting are a frustrating slog. It is, of course, harder for me than it is for other mothers to do all sorts of things. This is life as I know it, though. I am not surprised by struggle and difficulty. They are old adversaries for anyone determined not to be excluded from life by a severe disability. There are bonuses too, such as my older daughter's burgeoning vocabulary, born of the necessity to make her meaning clear to me, and the extraordinary gentleness my reared-by-touch babies regard as the norm. The only real killer is the assumption that I must be a lonely inadequate, incapable of functional living and normal family life. Sometimes, when I tell people about my children in their absence, I sense a moment's pause while they try to decide if it can be true that I have children. There is a drawing back, as though I may be in the grip of psychosis. The pause will end with a querulous countering: "But you can't see. How can you have kids?", as though I may not be aware that I am blind. This was summed up for me recently when, escaping the mayhem of a family Saturday at home, I slipped out for an hour's quiet shopping. Lurking guiltily around the designer perfumes, I overheard a woman telling her child (with no attempt to lower her voice) how lovely it was for me to have a guide dog as, "It's company for her." My response to this was, I confess, somewhat crisp. To unsubscribe send a message to accessindia-requ...@accessindia.org.in with the subject unsubscribe. 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