Separation Anxiety – How Exciting!

Weird thing to say hey ? Tilly is going through a separation anxiety phase and if I’m honest, I’m absolutely bloody thrilled about it. At four years and nine months old, my biggest baby has started howling if I leave her at bedtime and it’s a little bit brilliant… 


If you follow me on Facebook or instagram you’ll know we had a reallly magical moment last week when Tilly let me sleep next to her for the first time in four years. It was so wonderful that I cried. 
See, since about twelve months old, Tilly hasn’t given much of a shit about me. The baby that was strapped to my chest all day and slept in my arms all night all of a sudden didn’t want me anywhere near her. Ive had to practicality throw her and run away at bedtimes as she hated me being in the room with her. Every mothering instinct in my body wanted to sleep next to my baby and soothe her to sleep, but she didn’t want me anymore. This continued for the next four years. I cannot tell you how difficult it has been to settle her to sleep in hospital, I’ve had to hide in bathrooms and pray she’d go off many many times. Not being able to settle or soothe my child to sleep in unfamiliar and strange places was hard. Really hard. 

And yet here I am. Sat on the end of my almost five year olds bed watching her drift off to sleep. It’s taken me two weeks to realise it’s me she wants, quite possibly the last thing I’d ever think of. I darent leave the room as she will scream the house down if I do…. and you know what? It’s bloody magical. I’ve seen her fall asleep a handful of times in the last four years and all of those occasions were due to masses of epilepsy drugs, one general anaesthetic (hell) and one exhausting early morning curled up together in the resus room of the child’s Ward after a night of seizures. Never very happy times. 
This is different. This time she wants me here. She finally finds comfort from my presence and wants me to be in her space even if I do keep spoiling it by sobbing (happy tears) loudly. 
This summer with Tilly has been wonderful. After a springtime of non stop hospital stays, violence, EEGs, steroids and desperate phone calls to doctors who couldn’t help me… it’s simply magical to finally be what my child needs. I finally feel like she knows I’m her mama again. 




My Mum – The Lion

Today is a very special day in my family. Today the leader of the pack, my wonderful mum, turns 50. 

 
When my brother and I were growing up, life wasn’t easy for my mum. My dad was away for long deployments and we lived 200 miles away from family down in Plymouth for the first two years of my life, moving back when my brother was a few weeks old. Life wasn’t easy, mum would count the meals in the freezer and go without meals herself to make sure my brother and I were fed. 
Eventually we moved to the house my great great grandad built on the seafront and my brother and I had the very best childhood. Full of adventures, running in and out of the sea and always surrounded by the love of our mum. From a very young age, I always knew my mum loved us unconditionally. There isn’t a thing she would not do for her family, friends and even strangers she’s never met. She is a selfless, generous and loving woman. Exactly the type of woman I hope to be. 


My teenage years were not easy. Being in an abusive relationship aged seventeen to nineteen turned me into a different person. I was not nice, I was deceitful and I lied a lot. I did things I am not proud of but still my mum was there by my side the entire time. Watching over me and caring me for at my very lowest, nursing me back to health. When the day were at their darkest and I didn’t want to be around anymore, she pulled me out of the darkness and kept me going. I owe her my life. 

Countless times, my mum has dropped everything and charged across the country to be at my side. When my friend died at university she was on the next train to Manchester, packed my room up and drove me home the next day. When my husband left me heavily pregnant, she hopped off her boat down in Devon and came straight back. No hesistation, no resentment at ruining her holiday. She came straight back, scooped me and Tilly up and took care of us at her house for a week or so. In times of crisis, I know my mum is coming and that she will be there holding my hand long after the storm has passed. 

When I fell pregnant with Tilly very soon into a new relationship, my parents did all that they could to help us. Gave us both jobs, a house and all the support we could’ve needed. Nowadays they pay for Tilly’s extra nursery hours and private therapists, nothing is too much. Last year they sold their lovely apartment to buy and renovate a house that is more suitable for Tilly. I would struggle massively as my delightful husband doesn’t contribute financially to his children’s upbringing at all, but with the help and advice of my parents, we get by and my children want for nothing. It is a blessing.
It’s not all about the material things though of course. My mum is the other parent to my children. She is the best nana in the world. Never too busy to stop everything and play. Forever taking them on adventures and giving them the same love I grew up with. My children are very lucky to have a nana who is so hands on and so much fun. They love her and their grandad so very much. Arlo and grandad have their own dinosaur egg (a rock) in the garden that hatches a new dinosaur every time he goes over there – my children love being at their house, there’s always something fun to do. During the hardest times with Tilly, I am lucky to have my mum by my side to keep on fighting and help me to keep going when I’m tired.


