Name: Cas

Blog: MummyNeverSleeps

Twitter ID: @mummynevasleeps

Height: 5ft 10ish. Yes. I know. Suffice to say, I shan’t be in heels.

Hair: Mind length, brown, mess, usually has yoghurt or bogies in it, sometimes both.

Eyes: Brown, but will probably be hidden by my massive glasses.

Is this your first blogging conference?

YES!! You can tell? Ahahaha. Oh. Oh God.

Are you attending both days?

Sort of, I’ll be leaving early afternoon on Saturday to rush home and undoubtedly deal with the dirty protest my son will have throwing in my absence.

What are you most looking forward to at BritMums Live 2013?

Wine. Sleeping in a bed on my own.  Finally meeting all the lovely faces I’ve forged online friendships with. Having a meal without a small person stealing half of it. Adult conversation. And wine, oh I said that already… Whoops.

What are you wearing?

I can’t do smart, I’ll look like a reprobate on my way to court, so am wearing jeans and a fancy top. And accessorising with a terrified look in my eyes.

What do you hope to gain from BritMums Live 2013?

Meeting lots of lovely people, pick up some fab tips and a massive hangover.

Tell us one thing about you that not everyone knows

I can fit my entire fist in my mouth. You’re welcome.

*faints*

On reading the post, I whisked off my email to Hannah practically pleading to be allowed to get involved again, and not long after, I was in and I had myself a brand new swap partner, ooh err. I got matched up with the really very lovely Rhia from Virtual Rhiality (now I have to admit every single time I see her blog name I sing to myself BACK TO LIIIIFE, BACK TO REALITYYY – ahem) and soon got chatting with her via email. Quickly we ascertained that BIG mugs are a must. And secondly, Cath Kidston mugs are the perfect size, sorry dudes size does matter, a lot, but as they’re flowery and pretty, you don’t feel all oaf like for using them. SORTED.

I had my package all sorted, and then I had one, possibly two, of those weeks where I couldn’t go out for love nor money or promises of rewarding myself with cake. So massive apologies for that Rhia, I know good things come to those who wait and all that but I admit I may have taken the piss just a smidge.

Whilst I was in the middle of the battle with myself to just go the fuck out for half an hour FFS woman to the Post Office, Rhia’s parcel for me arrived. And oh my word, she is awesome. Green and Black’s chocolate, a gorgeous card, retro sweets, some very cute crocheted flowers and the perfect mug. The little package of joy made my day just when I needed a lift and I can’t thank lovely, lovely Rhia enough for her kindness and super bloody duper Hannah for orchestrating the swap and match making me with such an epic lady.

If you wanna see what I sent to Rhia, and let’s face why wouldn’t you?! You can do so HERE.

OH MY GOD, IT’S FIVE DAYS AWAY AND I STILL NEED TO GET MY HAIR DONE, I HAVEN’T EVEN LOOKED AT THE SCHEDULE YET AND OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD WHAT AM I DOING?!

Know what I’m talking about yet?

BritMums Live, babycakes! Oh yes indeed.

On June 21st and 22nd, 500+ parenting bloggers will be descending on the Brewery in London for two whole days of epic blogging goodness. To shmooze with the sponsors, network with old pals and make brand new friends, attend sessions tailored specifically for their experience, from taking better photos to learning about SEO and getting into moneytising your blog. Oh and drinking their body weight in cocktails. Obvs.

Since my blog is still very new, not even a year old yet, this is my first chance to get out there and get my arse to a conference. I felt BritMums was perfect for me as I’ve felt so supported by them since I began doing this spilling my guts out thing so in January, possibly after a glass of wine or two, I bought myself a ticket.  Without even a thought of a sponsor. Who was going to sponsor me?! I’ve only been doing this a couple of months for goodness sake.

Now I’ll be honest, as much as I wanted to go, I wasn’t entirely sold until I found out that I was a finalist in the Fresh Voice category of the Brilliance in Blogging awards that will be the close of proceedings on Friday. So yeah, I guess I have to go now, eh? And as terrified I am of disappointing people, of being completely socially awkward without my wingman Bean, I AM SO EXCITED and know at BritMums Live I’ll be in the best possible hands.

Shock of all shocks happened a few weeks ago when I received an email informing me that those fabulous people at Hillarys - ya know, the ones that sell the gorgeous blinds, plus curtains and carpets don’tcha know? –  wanted to sponsor me to go to BritMums.

SPONSOR ME?!

