How To Blog

33 Replies
  • Sit down. Think. Need an idea, need an idea.
  • Nothing.
  • Keep thinking, do some online window shopping / eat too many biscuits /  pick nose.
  • Nope. Nothing. Carry on with life.
  • Get idea. (at 4am when you seriously need to be asleep, I mean honestly, look, your kid’s gonna be awake in two hours / just before your child vomits on the cat)
  • Quickly ensure in your head that this “idea” isn’t your brain tricking you and recycling someone else’s blog post you’ve read previously and making you believe it is your own brilliance.
  • Once determined either dump stolen idea / write down original idea.
  • Find pen and paper / make note on phone.
  • Discover distinct lack of pens and paper, phone out of battery.
  • Swear.
  • Write on back of hand with eyeliner.
  • Question momentarily that taking child to nursery with “HAPPY PILLS, POEM ABOUT QUICHE, FUCKING SMUG PARENTS” scrawled up your arm may make you appear somewhat unhinged.
  • Find jumper. Deposit child.
  • Come home, quickly, very quickly tidy surface crap in house, yes, you can totally do this blogging and mum stuff.
  • Remember to never, ever open that cupboard that is now bursting with the washing up / laundry / bills / all of the above.
  • Make coffee, all writers need coffee right? Consider taking up smoking as a hobby, writers smoke too, yeah? Roll up old post it note and pretend to puff on it, really debonair.
  • Look at writing on arm for a moment. Entirely forget where the fuck you were going with “POEM ABOUT QUICHE.”
  • Realise you are hungry. Search for food. Find none. Sit down with bowl of dry, slightly stale Cheerios.
  • Think.
  • Check emails.
  • Reply to emails. Agreeing to do more blogging work, that you’ll ultimately forget about for the next two weeks.
  • Check Twitter.
  • Think of something hilarious and relatable to say.
  • Tweet about getting shit on your face this morning / the kid throwing up on the cat.
  • Watch tumbleweed roll by as your Tweet is ignored. Question whether you’re actually funny.
  • Drink more coffee.
  • Play around with different fonts on your blog.
  • Get a grip.
  • Open compose blog post thingy.
  • Stare at screen.
  • Think of 3 absolutely brilliant blog titles. Realise that you have nothing more than the titles.
  • Save each one to drafts.
  • Sigh dramatically. Have another puff on fake cigarette.
  • Look at clock. Find that you’ve somehow wasted an hour already.
  • Really stare at the screen now, you’re determined, you can do this.
  • Waste another 10 minutes trying to think of words that rhyme with quiche.
  • Scrap quiche idea.
  • Start writing about anything, you are funny, it’ll just come out naturally without you even thinking about it.
  • Realise you are not funny at all.
  • Look at photos of cats on Google to console yourself.
  • Have a little peek at blog statistics for the day, just out of interest, stats don’t matter, you don’t really care about them, you’re just curious. Find them plummeting.
  • Panic.
  • You totally have to write a post, like NOW.
  • Raid chocolate stash. Eat. Continue to eat until you feel enormously guilty and dirty.
  • Commence staring contest with empty white screen.
  • Realise you have 10 minutes before you need to leave to collect child.
  • Have a little cry.
  • Check emails.
  • Reply to emails.
  • Reluctantly put shoes on and collect bag.
  • Practice tortured artist face in mirror.
  • Wallow in self doubt.
  • Remember to disguise any evidence of chocolate binge.
  • Start walking to collect kid.
  • Find yourself attempting to be all deep and profound, making metaphors about dead flowers or road rage as you walk.
  • Swear under your breath.
  • Scare passing school children.
  • Get sucker punched with amazing idea as you’re pushing through the double doors at nursery.
  • Begin to panic that this is someone else’s blog post again.
  • Dump or keep accordingly as you’re signing the register.
  • Immediately forget idea as you’re handed accident report form and are told by the sheepish nursery lady that your kid headbutted a window, apparently attempting to squash a fly.
  • Repeat for eternity.

 

How Does Your Garden Grow?

6 Replies

Not my usual fandango, but I’m an open-minded creature. That cunning vixen Mammasaurus has conceived a lovely new linky, about all things happy, sunny and erm, gardeny. I can’t help but think that a bit of sunshine does bloody wonders for the soul, the sudden overload of green and flowers and stuff in your face can’t hurt can it?

Now, I am most certainly not a gardener, I don’t understand plants, they don’t like me, we tend to keep our distance. That isn’t to say I don’t appreciate them, I just have a scary predisposition to killing them a bit. Well. Quite a lot actually.