My mum is a lion. She does not back down. I can only fight so hard and so long for Tilly because my mum will be there next to me, guns blazing, ready to take anyone on who dares to say no.  

The lion also has a kind side, my mum would do anything for anyone. Christmas at mums house usually involves a few extra guests that had nowhere else to go. There’s always room at the table. 

I hope to be the same sort of mum to my children, I hope my children feel the same unconditional love and support that I have grown up surrounded by thanks to my mum. I hope they know I’ll get on that train too and be back in a crisis. I hope they know I’m behind them 100% and feel the same confidence to follow their dreams as I do, thanks to my mum for always believing I could do whatever I put my mind to. There’s no way I’d be starting uni next month without my mum believing that I could. 
Happy Birthday Mum. I hope you know just how much we love you. 

Dear Health Care Professionals

I wrote this little letter a year ago and just found it again over on SWAN UK so thought I’d reshare:
Dear Health care professionals,
We have a few appointments coming up next month so I thought I’d write you an open letter.

Firstly, thank you. Thank you for saving my life when Tilly was born. Thank you for looking after my baby and working your hardest to give her the very best care. I know it’s not your fault that tight budgets mean I have had to fight every single step of the way. Thank you for doing your best despite working in such difficult times. I owe you a debt I will never be able to repay.

But please remember that when you are talking about your patient, commenting that she is fascinating, calling her a mysterious enigma and throwing out possible, soul destroying conditions you think she might have … she is my child. Not her symptoms and not the misfiring electrical impulses in her brain. She is Tilly. She is my child. She is the daughter I dreamt about my whole life, she is half of my heart and there aren’t any lengths I will not go to for her.


When you diagnose things or point out what is “wrong” you are talking about my child. Casually dropping potential conditions into conversation or talking about epilepsy so matter of factly … it hurts. Yes, she has epilepsy, yes she may have an excitingly mysterious syndrome … but you cannot begin to imagine how hard those things are to hear about or deal with as a parent. Not just in the present, but also all the ifs and buts of the future and all of the how and whys of the past.

Please, health care professionals, please remember that your patient is my child. My Tilly.


More than that. She is a person, her own person. With her own wants and needs. She loves Mr Tumble, listening to you sing and clap and sleeps stroking the ears of Ewan the sheep. She loves hands, sit and rub her hands and she will love you forever. She likes baths and swimming in the sea and being swung as high as possible on the swings at the park. She has the most infectious laugh in the world and wiggles her little bum and flaps her arms when she walks. She eats. BOY does she eat, it’s impressive how much such a small child can eat. She is a person. Not your 2pm appointment, not a statistic or a NHS number or a box to tick. A person, a beautiful, glorious, life changing wonderful person. She is Tilly, not just your patient.

No More Gingers

Growing up, the one thing I always wanted to be was a mum. I wanted four children, girl, boy, boy, girl. I’d drive a big people carrier or a minibus because we’d have two big dogs too. Life would be chaotic and loud and full to the brim with love. We’d go on adventures in the woods and on the beaches and we’d have a big tent with bedrooms. Much of this was modelled on my own childhood, I grew up next door to my best friend and her family, we were one big happy family and my fondest memories involve climbing up big hills and belly laughing lying down in tents blown almost horizontal in torrential rain. It was a great childhood. I wanted my own children to have the same noisy, lovely upbringing. 
But things don’t always end up as planned. I can’t have any more children. Two will be my lot. I had my last child aged just 24. It’s been something I’ve always struggled to come to terms with. 