Yes, apparently so, they wanted to pay for my ticket and put me up in a lovely hotel so I didn’t have to commute back to Essex on the last train home, slightly very worse for wear.

Oh right. Erm, yes please!

And so the deal was done, I now have my ticket paid for and a hotel room with my name all over it because of lovely, lovely Hillarys. I just wanted to write this post, to proudly introduce them as my sponsor, and also to thank them for making me actually go. I’m sure otherwise I’d have thought of some excuse or other to stay at home in my pyjamas comfort eating mass amounts of ice cream and ultimately regretting my decision immensely. So thank you Hillarys, for giving me the best excuse to put away the laptop and have a grown up weekend with lots of fantastic people, and starfish the hell out of bed all to myself for the first time in four years.

So if you see lots of tweets from me hashtagging the hell out of Hillarys when I’m at BritMums, you now know why. So there’s that… I’ll see ya on Friday!

*runs off to find a paper bag to breathe into*

It is I, your twenty-five year old self sent from the future to impart my wisdom. Yeah it’s all a bit confusing and awkward. I can pretend to be a fairy godmother or some mystical apparition if you prefer, maybe even don some fairy wings to make this all more visually exciting? No? Whatever. I know you’re not going to want to listen to me, you don’t listen to anyone, I know that cos I am you innit and I’m more than aware of your pain in the arse tendencies.

Just bear in mind what I say and trust me a little bit. Please.

I was going to write a long lists of dos and dont’s, ya know, since I’m all wise and shit. But other than one – PUT THE TWEEZERS DOWN WOMAN, YOUR EYEBROWS ARE NEVER GONNA GROW BACK FFS - I’m not gonna do that. I suppose it’s sort of expected of someone in this position, the Disney version of things, that when we’re in the midst of complete and utter shit, that someone will float down from up above, hold our hand and tell you everything is going to be OK, make sure you do this, avoid that bloke – he’ll mess with your head, don’t forget to do your pelvic floor exercises, eat more greens, blah blah blah.

But I can’t do that.

Yeah you still feel shit more often than not. Stuff is still hard, harder than it should be. There are times when even just existing is too much to deal with. You will wonder when you’re gonna get given a fucking break sometimes, when you can politely take your plate away, place your hand over it and say “That’s plenty, thank you.”

You’ll still withdraw like a petrified hermit crab. And you’ll continue to blame yourself for well, pretty much everything. There’ll be times when you’ll wonder whether you’ve made any progress along this dark tunnel, that maybe you’re stuck in front of a rolling background but you’re not actually getting anywhere at all.

But do you know what’s different now, mate? Now there is laughter, there is love surrounding you like you’ve never experienced before, and yes, that’ll bring its own problems obvs, nothing’s ever simple is it? You won’t know how to accept all this good stuff, you’ll think you don’t deserve it. But it is here, all over the fucking place, it’s tangible and jumping on your face at 6am on the dot every morning.

I can’t tell you how to get from where you are to where I am, or tell you the shortcuts or how to avoid the shitty bits. I won’t pretend life is gonna be all unicorns puking up rainbows and daisy chains, it’s not, it might never be, I don’t know. All I can tell you is to keep going, persevere and never stop, because what you’ll find in ten years will be worth it, it’ll be far from perfect, believe me, you’ll spend days getting shit on your face and spending hours getting silly putty out of your son’s hair and hiding behind the fridge door to cry for a moment FFS, but it’ll be real, I can promise you that.

There is nothing wrong with you, and you are not broken. Nor is there an evil little gremlin in your head, messing with your thoughts and jangling everything around. You are how you are, you will learn to accept it as a part of you.

I know the words may mean nothing, but I hope they stay with you in some way at the back of your mind and that you trust me. It will be worth it, the scars and echos and signs of a struggle will always stay with you in the shadows but there is good stuff waiting for you, Cas.

The reason I can’t tell you how to get from A to B is because what if I were to fuck up the road? What if you missed the man you now share your name with? What if you never met? Or had your son, the tiny person that essentially saved your life and gave you an anchor? There’s simply just too many things I could mess up for you if I were to give away the surprises your future has in store, and yeah I could divert you from the pain and the ugly and the boring stuff, but what about these two beautiful people who are now you’re life? I’m sorry dude, but it isn’t worth the risk. You will make it through, you will get to where I am now with a slight sense of accomplishment to have made it out of the dark of your teenage bedroom and to make just the tiniest of imprints on the outside world when it never, ever felt possible.