One thing I can do however, with mass amounts of help from Baby Bio tomato food, is grow chillies. The buggers are notoriously difficult to get through the winter, so the Habanero tree that I grew last year is no more and I’m starting afresh with these little sods.

So – onward to the photos! Of course today, the wind decided to pick up to apocalyptic strength, so the chilli plants were brought inside.

017

So, how does your garden grow? Or in my case, not grow? Go and have a look at the much more impressive green fingered offerings on Mammasaurus’ linky doodah.

 

Mammasaurus - How Does Your Garden Grow?

 

WTAF?!

14 Replies

At what point does the monumental, mind bending, bizarre, hysterical, crap your pants awesome realisation, that oh fuck, this little thing I’ve made, I’m stuck with him, and nothing’s ever gonna be the same again?

Now, I’m not referring to the screaming at small sticks of plastic – just me? – in your bathroom before it all began, it doesn’t hit you then, it can’t, your mind’s too preoccupied with itchy leg syndrome, non pasteurized eggs and sodding cot bumpers. It isn’t when your poor vuvuzela is being knitted back together once your little slime covered bundle has erupted into the world. Nor do I really buy into the idea of it being the hundreds, thousands of “moments” where it proper hits you right in the nose.

Nah.

I don’t think so anyway.

The other day, we were having an epically low-key day, I think pyjamas featured for most of it, and Cbeebies, but that’s OK, it’s allowed, cos in the secret parenting manual, you are allowed required by actual law one of these at least once a week. Fact.

Didn’t have much to do, nowhere to go, no one to see, totally bog standard, nothing to see here sort of day. Or so I thought, it appeared the Bean had different ideas, he was having none of it. Quite skillfully he managed to twist my “day off” into breathing into a paper bag by lunchtime and willing the clock to speed to a reasonable time to crack open the wine. Ya know, at least 2pm.

I got the message pretty early on, and thought it’d be wise to write a list of the – I don’t even know what the word is – I’ll let you decide.

Whilst eating breakfast, Bean turned to me in all sincerity and said, “Mum, tell me about China, I need to know about China – NOW!” As if he’d forgotten he’d undertaken some serious business in China and needed to know the ins and outs of their customs IMMEDIATELY.

He found that eating jam with a spoon straight from the jar was way more enjoyable than on toast.

He experimented with attempting to piss out of the living room window.

While playing in the garden he set about to make a “snail invention”, this involved a piece of paper, a small bucket, some grass and a large, unsuspecting snail.

After returning downstairs from THE QUICKEST WEE IN HISTORY, I PROMISE YOU, I heard Bean in the kitchen, “Ooh, thanks mum for my new ice cream!” Ice cream? What fucking ice cream? I brace myself and walk into the kitchen, expecting to find my three-year old’s face in a container of Baileys ice cream, to actually find Bean sitting on the floor, licking, LICKING LIKE A DAMN ICE LOLLY – a frozen garlic baguette akin to a fucking Cornetto.

Seriously. No words. Just no fucking words.

The main event of the day, was a grocery delivery, Bean was über keen on more “ice lollies”, but his attention was soon eclipsed by the delivery lady’s short hair. Yep. You know what’s coming. I knew what was sodding coming. And please may I insert a massive disclaimer here that I do not use gender stereotypes with Bean, ever. He knows, KNOWS, that boys can have long hair – BEAN HAS LONG HAIR FFS - and girls can have short hair if they so wish – it’s all good. But no. Of bloody course not. Bean took the opportunity to exclaim, yes exclaim, loudly, that “I’ve never seen a girl with hair like that before!”

KILL. ME. NOW.

Obvs, it didn’t help that the delivery lady was going for the butch look, and she totes looked like she wanted to hurt me for bringing up my child with my ignorant, closed-minded ideals.

OMFG PLEASE, THIS IS NOT ME, IT’S HIM, HE’S TRYING TO MAKE ME LOOK BAD BECAUSE I TOLD HIM OFF FOR PISSING OUT THE WINDOW. I’M DOWN WITH YOUR CHOICES!

And I must point out, that he chose this particular outfit to wear whilst trying to give me a nervous breakdown.

068

I rest my case.

And I think that was the day it hit me, that this wonderful, insane, hilarious little person I’ve helped to make, is here to stay, and will never allow a dull moment again. EVER.

Now, DEAR GOD get me some pink wine, STAT.

