My son, Theo, turned seven in January. I’m officially no longer an amateur when it comes to fighting to get his needs met. My boxing gloves are scuffed, worn and I could probably do with a new pair — I’ve thrown quite a few punches in my time.
Theo was born prematurely at 29 weeks with a postnatal diagnosis of Down’s Syndrome. This path — this different path — has been fulfilling but it’s also exhausting. Exhausting because of the broken care system, not because of Theo, who lights up my life every single day.
