I’m gonna level with you here. I’m gonna be fucking honest.
I’ve been a bit shit lately on the blog front. My writing’s been shit, my commenting has been shit, I’ve been shit on Twitter, I’ve just been shit quite frankly. The reason is I feel like I’m at a bit of a stalemate with my blog right now. My OH read a few of my blog posts and took them incredibly personally, when they were absolutely not intended in such a way, but of course I can see his point. I hurt him badly, and couldn’t argue my way out of the corner I’d written myself into as everything was clear as day, black and white, published for everyone to see on my blog.
It’s a massive shock to fall back down to earth from discovering this outlet, this complete and utter release, this passion project to realise that it can cause so much pain and anguish. That it can bite you on the arse so to speak, but worst of all it’s using words you have written yourself as a club to beat you around the head with.
I very nearly deleted the bastard thing. I couldn’t un-write what I’d already written, it wasn’t an option to erase them from my OH’s memory with a taser. My usual speciality when things get too much is to run away and pretend it never happened, and this case that would have been the blog being history, as much as it would have crushed me. I love this little piece of me, I really do, I’m extraordinarily proud of it but this has helped me understand that this infinitely tiny part of me on the internet reflects me more than I could ever comprehend. As many parts of me that I do love and find tolerable, there are bits that cause pain and hurt to the people who I love the most.
As I’ve said before, I can’t censor what I write, I find it a somewhat pointless endeavor to spill my guts out in words in this little space I have but go back and bleep out the yucky bits and the naughty words. No one benefits from that, other than possibly squeamish readers or those that find my swearing gratuitous. I’m really cunting sorry, honest. ANYWAY, I don’t see it as an option to abridge what I need to write. I just need to work on reassuring my OH that what is on here, and in my stupid tiny mind, that my depression is absolutely 100% completely utterly not caused by him, and that he is ultimately the only reason why I’m sat on this FUCKING squeaky chair writing this crap now.
So please accept my sincere apologies for being an amazingly uncool blogger for a little while, me and my blog need to go and have some words, probably go out for a nice civilised dinner, drink too much pink wine and end up punching the epic shit out of one another outside the kebab shop to sort out our differences. We’ll be friends again soon I’m sure, we just need to learn to trust each other again.
Just what we need for a cold, damp Thursday, right? RIGHT?
Nature or nuture? Bit of both, maybe? Neither? Is it all chemical? Just a shitty result of circumstance? Depends? All of the above?
I’ve had the somewhat lack lustre, mouldering badge of depression slapped on my forehead for about fourteen years, so I’ve had it over half my life. I’m OK with this, well, OK-ish, and I’ve come to realise that it will never truly “go” and I most certainly will never be “fixed”. To my loved ones, I’m sure they’re used to it, and are more than aware of my highs but mostly of my lows and my fantastic ability to be an EPIC pain in the arse. I’m aware of what triggers the dark spells, and all I can do is try to stay busy and keep taking my medication which numbs everything to my toes but really are far better than the alternative.
My mum I’ve noticed, likes to think I’ve some freaky “chemical imbalance”, which for some reason always conjures up images of Doc Brown from Back to the Future in my mind. Lack of serotonin and the like, I don’t buy it, I think that’s the easy route out. She tries to encourage me to eat bulgur wheat and spinach and other such pretentious foodstuffs in an attempt to counter my lack of da chemicalz, and keep me from being insane in the membrane. Hmmm. I’ll grant you some things you put into your body definitely do not help, but I don’t think superfoods are the Holy Grail, soz.
My mum has suffered with depression and it’s derivatives from a young age also, waaaaay way before I was born, and I’ve seen her at her absolute worst. I’ve watched her occasional gin and tonic in the evenings escalate into a mahoosive drinking problem, drinking close enough to a bottle of gin a day until her eyes turned yellow and it rotted her teeth. I’ve fought knives and even carving forks from her desperate fingers. Hidden every form of medicine and chemical away from her. Had glass bottles thrown at me in her fits of uncontrollable rage. At the age of fourteen I was asked by her, pleaded with, when desperately trying to negotiate her to put the fucking pair of scissors down, for me to kill myself with her.