Having four children four and under for the night/morning this weekend showed me just how chaotically lovely it is to have a house full of children. Having all those lovely little faces around my dining table for mealtimes was lovely. A good excuse for more sleepovers I reckon. 
I can’t have more children for a few reasons, mainly because I don’t know what is wrong with Tilly. She is undiagnosed and so I don’t know what her life will look like long term. I don’t know if her condition will cause her to regress again, I don’t know if it will kill her and I don’t know if it would be worse for a boy. I don’t know if I caused it, so I don’t know if I would pass the same condition onto future children.
 Tilly’s delays are difficulties are profound and challenging, I know I could not cope with another child with the same. 
I can’t have a baby because Tilly is so violent that it would not be safe. 
I can’t have a baby because I can’t stretch myself far enough. Tilly needs as much, if not more, care than a newborn and Arlo is a diva in his own right. I don’t think I could split myself into anymore parts. 
It’s a difficult one to think about. The thought of never feeling another baby rolling around inside of me and never breastfeeding again is hard. 
Bizarrely, I work with newborns and that doesn’t phase me in the slightest, it’s more watching the way sibling interact or how Arlo plays with other children that gets me. Tilly is trying her absolute best to be play and be gentle at the moment but there’s still a very long way to go. I wish Arlo would have the same as I had with my brother, a sidekick, sparring partner and confidante. 
So yes, unless Tilly’s condition is discovered and declared de novo (a genetic one off) and her care needs and violence dramatically decrease, there will be no more gingers. Unless I get a cat 🐱 

Hopefully we will have a childhood full of sleepover and friends instead ❤

Blackberry Picking and Nervous Shits – An Unexpected Tale. 

Hold tight. Here we go. 
I stupidly set myself a challenge this summer to be #brave 🙄 and carpe the diem! No more hiding in the safe confines of the house or the local park. The Unexpected family are on a stupid mission to break down the invisible barriers of single parenting a volatile SEN child and her arsehole brother. So we began. 
Today it has been chucking it down here in sunny Costa Del Gosport. Seeing as Tilly kindly broke the TiVo box and I “spring cleaned” (read as drank a glass of wine and threw out a lot of stuff) all the good DVDs… the paw patrol DVD on loop was wearing thin by the middle of the morning. I probably would’ve called it a PJ day but it’s likely I would’ve chucked the TV or a child out of the window if I had to ponder why there’s a town somewhere where they rely on a child and his puppies to save them from ridiculous events every day. Where are Ryder’s parents? Are they dead? Why hasn’t anyone commented on the mayor being unstable…? Is it all symbolic of the afterlife? Why is there only one girl pup? The questions go on and on and on. So PJ day was cancelled. Plus I had this stupid #brave challenge to do. Ugh. 
Much screaming, sweating, shouting and wrestling later, all three small gingers were loaded up into the car ready to take the pup for a walk. We got there, I managed to unload and rebuilt the massive buggy complete with stupid buggy board and massive raincover and loaded children onto it and off we went. Ten paces down the path into the woods I realised my first mistake. I was wearing sliders. Bloody sliders. In wet and windy woods. The kids were wrapped up in their coats and wellies and there I was, in just a dress and sliders, I had forgotten to pack myself anything practical. The ultimate symbol of motherhood that. We will pretend it was my self sacrifice and not my utter lack of preparation that caused this. 
For the next half an hour or so, all was well. Arlo enjoyed every puddle, Tilly enjoyed sitting in her chariot and the dog enjoyed his ball. Off we wandered into the woods and up the hill. Lovely. A few ankle deep puddles, but as it turned out, sliders are great for the woods, my feet were dry again in minutes. Score. 

It was on the way back that disaster struck. About five minutes from the car was a little bridge over a river/duck pond with a little island about four metres from the path. Determined to tire the dog out, I threw the ball into the pond for a few minutes whilst he dove in and brought it back. Then for some unknown reason, the stupid pea brain decided to get up onto the little island and then decided he was stuck. Here he is: 

Cue chaos. One dog woofing and crying. One Arlo attempting to drown himself in the pond and one Tilly joining in with the noise for good measure. A crowd formed, well meaning dog walkers offered suggestions on how to get the stupid dog to remember he could indeed swim and hop off the little island and come back. Oh no. The dog continued to cry and bark. And then it happened. Right in front of a whole crowd of people, my darling dog, the one I take loving pictures of and post all over instagram, projectile shat ALL OVER the little island. Ever seen the exorcist? Yeah. Like that. Mortified. “Bless him he must be nervous” one dog walker kindly remarked. Yeah, nervous I was going to drop kick him into the swans and let them eat him. 😑
 He continued his one dog drama show for another ten minutes, whilst I calculated whether or not I liked him enough to wade out and get the idiot ( I don’t, that was never happening) until finally another dog stole his ball and he jumped in like it was no bother at all. Little bastard. He trotted off up the path, oblivious to the thirty minute shit show hed just staged. Bastard. 
Things improved, I introduced Arlo to the art of blackberry picking “red ones make you poo, low ones taste like doggy wee” was our mantra and now I will be spending the next fortnight trying to get blackberry stains out of Tilly’s clothes 😣.