If you’d like to vote for me to reach the finals of the BiB’s in the Fresh Voice category, so I can have a day off from this mentaldom, and drink significantly more than my annual recommended allowance of pink wine, you can do by clicking that happy little button below.

NOMINATE ME BiB 2013 FRESH VOICE

 

Go the Fudge to Sleep

18 Replies

Yeah, I know the title should be Go the Fuck to Sleep, but I totally chickened out, scary trademarks and such as they are. Please don’t sue me. They don’t have Dairy Milk or Sky + in prison, do they? Better safe than sorry, innit.

Last night I spent three whole hours convincing the Bean that no, mate, honestly, there’s no witches or bears or sodding wolves in your room. Nor will there ever be, unless I really lose the plot on an epic scale and invite some in your room, and leave them there until you do go to sleep.

But let’s face it, therapy is pricey now, imagine what it’ll be like in fifteen years when Bean’s all grown up. I can’t afford that shit. So I smiled and nodded and made soothing noises until, finally, he drifted back off to dream about spiders, ice cream and bogies.

With this new addition of OMAFG MUM, IS THERE MONSTERS UNDER MAI BED?! I’ve realised that pretty much every – what shall we call ‘em? Sleep fucker – uppers? That’s about as technical as I can be at the moment. Well. We’ve had ‘em. Near enough the whole exhausting kaleidoscope of them.

I thought I’d do a top five. Imagine I’m playing some plinky plonky Muzak and have a Power Point presentation projected in the background. And before you protest, I know it’s a total cliché to complain about how our little ankle biters sleep. In life BB (Before Bean) I thought these hollow-eyed mums and dads were exaggerating, I reckoned the parenting manuals were scare mongering, I dunno, maybe they’d been given some money by Starbucks (other coffee houses are available ladies and gents) on the sly so all this sleep disturbance resulted in us sustaining our miserable, so tired you can’t feel your own face existences by hooking up IV’s of hazelnut lattes and snorting Columbia’s finest Arabica coffee beans to regain some semblance of erm, something, anything.

I’ve learnt the hard way that actually, no, they aren’t being all melodramatic, they’re underplaying it. Times a gazillion. We all know that when you’re eighteen, you don’t need any actual kip, all you’re doing is pretending to read some books and fluking your way through an exam or two, drinking an elephant’s bodyweight in questionable alcopops and straightening your hair way too much.

But it seems, apparently, that raising a miniature person, you do need even just a tiny bit of shuteye.

Sod selling the poor parents these magical baby sleep books, regimenting the fruit of their loins and teaching them to sleep, we’re so fucking tired we can’t even spell our own names, but read a book? READ A BOOK? That would involve me moving and turning on the bedside lamp which will wake the little imp up who if you hadn’t noticed, is asleep on my face, attempting to tear my earlobes from my head with his tiny pincher-like grip, I dunno, it’s comforting for him or something.

Sleep fucker – uppers, what’s the deal?

Night terrors.

Yeah, those bastards. You bolt upright in the middle of the night at the earth shattering sound of your child screaming. And you know it’s not the usual screaming, screaming because he wants to play Angry Birds or have an Mini Milk at 4am or the sheer horror of finding his parent person asleep. No. Proper screaming. As if the bogeyman did leap from their wardrobe and try to eat them. They’re still asleep, they run around and scream some more, they want nothing to do with you, it’s utterly horrifying. It can take forever to coax them back to bed and convince them that it’s OK, sweetheart. I read somewhere that telling your sprog who is in the crosshairs of a night terror that it isn’t real, and that it’s just a dream, doesn’t help the poor sods. To them it is real. Completely real. Shooing out the badness is a way that helps the little ones believe it’s over. Something they can see. Pretend to chuck the bastard bogeyman out the window or kick him out the door. Dust your hands off with a relieved sigh for extra believability. Once you’ve secured the child safely, and calmly back under their Moshi Monsters duvet, proudly pat yourself on the back and knock back a gin for having nerves made of pure reinforced steel.

Separation anxiety.

This is a good’un. “But I’m gonna miss you when I’m asleeeeeep.” That old chestnut. Not much can be said for this but telling your kid that, “No dude, really, I’m sitting on the sofa picking my nose and playing Candy Crush, I might pluck some ingrown hairs from my legs in a bit, nothing to see here, save yourself and go to sleep”. That and feel a bit awesome, you’re obvs so good at your job your spawn can’t even sleep without missing you. You fucking rock.

Bed wetting.