I hate that depression is part of me, I hate it is likely to never disappear in a puff of dramatic smoke and everything will return to its original Technicolor and I will be permitted to see and feel and smell and love again properly. I hate worrying about my beautiful, beautiful boy, and if he is predisposed to depression too. I hate second guessing everything I do, in case it has a huge knock-on effect and teaches him the wrong ways to cope with difficult things and situations in his little mind and they never go. I hate when I’m having a bad day, when it’s all too much and I’m too exhausted to fight back the tears anymore, and telling his tiny worried face, “It’s OK, Mummy’s just a bit sad,” and making him cry too because he can’t understand, both of us clinging to one another in a mess of hot tears.
But I hope, I desperately, desperately hope that I know when I’ve crossed the line, or even when I’m flirting too close to it. That even though my mum didn’t teach me much in the emotion department as I kid, that she did teach me exactly what that line looked like and that I should never, ever cross it. And I hope more than anything, that Bean never has to feel that way, that that will never be a part of his make up, and that I won’t have to badger him to eat goji berries and drink disgusting herbal teas when he’s twenty-five too.
It would appear I shot my blogging load too soon last night when I wrote about the Tyrannical Threes (Copyright pending) and how the Bean has gone supersonic turbo on our arses. It all became rather apparent once I was sat in the vets this morning, trying to hold back tears whilst getting an almighty ear-bashing from a busy-body granny sat opposite me for 45 motherfucking minutes.
There I was last night, happily typing away, feeling better with each word I wrote, drinking tea, the cat sat next to me.
Hmmm, she seems a bit off, I thought.
She wasn’t scaling the curtains or trying to jump on my face for one thing. Didn’t think much of it. Went to bed, forgot about it.
This morning, Bean wakes me up, he varied up his wake up call for me slightly which is always nice, rather than dive-bombing my head he thought it’d be a change to pile all my pillows and cushions (I do like a cushion) on my face, then lie on top of the squishy mountain.
“Mate, can you get off, please?” I managed to muffle through a mouthful a goose down and ditsy-printed pillow case.
“WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU MUMMY.” he squawks.
“I can’t breathe, darling. Can you please get off?”
So on and so forth.
At least there were no false pretences today was going to be good, at least I knew from the second I opened my bleary eyes that today was going to be a total cluster fuck.
Up we get, I make breakfast, the cat’s still acting strange. I watch her as I’m just about to take my first sip of tea, wondering what’s the matter and what to do, when Bean out of nowhere announces, “Mummy, I sat on Evie yesterday.”
Ah. That’d be it then, wouldn’t it?
According to Bean, when I’d nipped up to the loo yesterday evening, he put her in one of his toy baskets, and then sat on top of her. On purpose.
And it would appear, the cat was completely not ready for his jelly.
I couldn’t speak to him, I didn’t know what to say to him, I was too angry and scared and worried and sick to my stomach with guilt.
Cue a mad hour of phone calls, a quick rummage in the shed for the cat basket and there I was sat in the vet’s waiting room, wondering what the fuck I have done to cause my son to behave like this. Have I made a pint-sized psychopath? Have I not told him a gazillion times before, WE. DO. NOT. HURT. THE. CAT. FULL. STOP. EVER. PERIOD. END. OF.
What had he done to her? Would I be taking her home? What would I tell him, when I didn’t bring her home? Once again, like most things, I didn’t catch the correct protocol for when your three year old murders the fucking cat in the parenting manual. What the hell am I doing wrong?
The questions were zipping around my head like flies, the cat looked annoyed in the basket, and seemed to be saying with her forlorn green eyes “You’re shit!” to me.
Of course, there’s a sodding old granny in front of me, that thinks that the girl sat opposite her, with the haunted look on her face, yesterday’s crumpled clothes on and the day before yesterday’s mascara flaking around her eyes is right up for a nice jolly chat. I one-word answer her pointless, nosy questions, hoping she’ll disappear, but obviously she’s a stubborn old bint and isn’t having that. I up my game, nod and “Mm hmm” my replies, pointedly stare out the window before playing on my phone. Rude? Abso-fucking-lutely. To be fair lady, I couldn’t give a tiny gerbil’s arse that your cat has been acting “All peculiar,” since that squirrel set up home in your hazel tree. You’re at a vet’s surgery,wait to tell the fucking vet, I’m sure he’ll be truly riveted that your here to pay ginormasized vet bills to basically waste his time.
I see the vet. I tell him what has happened, I envisage him shaking his head in complete disappointment before pressing a big red button under the examination table, BAD PET OWNER ALERT *siren* BAD PET OWNER ALERT. He’ll whisk poor Evie away, and I’ll be on TV for being a terrible mother and cat owner. I’ll be in The Sun. I’ll be like that crazy old woman who chucked the cat in the bin on CCTV. I’m done for.
