As I sit once again inside another hospital room, the little man lying asleep in a cot next to me, another night of vomit over, there’s something I feel I have to say.
I am a mum.
I care. I love. I hurt.
I know my child. I have held him in my arms every day – no every hour – since he was born.
I know I haven’t studied the course you have. I don’t have a degree in medicine. I am not a qualified expert.
But, I do know my child. I am an expert in him.
I know what is normal for him. And I know what isn’t.
I deserve to be spoken to. I deserve to know what you are thinking; to hear your theories and ideas. And I deserve to be listened to.
I deserve to be respected, just as you do.
My mum persona is a far cry from my teacher one.
When I walk into a room with my teacher head on, my title commands respect. People listen. Because I am the professional in the room, the objective one.
Yet, when I have that head on, I have often known the children I represent a matter of months. I am an expert. Except I’m not.
I haven’t held that child in my arms as they cry at night. I haven’t witnessed them grow, or worried about them long into the night.
That child matters to me, but they are not my world. I have other priorities, other agendas, other people to consider.
Yet I am the professional. Therefore my views matter.
When I am a mum, they matter less.
Because I am less.