You will get here Cas. I promise. And it really, truly will be worth it.

Now lose the tweezers and write a letter to Magnum demanding they make pistachio flavoured ice cream stat.

Your twenty five year old self,

Cas

x

N.B – I can’t take credit for the idea of this post, the really bloody lovely Victoria from @playfuelblog suggested I write it to kick me up the arse and get my writing hat firmly back on.

So, time to turn the tables and for me to get proper nosey, I have a challenge – what would you write to your fifteen year old self? Answers on postcards, comments or blog posts please!

Here are some more personal letters from Mummy Barrow, Plus 2.4 and Baby Baby to their younger selves.

Once she was gone and I was satisfied she hadn’t alerted the local loony bin / social services / police and I’d checked several times that the carpet fitter’s van across the road didn’t inhabit a crack team of surveillance experts I then finally felt able to collapse with in a pool of relief / tears / self loathing.

I couldn’t answer the door. It was just a physical impossibility.

Paralysed and rooted to the spot with shame.

I’d had just about enough. I was exhausted, Bean had been up to his usual tricks of mind fuckery and hadn’t slept well at all. Rob is on some new hefty medication for his ME, which is sending him all over the place and I have to make sure he doesn’t have any adverse reactions to it. Add in the usual stresses; money, health, a general lack of any caffeine in my house, having zero energy and I snapped.

What would’ve happened if I’d answered the door?

The poor woman was just popping in quickly to say hello, so I could retake the questionnaire I did a few weeks ago, to see if I magically felt any better. She’d have been faced with me, dressed in three-day old pyjamas, hollow eyed, hair sticking up in scary peaks like a disgruntled lion, unblinking and two seconds away from bursting into tears. All while Bean is smeared with chocolate spread, wearing his pants on his head and humming “Baby Got Back”.

I would’ve crumbled as soon as her sympathetic eyes fell on me. I’d be totally powerless to put on the brave face for another moment and I’d have cried and cried and pleaded and cried.

I would’ve told her that I don’t want to be here anymore.

That I can’t do this.

That I’m not coping well at all.

That all I want to do is hide in bed and cease to be. Switch off entirely. And wake up when all this has blown over and I don’t care how long it takes.

That I cannot deal with Bean.

That I think I’m being an appalling mum.

That I shout at him too much.

That I’m crippled with guilt and worry.

That I’m just so, so tired of this.

And please, please make this stop.

I couldn’t do that though really, could I? We’re just not allowed to say those things out loud. We’re not allowed to feel those desperate, gut wrenching emotions. We’re simply not permitted to cry, or to say that we can’t cope. Not when you have children. Not when people depend on you. Not when you’re supposed to be OK now. Not when that breakdown thing a while ago was just a “little blip”.

But how much longer can this go on for? How much longer can I keep ignoring the door, or the phone or hiding those unopend letters? How can I continue to refuse to face up to this? The fear if I actually do look at it properly, recognise it and study its jagged edges, its poinsonous surface, will I be able to even pretend to function? Will it all fall apart at the seams and unravel completely?

And that’s why I couldn’t answer the door.

I couldn’t bear to face what I knew would be standing on my doorstep, which wasn’t really the kindly health visitor with the soothing voice and the sympathetic manner. It was all my shame and doubt and guilt rolled into one big clusterfuck, and I just couldn’t face it. I hid away, I sobbed and I swallowed back the gasps of air, and I sat in silence as it hammered on the door for an eternity until I could hear it drive away again.

True to form, I’ve left it all to the last-minute, I have sticky notes dotted around the place like confetti. None of them make an iota of sense. Plus as he is going to be FOUR, did I mention this? FOUR. I have to factor in asking him what he’d like to do. Past birthdays have all been orchestrated by me, he didn’t give a toss, he just wanted to get off his tiny face on cake icing and practice his world record of ripping open presents faster than the speed of sound.

Now he has an opinion.

Me: Darling, would you like to go to nursery on your birthday or stay at home?

Bean: I want to stay at home.

Me: Are you sure? You can see all your friends and give them some sweeties and stuff.

Bean: I want to go to nursery.

I’m none the fucking wiser than I was before I asked him. Aside all the birthday politics, I’ve been online shopping, well, not actually buying stuff, I have a few weeks yet, and a birthday ain’t a birthday if you’re not forced to cough up the gargantuan next day delivery charges on Amazon. I have been online window shopping, getting an idea of what to buy him, y’know.