I can’t help but find that creeping into the pitch black of your child’s bedroom in the dead of night to pat their arse, a tiny bit wrong. To check if their little bladders have had an evac. More often than not, they won’t wake up, nevermind tell you, it seems that sleeping in the sickening warmth of their own piss is rather relaxing so we must go on our nightly missions to see for ourselves. I find dressing Bean in a scuba suit for bed helps.

Daylight.

DAYLIGHT SAVINGS BASTARDOS. You know when the clocks change, there’s the good one and the bad one. When you’re a parent, switch ‘em. The good one, the one where we allegedly gain an extra hour of wondrous sleep? Fuck off, get rid of that idea. Chuck it out of the window with the sleep terror monsters. Thing is, no one told your kid about daylight savings time, that this stupid made-up bi-annual rule is some bollocks about farming or something. Your kid doesn’t care. Your kid sees daylight peering through the cracks of the blackout blind at 5am and decides that this is a suitable time to wake up. That extra hour your supposed to gain? No ma’am, more like every single day of the whole of summer on at least an hour less sleep. To fight back against the man with the clock, DON’T CHANGE THE TIME. Yeah, for half the year you’ll be early for everything and the rest you’ll be mega late, but at least that’ll be one less thing to fuck your kids sleep up. That or, and I shit you not, tape black bags to your windows. You think I’m kidding? Nope, ‘fraid not. Yeah, you look like you’re using your house to farm mass amounts of cannabis, but your kid is asleep, fuck what the neighbours are saying.

WHOOP DI FUCKING WHOOP

If you’ve found this post uber helpful, and if not – WHY THE HELL NOT – you can vote for me in the shortlist for Fresh Voice in the BritMums BiB awards, ya know, if you wanna of course, but if not, WHY THE FUCK NOT?NOMINATE ME BiB 2013 FRESH VOICE

And yeah, I realise that was only four sleep fucker-uppers. I’m knackered, I can’t count, alright?

Self Portrait

49 Replies

This weeks theme on the Gallery is Self Portrait. Yeahh I know, it’s most narcissistic and whatevs but I actually really wanted to join in with this as I’m having epic self-confidence ishoos atm. I wanted to prove to myself I could post a picture of meself on the interwebz without lashings of slap on me face, a few sneaky filters to make me look all glam and mysterious and a clever camera angle to make me look 8 stone.

Anyway. This is me. Face on. About five minutes prior to writing this. No filters. No trickery. No fancy angles. No taking 1,374 different photos and selecting the best one.

Ta-DAAAA!

But obvs I couldn’t NOT do a stupid face. Soz about that.

016

TheGallery

Toddler Life Alphabet – Part II

26 Replies

WHOOP WHOOP, IT’S DA SOUND OF THE EPIC BEAN!

Hello mischief makers, get your game faces on, it’s Bean time.

I’ve had a bit of sabbatical, I’ll admit, mainly due to living it up like a damn playboy cos I won a bloody award, didn’t I? It’s been a hedonistic orgy of chocolate buttons, Ribena and jumping on mum’s head. Yeahhh I know you’ve all  been saying well done to me mum, don’t think I haven’t seen ya and she’s swanning about with her head  right up her… Anyway. We all know it’s my award, right? RIGHT?

outta space

Right.

I left you with some homework last time, remember? I hope you’ve been keeping up, and have mastered those feral letters like the little lion tamers I know you can be. Grab your permanent markers and the nearest available wall for notes and we can get crack-a-lacking where we left off.

N is for NO! NO! STOP THAT! Which we all know is secret mummy code, for YES, GOOD BOY! KEEP DOING THAT!

O is for OH MY GOD, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO THE CAT? This means mummy is impressed that I have taken the initiative and shown mega creative skillz for shaving the cat and painting her neon green. Impressed.

P is for duh, peas innit. Now, I’m not a let’s face it, weirdo like the “E is for Edie who LOVES eating peas!” freak from Baby Jake, BUT I do appreciate a good pea, they make me happea. And they make ACE missiles to ping onto the floor at dinnertime – MUM, I PEA-ED ON THE FLOOR AGAIN.

Q is for quiet. Whoever said silence is golden is just plain daft for spreading ridonkulous propaganda amongst the ‘rents. I have a very scientific formula in the absolutely terrifying event of quiet.

Quiet? Fill it. LOUDLY. NO, LOUDER THAN THAT. Keep going. THERE ya go, you’re learning.

R is for RUNNING AWAY! Best game ever to play with mum, mega lolz.

S is for sugar high – the meaning of life, the universe and everything.