Thankfully, he thinks my story is funny, he laughs. Fucking LAUGHS. The monster. He checks little Evie over, can’t find any internal “damage” caused by my son’s posterior. Pops a thermometer up her bum, which funnily enough she doesn’t seem to enjoy, says she has a high temperature and gives her two injections, one anti-inflammatory and one anti-biotic. He reckons there’s no need to keep her in for observations, she might just have a little virus and my son is in the clear. For now. I leave with a scandalised cat, £53.10 lighter, a smidge of relief with instructions to return tomorrow evening to check how she’s doing.
And this is all before 11am this morning. Christ, I think I should have picked a different career. I know I wrote on my resume, “Thrives under pressure,” but dealing with a sickly, squashed cat, an insane three year old and a very ill, dizzy other half is taking the piss a bit isn’t it, life?
Be sure to tune in tomorrow, for the next exciting installment, folks!
How was your day? Did you, like me realise your child was a future serial killer, before you’d even had your caffeine fix? And are you totally sure there isn’t a secure unit for under 4′s I can send mine to? Like a giant bouncy castle, with electric fencing and the Veggies from Mr Bloom’s Nursery on security?
I’m going to dig the parenting books out of the bin from last night, and check for any hidden pages or invisible ink, to make absolutely certain I’m not missing a chapter about this shit and down another bottle of pink wine. Bottoms up! But not on the cat, remember.
Right, let’s get this shit straight, right now shall we?
- Toddlers, specifically two-year olds = The Terrible Twos (spoken in a Dracula type voice).
Mm hmm. Cool. I know what’s coming. Plenty of people harp on about the TT’s. I can mentally prepare for this. I can buy a book patronisingly entitled How To Tame Your Toddler or some such bollocks. I can stock pile wine and Cadbury’s, I can double up my medication, I can get my 8 hours of sleep in. I’m fucking READY for you, Terrible Twos. You’re gonna regret messing with my kid. BRING IT.
But what I was not, and am still not ready for, is what is happening now. The Bean has gone turbo, it’s all kicked off, the shit’s hit the fan etc etc. My problem is Bean is three years old (plus three months) and I absolutely, most certainly was not ever prepared for this. As far as I know, there is no name for this, so I am christening it:
- The Tyrannical Threes (Trademark pending).
I’ll be completely honest here, I’m struggling to even like Bean right now. At times it feels as though he’s been switched in the night by an evil alien being, sent to emotionally exhaust and inevitably destroy me.
I love my son, I do, more than I could ever put into words ‘ere, more than I could incoherently say but Lord Almighty he is testing me. For what I don’t know. I failed miserably at the Patience test, I skived the Energetic Mum test, and I copied someone else’s answers on the Newborn to One test. I couldn’t even list here what it is he is actually doing that is so naughty, because pretty much EVERYTHING he is doing at the moment is bad. It’d be easier and more time-saving to list the good behaviour. Which are as follows:
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not focusing on the bad only and ignoring the good things he does, I always praise him, if anything I OVER praise. I praise him for crossing the road with me, or tell him he’s a good boy for stroking the cat instead of wearing her like a furry scarf. I lost it this morning, after me making a quick dash upstairs to go to the loo, when I thought he was momentarily preoccupied, he sneakily followed me like a special agent and proceeded to jump on my bed, shout while his sick dad was still asleep and throw all the clean, folded washing down the stairs. All while I’m still doing up my jeans and telling him to stop.
I say “lose it”, well I can’t properly Lose It anymore can I? No, I didn’t slump to the floor swigging from a bottle of cheap pink wine, slurring threateningly and crying uncontrollably. Nah. No, I sighed a big sigh, which by the way, the test for Sighing I fucking ACED, took him downstairs and grabbed a wedge of paper and every single brightly coloured felt-tip I could find, even the dried up, scratchy ones and proceeded to make a reward chart.
Bean watched me with suspicion and refused to join in, just watched from the sofa with narrowed eyes while I doodled questionable pictures of suns and cats and rainbows like a woman possessed. Evidently the art student in me has cleared off long ago, in search of red wine and boys with stupid fucking hair, the slag. ANYWAY, we (by which I mean, I) finished the chart, proudly stuck it on the fridge as if it was the answer to all our problems, and told him if he gets X amount of stickers, he can get a nice Playmobil toy. See how desperate I am? Bribery. My parenting book will be out in all good (and bad) book shops this coming Winter, don’t get your knickers in a twist.