Still, week one of #brave challenge done and no one died so… job done ✅ 

5 Things I Really Need To Get Over (And Maybe You Do Too?)

So, I’ve been thinking a lot lately. College is over and I have a LOT more free time. I don’t do free time. I don’t like it. I obsess over things. You might have noticed I’m having a serious bout of writers block and spend a lot of time sulking that I don’t have anything interesting to say anymore. 
Time to calm my tits. 🍉 🍉. So here are ten things I really do need to consider chilling the f out about: 

1.

Comparing my children to others. This one I’ve mastered with Tilly. She is one of a kind and dances to her own beat. Arlo is a neurotypical (fancy word for does not have special educational needs) and I’m getting a bit too obsessed about what other children his age are upto. He never does as he’s told, screams blue murder when he doesn’t get his own way and is generally a bit of a tyrannical arsehole. Why is every other kid in the cafe sat eating nicely whilst mine puts on a tragic performance worthy of the West End about sodding chicken nuggets. I’ve simply decided to accept my child is an arsehole and will just eat his nuggets for him in future, ungrateful swine. 
2.
Every now and again I go through a real slump in my self image. My current hang ups are that I don’t like any of my clothes, my hair is boring, my make up skillz are sub par and I have no clue on accessorising. I’m feeling a bit frumpy and boring and really need to stop foaming at the mouth with jealousy at all the fabulous embroidered blouses and pompoms I’m seeing all over instagram. Time to get over it. I’m built like a Viking, if I wore an embroidered blouse, instagram models would glamp under me. 

3. 
Another whingefest of mine at the moment is that everyone else seems to have their shit together whilst I’m winging it precariously through life wondering when everyone is going to cotton onto me not being a proper grown up. I know full well that the rest of you are secret giant children too… but still I grump on. All of my friends are getting married and engaged and have lovely sofas… I can’t persuade my husband to divorce me and my sofa smells of dog and wee.
4.
Bloody instagram. It started as a joke, I wanted free clothes and to take wanky flat lay photos… now I’m obsessed with instagram mum bloggers and don’t understand why my instagram following is so small. Who doesn’t love looking at pictures of my stupid dog and my brunch? I really do need to get over my instagram hump. I bleat on all the time about how stupid it is to believe the instaperfect glow… but I really need a fancy wall to pose in front of and I really need free clothes from Zara. 
5. 
This is probably the biggest one. I need to get over my FOMO fear of missing out. I sit on my smelly dog and wee soaked sofa in my pyjamas and look through my Facebook and bloody instagram and see all these lovely weddings and dinners and parties. FOMO is in full force. The most stupid part of that is that I LOVE sitting on my smelly sofa in my pjs watching Netflix. 

So there you have it, five things I really do need to build a bridge and get over. Have a word. 🍉. 

Dear Prime Minister… An Open Letter. 

Dear Prime Minister,
I was challenged to write you a letter so here goes. 

Almost five years ago, I gave birth to a beautiful little girl called Tilly. Tilly, as it turns out, was not your average baby. Tilly is disabled. Oh yes prime minister, it’s a letter about people with disabilities. Good grief. 
From very early on, I have faced endless battles to get my child the care and support she needs. Every. Single. Referral (That I had to beg and cry for) was a flat no. They couldn’t help. Another time. Every. Single. Time. I’ve had to beg and cry and persist, calling over and over and over again until I could get a referral to physiotherapy, occupational therapy, wheelchair services etc etc. The list goes on. All services she needs. All services that had to say no first of all. 
Did they want to say no? Of course not, the NHS professionals are an incredible bunch of people. They work so hard to give what they can to the patients they support despite being massively over stretched and massively underfunded. Strong and stable my arse. Did you know that a few weeks after a weeks long stay in hospital, when she couldn’t sit, let alone walk, one service discharged her because her therapist was going on maternity leave and there was no one to cover for her. I could (and have done so) cry rivers for the incredible nurses, therapists and doctors who support my child despite the dire circumstances. 
Every single month I face lengthy battles to get hold of professionals, to pin down over worked doctors to come up with plans for my child’s epilepsy and future. Three times now, I’ve been told that I cannot have respite support for my disabled child as a single mother as  

“Any single mother would struggle with any two young children. “

I can guarantee you that what they really meant is: “you need to have a major breakdown or we cannot help you, we don’t have the funds to help you”. I am one of the lucky ones, my mental health has remained in tact, but I am not surprised so many in my position crumble. Its a tough gig, constant fight or flight mode. 