T is for Hello trouble! If anyone ever says this to you dudes, ever, don’t trust them, especially if they give you sweets, they’re spies and they’re on to us.

U is for – standard I know but wait - umbrella. Put one up in the house and watch mummy nearly explode and so high-pitched only dogs can hear her. Hours of fun.

V is for vets. The magical destination mummy takes the cats when I sit on them and break them a bit, they come back fixed again! AWESOME!

W is for WHAT THE FUDGE?! Or, at least I think that’s what mummy says.

X is for Xanax, apparently they’re like grown up Smarties, mummy eats them lots when she gets a bit shouty.

Y is for Y WON’T YOU SLEEP?! HANG ON, Y ARE YOU DRINKING RED BULL?! Y ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?!

Z is for Zinfandel – mummy’s special medicine. Comes in really big bottles.

Bish bash bosh.

And there, look, you’ve done it, you’ve learnt the alphabet. TA-DA! You took that sucker OUT! Extra bonus mega points for singing the alphabet – “… N O P Q R S T …. rex? U V….” It’ll make mummy weep with cute overload and give you chocolate cake for lunch.

Class dismissed.

Peas and love,

Bean x

 

Note from mum - If you’d like to vote for me to reach the finals of the BiB’s in the Fresh Voice category, so ya know, I’ll actually have to force myself to get dressed and leave my house and see ACTUAL REAL LIFE PEOPLE and inevitably drink too much and honk Mammasaurus’ bazookas, you can do so by clicking that sexy little button below.
NOMINATE ME BiB 2013 FRESH VOICE

Wot So Funee?

Voice

33 Replies

Yes, I know I’ve been MIA, again, I know this “slow blogging” lark is the new black or whatever but I admit I’ve been ripping the arse out of it a bit more than I should. I’m finding everything so exhausting at the moment, the “trying to be OK” shit is really taking it out of me. But still, things feel a bit better – maybe – more tolerable. Fainting from violent panic attacks, getting locked in my therapists office FOR HALF A FUCKING HOUR and well, a whole truckload full of other stuff I could really do without aside, it’s getting better, I think. Possibly. Maybe. Perhaps.

Fuck it, I’ll say things are better. There. I said it. I’ve jinxed myself now, ain’t I? Whatevs, things can’t get any worse than they were, can they?

Don’t answer that.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say in a round about way, is that it hasn’t all been dancing unicorns, candy floss clouds and permanent rainbows etched upon the sky in neon Sharpies, but it’s OK. It’s alright.

And so I move smoothly onto my next subject, and it’s a biggie.

There I was, bedecked in my uniform of ketchup and fish finger crumbs on Monday, ya know, usual for dinner time, I know my appearance has gone to shit but seriously, and I hear the news that the BritMums BiB’s shortlists have been published. I go to have a nose, hoping to see some familiar names, what I wasn’t anticipating was that I’d see my name in the Fresh Voice category. Nope. Didn’t see that one coming.

Fresh Voice.

Fresh Voice. Fresh. Voice. Freshvoice. FRESH VOICE.

If you say it enough times it makes even less sense. I just can’t compute it. I really can’t.

Be prepared, I may go all sentimental and gushy enough to make a female porn star proud ‘ere, so I’ll apologise profusely in advance and I promise, promise to say cuntflaps loads in my next post to make up for it. Pinky promise.

I’ll let you in on a secret. Don’t tell anyone, OK? In real life, my voice doesn’t always work, it conks out and totally eludes me when I need it the most. The thought process is there, I know what I need and want to say, but somewhere along the journey from brain to mouth, it gets stuck and I choke. It’s all trapped in my head with nowhere to go and I look like a simpleton gagging on my own tongue, as I attempt to get them out.

047

I started this blog because I simply didn’t have a voice, I lost it and myself somewhere along the line of beaching myself on the sofa and shoving too many Minstrels in my face, dealing with plate after plate of crap that I didn’t order and finding this motherhood shenanigans really a lot harder than I’m pretty certain it ought to be. I don’t know where it went. It could be wedged somewhere in the depths of my sofa, among the discarded sandwich crusts and jigsaw pieces, I dunno, I probably ate it to be fair.

It packed it’s bags and waved goodbye, and I had all this stuff in my head that I knew was there, but couldn’t get out and couldn’t understand how to say it or where to say it. I thought things and felt things, and desperately missed the ability to share them with anyone, to be able to send a text saying OOH GUESS WHAT? BEAN JUST LAUGHED SO MUCH HE SHAT ALL OVER THE LAMINATE FLOOR! or maybe that he’d learnt a new word or how to sing the alphabet and something less poo-based.