Lego. Easy. Simple. Big bucket full of the stuff, ensuring there are sufficient tiny pointy pieces for maximum pain once I’ve stepped on them barefooted. Ya know the stuff. Piece of piss.

But no, seems old Lego have different ideas. Yeah they do the bucket of bricks type o’ thing, but what’s this? Oooh, I see, you can buy a blue version or a pink version.

Aha. Brilliant. That’s nice of old Lego, that is. They’ve made my decision for me, marvellous. I have a little boy, therefore I buy the blue version, yeah?

This is what pisses me off.

Bean likes the colour pink. Loves it.

Oh my God, is my boy effeminate? Is he gonna be… Ya know? Oh shit, I shouldn’t have let him play with my make up or let him grow his hair long…. QUICK – BURN ALL THE PINK, BURN IT ALL, WE CAN REPAIR THIS BEFORE IT GETS TOTALLY OUT OF HAND!

Um. No. He’s a child. Pink is a colour. That’s all it is.

That’s it. Seriously, that’s it. Pink is a colour that he likes. He has no knowledge of the all the polictics that accompany a sodding colour. He isn’t aware that society says he is predetermined to like blue and cast aside pink because he is a boy. He doesn’t understand a stereotype. He doesn’t even care about gender.

It’s a colour.

All those unsaid utterances, the reluctancy of buying him a doll or a play kitchen or steering him away from the princess dress in the dressing up box, forcing him to put on the policeman suit instead, they don’t help him. They don’t confirm his maleness to him. They do nothing but confuse him, make him think there’s something to be ashamed about wanting to be who he is. That it’s wrong to experiment. To learn and to play.

That when he picks up a box of Playmobil in a shop that’s for all intents and purposes, a small kitchen set, he really really wants it, but he’s confused because the box is pink, with a little girl on the front.

“Is this for girls, mummy?”

I tell him it’s not, it’s for anyone that likes small German toy kitchen sets. I don’t even know how this shit has got into his head, but it breaks my heart to see his faces etched with so much inner turmoil at the age of three.

“Mummy! I want to be a doctor when I grow up!”

“Wow, that’s amazing!”

“But I can’t, because Doc McStuffins is a girl and only girls can be doctors.”

Whoa whoa whoa. I tell him he can be anything he wants to be if he works hard enough, that anyone can. It doesn’t matter if you’re a boy or a girl.

“I like my hair long, mummy.”

“I do too, sweetheart. It’s beautiful.”

“But I look like a girl.”

I tell him he doesn’t. I show him photos of daddy and his uncle when they both had longer hair than I’ve ever had. Like the run in with the Tesco delivery lady the other week, I tell him boys and girls can have their hair however they like.

But you see the thing is, I have never once said or even thought the words “but this is for girls”. If he chooses the big pink donut in the bakery, cool, we’ll have that one please. If he says he’d like a play kitchen for Christmas, well then I’ll be panic buying all the gaudy leftover wrapping paper in Clintons to wrap the damn thing. I honestly don’t care one way or another, as long as it’s what he wants, not what thinks he should want, not what’s been planted there by dozens of thoughtless comments from older relatives or passing octagenarians in the street. From other children at nursery. From the aggressive advertising on TV.

I haven’t got the energy to start a massive debate each and every time there’s a raised eyebrow in my son’s precence simply because he has long hair, or that he watches Dora the Explorer or defend his love of cooking when someone asks the loaded question, “Oh… Really?”

He’s a child.

Right.

Now that’s off me chest, I’ve gotta order a pink tub of Lego.

Occasionally, only occasionally, I’m not greedy or anything,  you need more. To switch off the phone, put the full to bursting email inbox aside, ignore the housework and the endless things to do and shut out the world for an evening.

Watching a film, reading a book, a long bath, a cheeky game of online bingo, painting your nails. Anything for a little bit of escapism after a long day, or week or month even. To forget our day jobs, our alternate egos and just be you for a moment once in a while.

Once in a blue moon, very responsibly mind, I have a little look at online bingo offers, quite often they promote introductory offers and some great ladies online bingo games.

But if that isn’t your bag, the world is your oyster to get your rocks off and enjoy some all important me time. How do you get yours?

Suffice to say getting Bean to sleep through the night is one hard nut to crack.

Of course, I didn’t realise that light was the problem for a long, long time. I searched cover to cover from each and every parenting manual and baby sleep bible, trawled through forums and websites and pleadingly mentioned it to anyone I met, desperate for an answer of why this little bundle of mischief wouldn’t sleep.