Of course, it didn’t sodding work. Of course, he’s fucking sussed me right out. Of course, the little naughty alien he’s been swapped with couldn’t give a toss about shiny stickers or small plastic German toys. It wants to see me crumble, it wants tears, it wants whispered conversations between me and my OH in the kitchen which essentially involve us dramatically gesticulating and pleading “What the fucking hell do we dooooo?” to one another in hushed voices. It wants me to sit in the corner with my cold tea, and after climbing on me, biting me, pulling off my glasses one too many times for me to say “Just give mummy 5 minutes, please.” in a scarily despondent tone.
He’s been ignoring everything I say for a good few weeks now, to the point today, in my utter desperation I was clicking my fingers by his ears to be certain that he can actually HEAR me. Yup, no problems there, he turned around and looked quite annoyed and asked “Mum, what are you doing that for?”
I’ve tried the naughty step and the cooling down spot. I’ve done counting to three and looking all mean. I’ve tried reward charts before. I’ve tried taking toys and treats away when he’s bad and giving them back when he’s good. I’ve tried to talk to him so, so many times to try to wheedle out of his little head WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOU? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? But nope. Nothing. Not a sausage.
I even, get this right, honestly, it’s a fucking good one, said to him the other day “When you don’t listen to me, you make me sad.” Yup. Yeah I did. Take that parental disappointment weight on your tiny little shoulders, son. It actually made him cry. I’m a fucking monster, seems the Bad Mum test was another good’un for me. But please, buy my book? What do you mean the deal’s off?
I am officially at the end of my rope, my tether is long gone and I’ve had it up to here *waves hand above head*. Is this an unspoken thing? Are the Tyrannical Threes real? Or just in my house between 6am and 7pm? Is there a toddler boarding school or boot camp I can send him to, preferably orchestrated by Mr Tumble? Or is it just yet another phase that’s totally and utterly sucker punched me?
I’m going to drink some pink wine, bitterly swear at all my parenting books, before throwing them at the wall and crying myself to sleep again. Haha. JOKE. *weeps*
It’s the freaking weekend. Specifically the day of the Satur… Consequently, in blogging land, this means #SatCap. I post a questionable photo and you sexy lot give it a funny/witty/clever/disturbing/thought-provoking caption…
Here’s my very first offering, my dear son looking at me as if I’m an alien/ he’s done a little pop and followed through / suggested he should eat an entire salad buffet cart with extra broccoli. I reckon his face pretty much sums up how I feel at the moment, so do with it what you will, let’s stick the turd in Saturday.
*slings on cape* SatCap awaaaay *flies away*.
I’ve got me first Meme, ain’t I? If you can’t guess, it’s entitled “Why?” I was tagged by the simply brilliant Five’s A Fellowship, but it was originally originated at Mummy Central, click for the rulez, like. Luckily the Bean has not quite got to the stage of questioning life, the universe and everything, so I’m gonna beat him to it.
Let’s hop to it then… Why?
Do I own this many nail varnishes, that are essentially THE EXACT SAME FUCKING COLOUR?
Do I buy a diary every year and yet always epically fail to write anything more in them than “If lost, please return to…” and doodles of flowers?
Does everything electrical in my house die within 6 – 12 months of it being new?
Do some children’s stories piss me right off?
Is there always more choice for girls than boys in clothes shops?
Can’t I find a cup for Bean THAT DOES NOT BLOODY LEAK.
Don’t I have enough time?
Does Bean’s wake up call for me at 6am always have to be him dive bombing my head?
Doesn’t Bean listen to me?
Does Bean listen to his dad?
Can’t I go to the loo in peace just once?
Can’t I have a pet chicken?
Why does Bean always get shitty planes that I have to build in his Kinder Eggs?
Is it when I go to have a quick shower, the whole house swan dives into meltdown mode?
Doesn’t anything I do, make my bathroom floor clean?
Do I have a perpetual headache?
Can’t I stop thinking of questions?
Can’t I be Nanny Plum from Ben & Holly’s Little Kingdom?
Did I just pick that spot?
Are my neighbours so rude?
Does Bean leave his potty in the middle of the floor, so I trip over it EVERY FUCKING TIME.
Does my slow cooker fuck all my food up?
Won’t Bean eat meat?