I needed to feel as though I wasn’t the only one. That I wasn’t a bad mum and that this stuff wasn’t normal exactly, but it was OK nonetheless. That it was OK to feel so lost and lonely and as if I’d been transformed into a lobotomised zombie that couldn’t speak.

That’s why eight months ago I chucked all caution and fear and low self esteem and all the other bollocks that come with severe depression to the wind and stuck my name in a little box and made this blog. I didn’t have any expectations. I just had to write.

I didn’t have a Danny La Rue that anyone would read the gumf I filled these pure white pages with. That in eight months I could make people laugh, or cry – soz about that. That I could help anyone. That I could make friends and bonds with people all over the country. That I could have an actual readership. That I could win an award for this post. That I could feel better about myself and be proud of something that I have done. And I really, truly didn’t believe I could find my voice again.

I’m completely touched and humbled that someone, anyone nominated me for an award, and that my name is in a list amongst giants such as Ramblings of a Rock’n'Roll Mum, Just a Normal Mummy and Best Dad I Can Be.

And I wanted to say thank you, whoever you are, for listening and letting me find my voice again.

050

If you’d like to vote for me to reach the finals of the BiB’s in the Fresh Voice category, so ya know, I’ll actually have to force myself to get dressed and leave my house and see ACTUAL REAL LIFE PEOPLE and inevitably drink too much and honk Mammasaurus’ bazookas, you can do so by clicking that sexy little button below.
NOMINATE ME BiB 2013 FRESH VOICE

Thank you, dudes, I mean it.

Bezzy Mates

24 Replies

Bean is making friends at nursery. I know it doesn’t sound much, but to me, IT’S A BIG DEAL. Not too long ago on a fetid, scorching morning, I took dragged him along to that toddler gym hooha that sounds like Bumble Bots. I thought it’d be fun. I swiftly realised my mistake. But it was too late. Like a limpet he attached himself to my torso with unprecedented force, every time I attempted to lower him to the floor or show him a brightly coloured crash mat, he reacted as if I going to stick him a pot of molten lava. I persevered. I kept taking him. I took him to other things, messy play and toddler groups and God awful Come and Sing sessions. He wouldn’t have it. I had to hold his hand CONSTANTLY and continuously reassure him that everything was OK.

Slowly, very very very slowly, and surely he did get better. And now, a few months after starting nursery, he’s making friends. Not that he didn’t want to play with other children before or want to make friends, he was just way too preoccupied with my proximity from him to notice anyone else. Now I’m out of the picture at nursery and we’ve got that separation anxiety sort of tampered down, he’s making friends all over the shop. Today he had a moment when I dropped him off and started to cry as I was leaving, a little girl he’s made friends with ran up to us and looked SO worried, I could’ve cried myself if it wasn’t for all the awkward questions I’d have to answer from the staff, she held Bean’s hand and with a hiccup he stopped crying.

My heart burst a little bit.

I wanted to plonk myself down with a coffee and sit and watch him and his little mates interact because it’s just so novel, again, that’s probably not advised, there are laws about that isn’t there? Reluctantly, I walked home.

*Does swooshy, wavy movements with hands*

Four years ago.

The air conditioning wasn’t working, there was a heat-wave in full swing, the windows would open barely a couple of inches and the atmosphere was thick with nervous energy. I felt so disconnected, it was as if I wasn’t even sat in the same room, more a fly on the wall. I’d watch the couples enter the room, tentatively, almost embarrassed. I’d observe them interact with the other couples in the room, introducing themselves, awkward, not quite sure what to say. They’d say hello to me too of course, shake hands, exchange pleasantries and we’d sit patiently, waiting for the midwife to lumber in. To tell us in vivid detail about third degree vaginal tears, you know the ones where your two holes get torn into one hole, and violently shove a creepy doll with dead eyes through a plastic pelvis with a bit too much enjoyment, the fucking sadist.

So many people promised me that I’d make new friends at my ante-natal classes, I actually half believed them. We were all in it together. We’d all be mates, our children would be lifelong friends, and we’d all grow old in some jolly EastEnders-esque bubble, without all the murder and adultery and fun stuff, obvs.

But erm, yeah, that didn’t happen though, did it?

Apparently, just because we were all swollen and sweating, fanning ourselves with our Bounty packs and downing bottles of water, didn’t count as common ground, not enough to build foundations of everlasting friendship anyway.

