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Elias kneels on the floor, casually side-eyeing the offending yellow balloon to his left that will later become his downfall There are certain parenting milestones you picture in your head long before they happen. First steps. First words. First tooth. And then there are the milestones you absolutely do not picture. Like your child launching himself face-first into a wooden floor via an exploding birthday balloon and losing a tooth in the least magical way imaginable. Yet here we are. Because of Elias’ developmental delay, even getting his first teeth felt delayed compared to other children. He didn’t get his first tooth until he was around 14 months old. We’d also been told not to expect him to start losing teeth until closer to seven years old. So naturally, at the age where other children are still proudly showing off fully intact toddler smiles, Elias decided to speedrun the experience. It started over the bank holiday weekend during celebrations for his younger brother’s birthday. The house was full of balloons, sugar, noise, and chaos. Elias with his face pressed into the balloon Elias loves balloons. Obsessed with them. Holding them, bouncing them, lying on them. All standard Elias behaviour. So when he started playing on one, none of us thought twice about it. Until it exploded. If you’ve ever seen a child completely lose all sense of gravity and bodily control in one split second, you’ll understand the kind of panic that follows. One moment he was happily playing, the next he had gone down face-first onto our wooden floor with an almighty thud. There were immediate cuddles, immediate tears, immediate guilt. Standard parenting procedure. At first, I thought we’d escaped with just a nasty bump. It wasn’t until a few moments later that I looked down and realised my entire top was covered in blood. And then I saw one of his front teeth had been pushed back up into the gum. That was the exact moment my brain exited the chat. While my partner attempted to calmly talk me down from what can only be described as a full internal medical catastrophe spiral, I sat on the phone to 111 trying to explain what had happened through sheer panic. Then came the part every parent of a child with additional needs knows all too well: repeating your child’s entire medical history over and over again to different professionals. Two emergency dentist trips followed. Every appointment started the same way: “Yes, he’s developmentally delayed.” “Yes, he’s deaf.” “Yes, he has additional needs.” “Yes, communication can be difficult.” “No, he won’t tolerate that.” By the time we finally got through the bank holiday weekend and into our wonderful local community dental team for children with additional needs, I felt like I’d completed some kind of emotionally exhausting NHS side quest. And then, two days later, we woke up and the tooth was simply… gone. Not loose. Not hanging on dramatically. Gone. Vanished into thin air. Or more realistically, into Elias. Now, many people kindly suggested I could “check” for it. I want to make it very clear that there is not a maternal instinct on this earth strong enough to make me root through toddler poo searching for a tiny blood-covered tooth like some sort of deranged archaeologist. So unless that tooth plans on reappearing with its own witness statement, we are officially considering it lost forever. There was no tiny tooth fairy letter. No magical coin under the pillow. Honestly, I’m not even sure Elias would understand why a mystical nighttime burglar was exchanging body parts for money anyway. Elias smiles at the camera, a noticeable gap where his two front teeth would be. Instead, there were just a lot of cuddles, a traumatised mother, and a very gummy little smile where his front tooth used to be. And perhaps that’s the thing about parenting children with complex needs. Even the milestones don’t happen the way you expect them to. The stories are messier. The emotions are bigger. The plans are irrelevant. Sometimes your child loses their first tooth not in a sweet primary school photo moment, but because a birthday balloon betrayed your entire family (every balloon was round up and burst immediately after the incident in retribution). And sometimes you discover that in a crisis, one parent becomes the calm, reassuring voice of reason… while the other one is mentally drafting NHS complaint forms, Googling “can toddlers survive without teeth”, and trying not to pass out into a puddle of their own anxiety. For the record, I was the second parent. Absolutely useless.

It's that time of year again. Calendars have been cleared. Snack boxes prepared. A carefully colour-coded diary of appointment times has been consulted. We are, once again, entering what I can only describe as the Quarterly Business Review season of parenting a child with additional needs. That two-week window where every single specialist, consultant, and therapist on the planet simultaneously decides it is time to Check In On The Asset. Audiologist. Physiotherapist. Paediatrician. Ophthalmology. EHCP review. The occasional wildcard, like someone ringing to ask if we've "noticed any changes" since last time, which, yes, actually, a few, but I've only got fifteen minutes in a car park to tell you about them. It is, frankly, indistinguishable from a board meeting. There's an agenda. There are action points. Someone asks if the previous action points were completed and the honest answer is: some of them, yes; others, no, because life happened and also I forgot to order that specific piece of equipment for six weeks because it required a form I didn't know existed. I might start going in with slides. (I haven't actually made slides. But I feel like I should have slides). The format is remarkably consistent across departments. We open with a recap of last quarter's performance, which is a polite way of saying: has he grown, has he regressed, has he done anything unexpected that we should log. There's a round of applause for the wins, which in our case tends to sound like me saying "he's doing really well actually" in a voice that is approximately 40% bravado. Then we move into challenges, risks to monitor, and a forward-looking plan. Someone writes something in a system I will never have access to. We shake hands and agree to reconvene in three to six months. And then we do it all again. Every quarter. Like clockwork. The funniest part, if you can call it funny (which I'm choosing to), is that none of these appointments talk to each other. They are separate companies with competing interests who have all decided to hold their AGM in the same fortnight. The audiologist does not know what the physio said. The physio does not know what the paediatrician said. I am, in every meaningful sense, the executive assistant who has read all the briefing documents and is sitting in the middle of the org chart, trying to ensure everyone is aligned on the key deliverables. The key deliverable being, of course, my son. Elias, for his part, is completely unbothered by any of this. He treats each appointment with the energy of someone who has just been pulled into yet another meeting that could have been an email. He tolerates the observations, endures the measurements, and then immediately gets on with his actual priorities, which are giggling uncontrollably at some small thing and conducting a thorough investigation into what happens when you roll a ball under the sofa repeatedly. I respect that. Keep your eyes on what matters. What I've learned, after years of these reviews, is that there's actually something quietly reassuring about them too, even when they pile up and the diary looks like a corporate hellscape. Because underneath all the forms and the waiting rooms and the "so, what are your concerns at this stage?", what's actually happening is a room full of people who are, in their own clinical, professional, slightly-too-much-jargon way, invested in how Elias is doing. That's not nothing. That's actually quite a lot. So yes. QBR is upon us. The meetings have been scheduled. The questions have been prepared. The snacks for the waiting room have been sourced. Let's run through the numbers.