Do you know how hard that is? Do you know how hard it is to put on your battle armour and fight tooth and nail for the basics for your child when you’re dealing with the exhausting realities of raising a disabled child? It’s hard enough having to watch your child have a seizure, it’s even harder having to write in great detail about their epilepsy to prove they are epileptic enough for the DWP, more on that in a while. 

Now let’s talk about money. Cold, hard cash. It’s quite frankly an insult that carers receive £62.70 a week but only if they are caring for someone for more than 35 hours a week are you joking? That’s £1.71 an hour for 35 hours a week. It’s okay though, as we can earn a whopping £116 a week as well. That’s a cracking £178.70 a week. Good eh? Not only that, if you can’t work, cos you know… you’re spending 35+ hours a week caring for someone… they put you through humiliating appointments at the job centre where you are treated like a lazy lay about. 

“But don’t you want to work?”

I was once asked whilst sat there with my newborn curled up on my chest and my disabled toddler sat screaming next to me. Oh how I loved that one. I do work now as it turns out, I am worse off for it but at least I don’t have to sit through that anymore. 

Let’s not forget the three months I was left without thousands of pounds because HMRC decided to end my tax credits with a days notice and accused me and thousands of other single parents (ah yes, I’m one of those single mums, my husband left me whilst I was pregnant. Life choices hey) of being fraudulent. Three hellish months where I survived on the good faith of my family and friends. I saw others relying on food banks and suicidal because they couldn’t even feed their children. 
Next. DLA. Disability living allowance. That’s a good scheme. It’s helpful. If you can get it. Applying for DLA is vile. The whole process is vile. Every question must be answered in an exact way to tick the box… but the way is never revealed. You have to prove your child is disabled enough for them. You have to write in minute detail exactly how your child is not like others. It’s a very painful process, especially knowing that the person assessing it is desperately trying to trip you up. They have targets to beat after all. I have sobbed many tears over DLA forms and still have to fill in more. It’s soul destroying. 
Every single day, in almost every way, my disabled child’s life is affected by you and your government. My child and my family have to battle on because you don’t care about us. People with disabilities are not important to you. They aren’t seen as people and they don’t have a voice. 
Except they do. And we will never stop shouting. You learn to become a warrior when your child is disabled and that comes in very handy. 
People with disabilities deserve equality and their families and carers deserve support. 
We shouldn’t have to fight, scream and shout to get the basics for our children. 
We shouldn’t be made to feel like lay abouts, benefit cheats or fraudsters. 
We deserve support and respect. Support and respect we do NOT currently receive. 

I will never stop campaigning for equality, for fairness and for adequate support and provisions. Not now, not ever. 

Prime Minister. That’s all I have to say.

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Back to Reality with a Bump

I’ve had a whole week off from parenting. The kids went to Devon and I spent five days in Cornwall with my college friends celebrating getting into university – have I mentioned that yet?  

Thrown back into the deep end this week with appointments every day. Arlo had his transition meeting at preschool and met his new keyperson, he had a whale of a time and will, no doubt, move over to the “big boy” side over the summer. One of his first key persons from when he started aged 10 months reminded me of how much baby Arlo enjoyed his farm animal sounds and would be heard mooing and baaing all day long 😂 
Next up we have Tilly’s final transition day at special school. I’ve been told that her new teachers are already smitten and very keen to learn about and understand her so I’m feeling less terrified than I was a few weeks ago. She will be in the smaller, higher needs class and will be trying without 1:1 care but we shall see how that goes 😬 

Then we have her home visit for school, here’s hoping that I can make it look like three terrors (inc dog)  and their equally terrorising mother don’t live there… they don’t need to know how unorganised the chaos is just yet…

And finally, a taster session at a centre for children with neurological disorders to see if they can help with some conductive education, either alongside school or with part time school if they feel that would work for her. 
And breathe. 

