…everybody needs good neighbours. Come on, sing it with me …
Warning – this has a rant rating that is off the scale.
My little Pwdin is not a good eater. He lives mainly on Paediasure with a few meals of buttered toast or garlic bread. He’ll sometimes eat Wotsits and, very occasionally, Burger King fries (gotta be BK). So, he regularly gets trapped wind, which results in severe colicky pain. This, usually, kicks in during the night and his remedy for it is to scream and run furious laps of his room. The rhythm and the bounce of his running acts a bit like shaking a pop bottle and he’ll release a good burp or fart and, often, that’s job done. It’s not 100% effective a method though.
This morning, about 3am, Pwdin had the wicked windies. He woke, in pain and inconsolable. Hubby and I knew this called for Calpol. Now, administering medicine to the boy is not the world’s easiest task and there was no way we were going to physically wrestle with him while at full pelt running his laps. That would cause distress, possibly put him in a position that’d make his tummy feel more uncomfortable and risk injuring one (or more) of us. Times like that we let him slow down.
A few minutes into Pwdin’s laps, just after he’d set up a self-comforting rhythm, came a banging on the boy’s bedroom wall. His rhythm was disturbed as was my son himself. To say he was terrified is no exaggeration. His screaming increased in intensity and he quickened his step, making the laps of his not huge bedroom dizzying and dangerous.
A few minutes later: more banging from next door. Same response from the Pwd.
A few minutes later still: banging at our downstairs windows and front door.
My husband answered. The “gentleman” outside could only state, “It’s 3.30 in the morning.” Wow, thanks. I knew those numbers and pointy things on that round dooberry on the wall meant something. Hubby explained we have an upset, autistic little boy. “It’s 3.30.” He said. The “gentleman” did not leave until I came down the stairs with my, “don’t go there,” face and made it quite clear that my child is registered disabled and that if he had concerns to feel free to call social services. He left.
Now I doubt very much if the fella concerned will be reading this but, just in case, let me ask you, sir, what did you think banging holy hell out of the wall would achieve? Did you think we were beating our child or abusing him in some other way and that your protest would make us stop or, at least, do so more quietly? If you think a child is being hurt then it is your duty to call the police.
“This is every night,” you stated. Actually, it used to be but now it’s more like four or five times a month. Pwdin does wake most nights but settles back with a drink of milk and a cwtch. If he doesn’t settle and isn’t in pain he’s happy with a catalogue to flick by the light of his dinosaur night light, Derek. In fact, the night before he slept all the way through from 10pm to 9am. So whatever is keeping you awake at night, it’s not my son. Wonder of you’ll have trouble with your conscience tonight. Doubt it.
And seriously, banging the wall? Would that work to stop a child crying? How? Ok, you’re tired. Hubby too. Me three. But banging the wall? I can’t get my head around that one. Then banging our windows. Was that for the neighbours’ benefit? What was that all about? Drama queen. Please note, we have a door bell. Perhaps one button technology is beyond you seeing as you seem so very proud of your time telling abilities. Well done, you.
If you had real concern about our child as, when confronted, you claimed then why the aggression. Had you knocked asking if we needed help, then I would applaud your concern. You were angry and tired and wanted to take it out on us. Knock my door again feigning concern and you will be coming in. You’ll be making coffee, tea and toast. You’ll be making a start on the chores that will need doing in the house while Pwdin is at school so I can catch up on some sleep then. Bang on my windows or the wall again and it will be me calling the police.