Including SEN as an Ofsted category would be truly outstanding

My mummy says I'm a miracle.

My daddy says I'm his special little guy.

For those unfamiliar, this is from Matilda the Musical. All the [astonishingly talented] kids sing this song and the message is simple: they’re all miracles according to their parents and thus that’s not the case and they’re actually far from unique. The one who is outstanding is the title character and her parents can’t abide her (Roald Dahl’s exceptional storytelling, complement by Tim Minchin’s witty lyrics). 

Many parents, and society in general, can often be blinkered to what stands out. With the pressures of creating an exaggerated idyllic family life on social media, this confuses the picture further. Of course, we all want our children to perform well academically, but is this truly the only measure?

I ask because the school The Boy attends maintained a “good” rating from its recent Ofsted visit. Perhaps a reflection of our relative privilege is that that’s the “worst” rating in our catchment. The other schools are one notch higher with their “outstanding” label. 

Let’s be clear here, Ofsted doesn’t just rate a school’s academic performance, there are other important categories, like child safety and how well children are protected from bullying. But in the parent questionnaire and the subsequent report, there wasn’t a mention of the school’s special educational needs (SEN) approach. Apparently, they do assess it but there was no evidence of this having any bearing on the rating. Actually, there was no evidence it was included whatsoever. 

Like us, prior to their kids starting education, I’d imagine most parents of dyspraxic children either didn’t have a clue or a confirmed diagnosis. So for us, SEN wasn’t a consideration when applying for schools. 

But how lucky we are to get only the “good” school! It’s the best for SEN in the area to the point that it lends support to pupils from those aforementioned outstanding schools. They’ve even sent teachers on courses to learn about dyspraxia and provide The Boy with the additional support he needs. This year’s teacher has perhaps not grasped it as well as last year’s, but the progress he’s made is beyond doubt. 

Ofsted felt the fact that an older class was reviewing a Shakespeare text worthy of two mentions in their report. I don’t criticise this individually but two mentions? (Yes, the Bard is impressive but many plays I’ve seen end up with characters discovering clandestine information through wearing blatantly obvious disguises! Let’s be honest, Hannibal Lecter brought the “use a disguise to get out of a tricky situation” storyline to far greater heights some 400 years later).

So much emphasis on the academic means that we see a child’s most important years from a narrow viewpoint and most children’s mummies will no doubt say their child is the miracle. 

Surely one factor of many that makes a school exceed is how well they integrate children like ours who need additional support? How well they help them to achieve their potential? How well they ensure the other children see “different” as “ordinary” (perhaps even extraordinary)?

A game of crab football

After my son’s recent sports day - during which, I’m proud to say, he did his best and smiled frequently - I walked past a game of crab football. A young boy with a more visible disability (he needs a chair for most of his mobility) was in goal. He made a super save and his teammates were screaming his name for him to throw the ball their way - the personification of integration. 

“Now that, Ofsted,” I thought to myself, “is outstanding!”

How a long-haul flight didn’t save Christmas

It’s July and it’s intensely hot, so when’s better to write about Christmas? Well, not Christmas exactly, but about sleep, sensory issues and dyspraxia.

Every Christmas Eve my son gets an average of 3-4 hours’ sleep - about 30% of what he needs. We don’t do ourselves any favours in the run up: “tidy your room or Father Christmas won’t come!”; “don’t strangle your brother because Santa will tear up that letter we made you rewrite three times and you’ll be present-less!”

Unsurprisingly, he can’t sleep for anticipation and then wakes up in a state of ecstasy at 3am, the moment his foot touches the filled stocking.

The Boy, his mother and I have had an arduous battle with his sleep. On his first ever day at home more than seven years ago, he slept for eight hours solid and a calm but firm midwife, when we phoned to ask what to do, told us: “wake him up and feed him. NOW!” That was pretty much the last time he slept continuously for three whole years.

We consulted a sleep specialist and we tried method upon method, but ultimately it was to no avail. The only way we could get him to sleep solidly was to do what everyone told us not to and take him to bed with us. We did that a lot.

Then, when he was three, he moved from a cot into a “Big Boy Bed” and - for a time at least - he started sleeping well. But he still struggles to sleep on many nights, especially at this time of year while it’s light.

When I asked him why he struggles, he explained the conflicting problems of how it was too bright and that he didn’t want the door shut. I’d just returned from a long-haul business trip so I asked him if he wanted to wear my “magic” eye mask. It works perfectly and only fails when he removes it for a secret read - which is most nights.

One of The Boy's array of eye masks

It makes more sense now. My theory is that, before the “Big Boy Bed”, the cot’s bars, shadows and other sensory stimulation sent his developing mind into overload. Coming into bed with us was the safest place to be. In retrospect I feel so guilty at the times we screamed “just sleep!” and no doubt added to an already a frightening situation.

I’m beginning to understand just how much things can stimulate his senses: the shocking noise of a hand dryer (James Dyson, you’re not that clever), the tilt of his bicycle on a kerb, the abject fear when he first attended swimming lessons, the angry ravages of hunger. He shuffles from foot-to-foot constantly to get “feedback”, and many who don’t understand call out his “fidgeting”.

I try so hard - sometimes failing dismally - to see the world through his eyes. I wonder whether it’s sometimes scary or sometimes vividly beautiful - hence his love of movies.

Occasionally, he even enjoys sleeps. And by my reckoning he’s got 165.3 of them before Christmas. 

The opener

Here’s my first confession: when we named The Boy, I made sure his initials would look right on a cricket scorecard when coupled with his last name. A career as England’s opening batsman was inevitable. And when he said his first word at nine months, correctly naming a stethoscope before 18 months, the whole thing was a done deal: “I’ve sired a prodigy!”

So when the professor paediatrician told me to “see how immature his movement is” when diagnosing The Boy with dyspraxia just before he turned 5, I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t see it - I only saw the prodigy. The warning signs to which we were oblivious - bum-shuffling straight to walking, weak muscle tone, the difficulty sleeping... my god, The. Difficulty. Sleeping - gradually started to make sense. 

Me (left) and The Boy, drawn by The Boy

Dyspraxia, aka developmental co-ordination disorder (DCD), affects the fine and gross motor capabilities of about one child per classroom and it’s more likely they’re a he. Essentially their world is a bit muddled physically, a bit clumsy and the kids can end up very anxious or sad the more they notice how much more difficult they find things than their peers. Dyspraxia is in the same family as dyslexia, ADHD and autism, and it’s not uncommon for these conditions to co-exist. The Boy only has one of these labels and we’re apparently lucky to identify it so young. 

He’s a wonderfully talented child, immersed in his own world of imagination, mainly based around movies and books. He creates many scripts for film or theatre, the promotional posters, the characters and the plot. Such creativity brings us such pleasure. 

Now that The Boy is seven, thanks to the wonderful occupational therapy profession, a good school and his hard work, his previously illegible writing improves by the day, he’s growing in confidence as a swimmer, he can pedal a bike, (despite the stabilisers remaining steadfastly attached) and he even cuts the occasional roast potato under duress with his specialist knife and fork. 

But an opening batsman? Well, let’s state the obvious: that was merely a dream for myself and I was totally incapable of fulfilling it. 

Now my dreams for The Boy are simpler: That he has a handful of very good friends throughout his life. That he brings energy and passion to the things that make him happy. That he invents his own way to do the things he finds tricky. That he remains physically and mentally healthy, yet finds the necessary resilience during the times that that’s not possible. That the inimitable smile remains on his face as he navigates the difficult path ahead.

Oh, and that he wins the Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay. OK, I’ll settle for a BAFTA.