Let me paint you a picture. It's a Saturday morning. We're in Morrisons. Elias is doing his Thing — the hum. The beautiful, resonant, full-body hum that he produces when he's happy, which sounds somewhere between a didgeridoo warming up and a small engine failing. He is ecstatic . He is also, periodically, smacking himself cheerfully on the side of the head, because apparently that's where the good sensory feedback lives, and honestly, fair enough. And I, his devoted, exhausted, deeply caffeinated mother, am doing my  Thing. Scanning. Always scanning. I am basically a human perimeter defence system at this point. Eyes flicking left, right, ahead. Clocking every raised eyebrow, every micro-expression, every person who glances our way for a millisecond longer than feels comfortable. My jaw is set. My shoulders are up somewhere near my ears. I have the energy of someone who has already rehearsed seventeen different responses to seventeen different comments that haven't happened yet and probably won't. I am ready . I am vigilant . I am a lioness, and Elias is my cub. Suddenly, the man by the milk catches my eye. He looks at Elias. He looks at the joyful, rhythmic head-slapping. He looks back at me. And he smiles . Not a pitying smile. Not a "bless you, you poor thing" smile. Just a smile. Like he's seen a small boy enjoying himself enormously and found it delightful. Which, to be fair, it is. Elias is excellent  at enjoying himself. And I, warrior mother, defender of my child, ready for anything, am completely, utterly thrown. I probably blinked at him like a startled owl. I may have done an awkward half-nod. I definitely moved away faster than necessary, because kindness I wasn't braced for is somehow harder to receive than the hostility I'd already mentally pre-fought. This is the absurdity of it, isn't it? We prepare so hard for the worst that we sometimes can't even receive  the best. When you have a child with additional needs, you develop what I like to think of as Protective Parent Syndrome. A condition characterised by a permanent low-level threat assessment, a hair-trigger for perceived judgement, and an absolutely exhausting  internal monologue that runs on a loop every time you leave the house. That woman looked over. Why did she look over? Is she going to say something? What will I say if she says something? But what if she's not even thinking what I think she's thinking? What if she's just wondering if we have the same coat? (Spoiler: she was wondering about the coat). The mental load of it is staggering. We are simultaneously trying to support our children, read the room, manage sensory environments, anticipate needs, and fight an imaginary army of disapproving strangers who, more often than not, simply do not exist. We are exhausted by a war that mostly isn't happening. And the thing is, and I want to say this gently because I know how hard-won this realisation is, most people are fine. Actually fine. Not performing fine. Not biting their tongue fine. Just fine. They see Elias humming with the frequency of a tuning fork and they think: oh, happy kid.  They see him doing his little percussive head thing and they think: children are wonderfully weird, aren't they.  They see the two of us navigating the world on our own particular terms and they think, (if they think anything at all): good for them. Some of them, the ones who know, give you The Nod. Fellow parents of kids with additional needs, you know the one. It says: I see you. I've been in that Morrisons. I've scanned those faces. You're doing brilliantly.  It contains multitudes. It has kept me going on days when very little else has. And some of them are just genuinely happy to see a little boy living his best life. Because children experiencing pure joy are, objectively, one of the nicest things in the world to witness, even when that joy is expressed via unconventional sound effects. So here's what I'm working on. Notice I said working on , not cracked , because let's be honest. 1. Notice the armour going on. The moment the shoulders creep up and the jaw sets and the scanning starts, notice it. You don't have to immediately put it all down, but just noticing creates a tiny bit of space between you and the threat response. You are not in danger. You are in a soft play café with slightly sticky tables. 2. Let good things land. When someone smiles, let the smile actually arrive. Don't immediately explain it away or brace against it. Someone was kind. You can receive that. You're allowed. 3. Remind yourself what you're actually protecting. You want to protect your child from judgement and unkindness. Completely valid. But you're also, inadvertently, protecting yourself from experiencing the good stuff: the solidarity, the sweetness, the strangers who genuinely just think your kid is great. Don't armour yourself against that too. 4. Save the energy. Because here's the uncomfortable truth: the armour is heavy . Carrying it everywhere means you arrive at every outing already half-depleted, which makes the actual hard moments, the ones that occasionally, really do happen, harder to navigate with grace. Pick your battles. Don't pre-fight the ones that exist only in your head. 5. Live in his moment, not yours. Elias is not worried about the man in the milk aisle. Elias is humming. Elias is radiant . While I am running threat assessments, he is simply being alive in the most committed, whole-hearted way possible. Sometimes the most useful thing I can do is put down the perimeter defence and just be there with him, in the hum, in the joy, in the Morrison on a Saturday morning. That's where the good stuff is. The world is not always kind. I know that. There will be days, and there have been days, when someone does say something, when the look is  what you feared it was, when you need every bit of that fierce protective love to show up and handle it. But it happens less than we expect. And in the meantime, we are spending an enormous amount of our finite, precious energy guarding against shadows. Elias is happy. Elias is loud  about being happy, in the best possible way. And somewhere in the milk aisle, a stranger thought that was worth smiling at. I'm trying to let that be enough. I'm trying to put the armour down, just a little, and smile back.