Goodbye Keppra 

Tilly was diagnosed with epilepsy back in January 2016 after a long weeks stay on the Starfish Ward at QA hospital in Portsmouth. After a disastrous trial of carbemazapine, when Tilly reacted terribly to a very low dose and could barely sit, let alone stand or walk, she was put onto a drug called Keppra. After ten months of very little change, she started to go downhill, her absences were longer and her behaviour got worse. She started on epilim alongside the keppra. 
It didn’t work. 
Things got worse. EEGs showed constant seizure activity and that at night, she was not asleep, she was seizing all night instead. I had always loved watching her sleep, it was a terrible blow to realise that she wasn’t safe and happy in her dreams like I had so hoped. Six weeks of steroids commenced.
They did not work. 
She was hungry and angry hangry all of the time and pretty unbearable to be around. So, she was started on clobazam, even more drugs poured into her tiny body.
They did not work. 
She was, to put it simply, high as a kite, and more spaced than ever. Another emergency appointment with her neurology team and I took her off of the clobazam immediately and we agreed to wean Tilly off of the keppra. 

The change has been incredible. Tilly has said her first sounds in context. Buh for bubbles. Buh for ball. Tilly is starting to understand what I’m saying to her. Mentioning the swings or icecream at bedtime last night caused happy squeaks and leg kicks. 

Today was Tilly’s first day keppra free for 19 months. The relief and the guilt is utterly intertwined. 
Relief that she’s come down from huge amounts of epilepsy meds to just one without having a massive seizure and hospital admittance. It is a fine line and I am terrified that I’ll push her over it. But the improvement to her quality of life and mood, for now, is worth the risk. I found her cackling her head off this afternoon after getting underneath her bed. I can tell you that she was NOT aware that there was a space under her bed before now. It’s quite exciting how much she’s noticing and delighting in. 

Guilt because I’ve been drugging my child up to the eyeballs for the last year and a half and as it turned out, they were making her much, much worse. 

There is no current future plan. Her team are at a loss and her appointment with the consultant at the next hospital isn’t until October now. I am going to ring her epilepsy nurse on Monday to discuss alternative therapies for her.
Epilepsy is an awful condition but I am determined to find the right balance for my girl. 

“Failing”

I’ve always been a big believer in the power of words. Today marks four years since I was told that my nine month old baby was “failing to thrive”.

Failing. 

I was failing her and so she wasn’t thriving. I went home and I sobbed. It had been nine months of weekly weigh ins, weekly “why don’t you give her a bottle?”, weekly insisting that there was something wrong with my baby, they were wrong, she wouldn’t catch up. My wonderful health visitor was the only professional person who took me seriously and did her one year check early to start referrals to the specialists. The GP was the one to tell me my child was failing to thrive and he referred her to the growth paediatrician. The only referral that was successful. Every other service came back and said no. They would not help yet. My wonderful health visitor battled with them all until they accepted she needed their help.

Funnily enough, the growth paediatrician was the only positive aspect. She wasn’t failing, she was just small. But I sat in her office and begged her to check Tilly. My ‘failing’ baby had no reflexes and it was mentioned she may not walk. It was a very difficult time and another seven months before she saw any of the services she needed.
The word failure swam around in my mind for a long, long time. I took it personally. I had failed her. I was her main caregiver so it was my fault somehow. Maybe I didn’t interact with her enough? She was sick almost constantly so would stay upright and strapped to my chest to keep as much milk in as possible. Did I harm her by doing that? Should I have left her to scream in pain on the floor to work on her muscle tone?
Not only that, but they had described my baby as a failure. My perfect, wonderful baby. I was heartbroken.

Four years later, Tilly has profound learning difficulties, is officially classed as disabled and has uncontrolled epilepsy. Would I class her as failing to thrive?

Never. 

My girl is a warrior. She’s never failed at anything. She’s fought tooth and nail to be the very best she can be no matter what has been thrown at her. She has low muscle tone and very flexible joints yet has learnt to walk multiple times and gets stronger every day. She has epilepsy that charges through her brain constantly yet still pushes on to learn new skills.

Tell me exactly what part of that is failing to thrive?

I hope that one day doctors will stop using such a hurtful and unneeded term. Use the word delayed. Delayed gives hope. Not yet, but one day. Failure is a cruel word to describe anyone. Words are powerful, use them wisely.

My girl is NOT failing to thrive. My girl is incredible.