Do I tell myself every single morning, “Oh Jesus, I’m having an early night tonight.” Yet NEVER do?
Do moths insist in flying at my face?
Does my OH pronounce the word ”Owl”, “Al”…?
Does Bean think that anything that has happened from 15 minutes previously up to 18 months ago, was yesterday?
Is there a light in the fridge, but not in the freezer?
Does no one make Cuppa Soup in a bowl?
Don’t cereal companies put toys in the boxes anymore?
Can’t you buy penny sweets anywhere?
Does the cat KNOW that I just bought ham?
Am I always the one that is left with the crusts of stale bread / last of the milk / a bare cardboard tube where the toilet paper should be?
Does anyone named James, Kevin or Richard irritate me?
Can I not find a tin opener that actually works?
Do I enivitably kill all my plants?
Do I always let my tea go cold before I remember that I made it?
Do I always forget to renew my repeat prescription?
Is everything in my house sticky?
Can’t I pull off “bed head” hair?
Is the kid next door so weird?
Am I still writing down questions?
There ya go… Apparently I’ve gotta tag 5 people to do this too… I’m truly, very sorry to…
Yeah it was supposed to be five people… What ya gonna do, eh? Karate chop me? Hm?
When I was pregnant, I was young, I was clueless, I lived in an affluent area full of ladies what lunch and that imfamous breed of yummy mummies. You know the ones, they’ve got Anya Hindmarch tote bags with their kids mugs printed on ‘em, AMAZINGLY coiffed barnets and LUDICROUSLY good-looking spawn.
Anywho, none of my friends had babies, so secretly I rather preposterously watched these women as my yardstick of what A Good Mother was and imitated them it every way possible when Bean came screaming into the world. I thought I HAD to buy an £800 travel system. I thought I HAD to have a Cath Kidston nappy bag (I had a cowboy one). I thought I had to bake stonkingly good cupcakes. I thought I HAD to look immaculate AT ALL TIMES.
I did other stupid stuff too, I breastfed for 8 months, 8 MONTHS, because I thought I HAD to, and it I swear it very nearly fucking broke me. Anything that went in my son’s mouth or on his delicate skin, was organic, eco-friendly or made by majestic orphaned Icelandic elves, even his clothes. I didn’t even do this to be a dreaded competitive mummy, I had no one to brag or boast to. I had no, and still have no mummy friends IRL. The only person I was competing with was the girl I once was that I unceremoniously dumped like a soiled nappy.
I almost crumbled because I gave him a dummy.
I did this shit because I felt so inferior of these women, I was a young mum, my OH and I had split up while I was pregnant and didn’t get back together until Bean was 3 months old, I convinced my hormone addled brain that I had to totally and utterly overcompensate so I wasn’t looked upon like a pathetic cliché.
And holy Mother Hubbard was I fucking unhappy. I had a beautiful newborn, he was (reasonably) healthy, I had never been more in love with a single person more in my whole life, yet there I was worrying obsessively as to what some nameless women in the street, or at the baby weigh-in clinic thought of me. Because all that really and truly mattered, was what these guys thought:
I had to have stern a word with myself and sort it out. I am not and never shall be a fabulous apron-attired scone-baking domestic superhero with perfect skin and a designer handbag to boot. I often go out with holes in my leggings, or my hair scooped up in a dodgy topknot, I wear my obnoxiously large glasses that I need FOR READING, to disguise the fact I’m not wearing any make up. I can never foresee any circumstance where I will be together and organised. When I’m due to have left the house 15 minutes ago, I’m not screaming like a banshee in my kitchen, desperately trying to scrub poo / cat food / unidentified substance off my clothes, negotiating with my depraved three year old from wearing the kitten as a hat or pulling off his willy whilst trying to do normal things like locating keys / phone / glasses / shoes / enough nerve to leave the fucking house.
But to be honest, since I’ve become a mum I have never felt accepted. I’ve never felt normal. In fact, I’ve felt like a big fat reject and an absolute phony since the moment I was being stitched back together after Bean had torn me apart with his exit.
But I’m not getting all doom and gloomy on ya. No. I just wanted to say the biggest “Thank you” from the bottom of my little heart for making me feel accepted again. For every single person that has looked at my wayward, awkward, fledgling blog. Everyone that has liked, followed and commented. To each and every one that has spoken to me on Twitter. All of you. You’ve made me feel a little bit more whole again. And as equally important, you’ve all made me realise that it’s OK to not be OK once more.