Find a curated collection of expert articles, guides, and tools designed to support you at every stage of parenting. Empower yourself with knowledge and practical advice to navigate the complexities of raising children with confidence. OurResources . Filter by Content Select Content Apply Filters Reset Filters Filter by Tags Select Tags Blog How Not to Lose Your First Tooth Elias lost his first tooth after a birthday balloon accident, emergency dentists and one very panicked mum trying to hold it together. Blog Put Your Armour Down, Mama Parenting a child with additional needs means expecting the worst. But what if most people are actually, quietly, rooting for you? Blog Why Hospital Staff Are Central to Family Care My first birthday as a parent was spent in ICU with Elias. But a cake and group of nurses reminded me that hospital staff hold families together Article BBC: Postcode Lottery of Parenting Early childhood, an important stage in determining a child's long-term future, is also a period that can get lost in our national politics. Blog Q1: Is Your Child Still Operational? The quarterly business review season of parenting a child with additional needs. Audiologist. Physio. Paediatrician. All at once. Obviously. Blog The SEND White Paper: Families Are Still in the Dark. The government finally published its SEND White Paper. But the one question every parent needed answered? Still unanswered. Blog What having a disabled child really does to a relationship It's not a lack of love that strains a reltionship after diagnosis; it's exhaustion, grief and doing an impossibly hard job Blog Why Inclusive Grottos Matter More Than We Realise A signing Santa. A child fully included. One small thing that made Christmas magic feel possible for our family. Resource Top tips for an inclusive Easter egg hunt For disabled people with complex needs, it’s often not the activity itself that’s the challenge, but the barriers around it. Blog Learning to Love Your Child's Solo Adventures How to help your complex needs child when all they want is space and solitude. Blog Why Speaking Up Matters An unexpected diagnosis can change everything. Why voices like Jesy Nelson's matter, and why no parent should face this alone. Blog Ruling Out the Worst When your child is non-verbal, you must rule out the worst before you can focus on the small. This is the reality of complex needs. Load More...

Discover expert EHCP support at Complex Parenting. Our dedicated page offers guidance and resources to help parents navigate the Education, Health, and Care Plan process, ensuring the best outcomes for your child's education and development. EHCPSupport . We understand the importance of advocating for your child's educational needs through the process of writing an Education, Health, and Care Plan (EHCP). We’re proud to offer first-hand expertise and support to parents undertaking the crucial task of writing an EHCP. We offer guidance and support to parents navigating this complex process, ensuring they have the tools and resources needed to effectively communicate their child's strengths, challenges, and specific requirements. “Drawing from my own experience in this process, I understand the difficulties parents face and the importance of clarity, persistence, and advocacy. Through personalised consultations, I provide guidance on articulating your child's unique needs, accessing relevant assessments, and navigating the bureaucratic complexities involved in EHCP development. With my support, parents can approach the EHCP process with confidence, armed with the knowledge and strategies needed to effectively advocate for their child's educational rights and ensure that their needs are accurately reflected in the plan. Together, we can navigate this journey with strength and determination, securing the best possible outcomes for your child's future.” Ellis Reid If you would like to discuss your current EHCP application, or just want to bounce some thoughts or ideas off someone, please use the form to get in touch. We're here to help First name* Last name Email* Write a message Do you currently have an EHCP application in progress? Yes No Submit How to Apply for an EHCP in the UK: A Guide for Parents and Guardians Applying for an EHCP can be challenging. We’re here to help navigate the process and secure the right support for your child.

Complex Parenting Group is an online community for parents of special needs children that offers expert advice, insightful articles, and practical tips to help you tackle the challenges of being a SEN parent. Empower yourself with knowledge and gain confidence in your complex parenthood journey. CPG. Log In ComplexParenting Group . Your Advocate for Additional and Special Needs Parenting Explore