I did try. Honestly, I did. I even made inane conversation about breast pads and epesciotomies and Britain’s Got Talent FFS while trying desperately not to fall asleep on the formica tables. Cos that’s what you do, innit? You make polite conversation, you ask questions, which if we’re honest with ourselves, we don’t care what the answers are either way, you learn about the other person, you might even feel so inclined to sneak in a little tester remark that you’d much rather be laying on your sofa, in the most inelegant fashion possible watching Deal or No Deal and your bump kicking the TV remote around on your belly, rather than in this sweaty room with more hormones rampaging around it than a sodding comprehensive school. You might. Maybe.

But for me, without having a large glass of wine in my hand and a few more in my bloodstream and slash or a few mates to cushion me, I think I did alright actually. Pleased with myself, I went home, laid as unladylike as I possibly could upon my sofa and watched Deal or No Deal and looked forward to next weeks ante-natal social gathering offering.

Fast forward a week, I sit down, I say hello, I remember a few people’s names, I ask the lady pregnant with twins how she’s doing, I smile. All seems nice. But AHA, what is this? Everyone is talking amongst themselves, of their meet up a few days ago in a coffee shop and then of GOING FUCKING SHOPPING afterwards! Conversation swiftly moves on to a few of them going to Kiddicare together, probably to admire the miniature shopping trolleys together and put photos of them pushing them around the store with MUCH hilarity on Facebook. Probably. The brunette lady Rachel with the beardy husband, is now Rach. RACH. Someone’s throwing a barbecue at the weekend for the lot of ‘em and one of em’s raving about how they’re gonna bring some bloody designer sausages you all simply must try. After my upteenth attempt to join in, I give up. No one even LOOKS at me.

I spend the remainder of the session getting really into what the sadomasochistic midwife is going on about while she’s waving a pair of forceps in the air with abandon and an untrustworthy glint in her eye and ignore my self esteem nervously gnawing upon its on fist in BLIND PANIC. On the way out I sneak a look at the little A5 slips of paper one of the less scary health visitors had printed up for our first session, with all our names, mobile numbers, email addresses and due dates on it, so we could take ‘em home and all become BEZZY MATES FOREVS INNIT. Honestly, the poor woman even drew flowers and hearts on all of them.

My number must be wrong, right? I check, and recheck and check again three times.

Nope. It’s correct.

My self-esteem whimpers and plummets out of my arse into a heap on the floor tiles.

Oh.

Wait for it, you can hear it drawing a shaky breath if you listen closely.

WHY?! Is it because I’m younger than you lot? Did my tattoos scare you? Because I’m not wearing a wedding ring? That I don’t drive an Audi? THAT I’M NOT WEARING FUCKING BIRKINSTOCKS or have a partner sat next to me called Seb or Ralf or SIMON with an ironic beard and BOAT SHOES and a job in “in the city”?

Present day.

I can’t help but envy how children forge friendships so effortlessly. How there’s no politics involved. It’s purely a case of “You like shoving breadsticks up your nose? I DO TOO! Let’s be friends FOREVER!” Appearance, religion, race, education, career, social status, bank balance, number of stamps in your passport from foreign lands or whether you’re on Jen or Angelina’s side, simply doesn’t come in to it.

But overriding all that lark, I’m actually just proud of my Bean.

Stuff & Things

11 Replies

The last week has totally evaporated into thin air but somehow it’s also dragged to the point of utterly excruciating. I’m not sure whether I’m fully capable of actually writing about ya k’now, that stuff in all its ugly glory but I’m gonna try in manageable bullet points, it’s less scary that way, innit?Massive apologies if this is a complete bag of babbled bollocks – gotta love a bit of alliteration, eh? – normal, well, normalish service will resume soon.

  • The twitch is abating, thank <insert your prefered religious or spiritual figurehead here>  times a gazillion. It rears its jerky head every so often, but it’s dealable with. So that’s a plus, also I don’t have to keep explaining to Bean as delicately as I can that “Mummy’s poorly, baby.”
  • Apparently I can’t entertain going out by myself without being on the phone, this anxiety shit is so extreme, mostly to my poor mum, I don’t even say anything usually, my voice is struggling to work through all the mess in my head, like any coherent thoughts are trapped in cartoon styley quick sand and can’t quite manage to find their way out between my cracked lips (personal care has swan dived evidently). I just need someone there with me.
  • I’ve taken my medication down, rightly or wrongly, I have no idea anymore. And am currently hanging on to see a psychiatric nurse to sort them out properly, with someone who hopefully knows what they’re talking about, minus the somewhat slapdash approach of my GP. Hopefully.
  • I’m literally burying myself in blog stuff to do, it seems to be helping. Lord only knows what I’ve agreed to do recently.
  • Bean has informed me he wants a pink scooter, this makes me happy, bless ‘im, the little oddball.
  • Last Saturday was an all time low, I couldn’t shake the idea that Bean would be better off elsewhere, I’m struggling to even look at those words written down, it’s so horrifying. Over and over again the thought continued to sucker punch me right in the chest, forcing my breath to catch in my throat and the whole panicked downward spiral began until I really, truly believed it myself and therefore my mood became even more erratic, reinforcing the awfulness.
  • I’ve been completely bowled over by the sheer amount of loveliness and patience that you lot have shown me whilst I’ve been going a bit weird. Emails, sharing links to websites of charities that can help me, checking in on me, bloody presents in the post from the absolutely gorgeous Clara and Hannah, I’m honestly just dumbfounded with all the kindness. Saying thank you really doesn’t seem to do all of that justice, but seriously –  thank you, I can’t begin to tell you what it means to me.

Twitch

13 Replies

One thing you don’t count on when you begin taking anti-depressants, or even begin an increased dosage of those little white pills is that you’ll end up with more problems than you had when you started taking them.

No sir.

Last week I could sense things were going wrong, well, wrong-er. I couldn’t breathe, my hands were vibrating with shakes, I had a twitch in my neck that was shaking my head back and forth, back and forth and everything, everything was scaring the absolute arse off me. Making a sandwich was terrifying. Forming a sentence was inconceivable. Looking after Bean for the Easter break was panic attack inducing.

The thought keeps coming back again and again, something is broken, something isn’t working in my head, there’s something wrong with me.

Anxiety and agitation aren’t things I’ve dealt with before, it took a while for the penny to clatter to the floor and for me to realise that this was all because of my increased dosage, that they were doing something, changing something. I remember as I held the green slip of paper in my sweaty palm, with my GP’s signiture scribbled on it below my new medication, his words as I was standing to leave, “You might experience some headaches”.

It sounds ridiculously stupid that I hadn’t ever checked the side effects of my pills until a few short days ago, but the point is, I’ve never needed to in the four years I’ve been taking them. I took them in the morning, they did their stuff and that was all I needed to know. I didn’t need to know it was classed as a SSRI drug. I didn’t need to know it’s brand names or what it contained. All I cared about was whether it was working or not, and at this point, it wasn’t.

Something’s wrong, something’s broken, I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this.

The doctors were shut for the weekend, the emergency GP number they provided in their chirpy recorded message no longer existed, the only option was NHS direct or A&E. There’s something incredibly scary about the idea of turning up at accident and emergency vulnerable and saying surreptiously to the person at the desk, Um, I think something’s wrong in my head, please, help me.

Obvs that ain’t what I did. I went with the former, and waited seven hours on Saturday while being too scared to move because my head wouldn’t stop shaking, for an out of hours GP to tell me that I needed to see my doctor on Tuesday.

Tuesday may as well have been five years away. I couldn’t see a way to get there but crumbling and giving up. Tuesday turned into Wednesday because that was the soonest I could see anyone. It all floated past by in a sickly daze, as if I was drifting through it, all I know is that I was sat in the waiting room first thing this morning, scared of looking like a total mentalist with my shaky head.

My name was called, I blurted out what was happening once sat in the plastic chair, I nodded when I was told to take my dosage down from 150mg to 50mg overnight. I sucked in as much air as I could before asking the question I had to ask. I had to ask for help, I had to ask for support and ignore every fibre of my being telling me to nod, smile and leave that room as fast as I could.

Tears were running down my face, I’d just admitted to having suicidal thoughts and it wasn’t even 9am. I asked him and held my breath.

I was told there wasn’t, there was no support available, that if things got bad enough I could call the Samaritans. He shook my hand and said goodbye.

And now? Now I’m fucking angry. Maybe something is working in my head properly because usually that brush off would be enough of an excuse for me to tumble to the depths of bed ridden, all-consuming, uncontrollable depression where no light can even begin to penetrate.

Even though I’ve done it before a thousand times before, I know I deserve more than to be scared of bathing my own child. That he deserves a mum that doesn’t have to psyche herself up to play with him. And yes I may have spent that last decade nodding and smiling and shaking doctor’s hands when they tell me what to do, I now know this isn’t OK and that my family and I deserve more than this and that one day I’ll find the ground again.