The answer came, an overheard conversation in a café, me hollow-eyed in the corner, knocking back espresso after espresso. I could’ve been hallucinating from the forced insomnia, but I’m pretty certain I heard the ethereal singing of angels, a bright golden light, there may or may not have been a unicorn trotting past.

“Oh I was so desperate, I gaffer-taped bin bags to all of our windows! AND IT WORKED!”

I stared, I didn’t care anymore about acting aloof, casually eavesdropping. The mouth that these magical words that had tumbled from belonged to a bright-eyed mum with a small baby about the same age as Bean at the time. I put two and two together, abandoned my one woman mission to consume more caffeine than ever before and quickly got sticking up those black bags.

They did work, for a short time, there’s only so long that you can live in a house in a constant, subterranean state of darkness, and the over powering smell of polythene, so not long after we bought a proper blackout blind for Bean’s room.

And HALLELUYAH – so that’s what sleep feels like!

Of course, this was when Bean was tiny, and more notably, immobile. Now he’s a boisterous four-year old, incredibly energetic and clever, my problem now is that my cover of, “No darling, it’s not morning yet, go back to sleep.” is blown if he sees just the slightest slither of daylight creeping from my bedroom windows.

So while the black bags are calling me once again, I’m heading over pretty sharpish to the lovely Web-Blinds for a much smarter, long-lasting and safer alternative!

What are your fail-safe tricks to getting some shut-eye?

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I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go.

It’s alright, stop being a child. You’re just going to get more happy pills, that’s all.

What about Rob and Bean? I can’t leave them, Rob’s really unwell today.

Stop making excuses, you’ll only be gone for half an hour.

But I haven’t even had time to have a shower. LOOK AT MY HAIR, I CAN’T GO OUT LIKE THIS.

Stop. Making. Excuses.

Fine. I’ll go. But I’m not happy.

Good. Now, quick, you’ve got twenty minutes.

Oh FFS.

*****

Waiting room

Is my hair still white? Can you see the dry shampoo? Oh fuck, I didn’t wash my hands, am I covered in white marks? Is everyone looking at me? Did I forget to brush my teeth? Oh my God. THERE’S A HOLE IN MY LEGGINGS. Everyone thinks I’m a total scumbag. HOW MUCH LONGER IS THE DOCTOR GONNA BE? Should I call Rob? I hope they’re OK.

Oh christ, calm down. No one is looking at you. They’re way too concerned with themselves and their high cholesterol or swollen glands or whatever.

No, that woman totally just looked at me. She thinks I’m a scumbag, she saw the chocolate spread on my fingers from making Bean’s toast and I bet she thinks it’s poo. Poo. Actual poo. If I had Bean with me she’d understand, but because I don’t I look insane. Is that how bad things have got? That I look like I’d swan about with shit on me?

Stop it now. She’s not looking at you, she has a lazy eye, dude. Read a magazine or something.

I can’t, I can’t concentrate. What the fuck is that noise? I really don’t like that noise, it’s making me nervous. I don’t like it here, I want to go home.

It’s a vacuum cleaner, for goodness sake. And stop shaking, people are looking now.

Oh shit, don’t say that, it’s getting worse now. Where is this doctor? I need to be home, what if Rob’s fallen over? I shouldn’t have come. Shall I call him? Can I use my phone here? Is it allowed? Will it break medical stuff? WHERE IS THAT NOISE COMING FROM?!

OMAG WILL YOU JUST STOP IT FOR A SECOND?!

Fuck. Did you hear that? Someone called my name. Who was that? Shit.

That was the doctor calling you.

But, but that was a woman, I thought I was seeing my normal bloke doctor. I can’t see a woman doctor, she’ll see the dry shampoo in my hair and the chocolate poo on my hands. Women see this stuff. They know, dude.

Please, just go in there, get the prescription and let’s get the fuck out of here. PLEASE.

Fine, fine, whatev- OH MY SHIT – DID YOU SEE THAT? I TRIPPED OVER, EVERYONE’S LOOKING AT ME AGAIN. FFS I’m such a mess.

Yeah. You are. Please, get this over with.

*****

Doctor’s office

Doctor: So, what can I help you with today?

(thinks: She totally just clocked the hole in my leggings. She thinks I’m fat doesn’t she? She’s gonna tell me I’m depressed cos I’m fat. Breathe in.)

Me: Um, I just um, wanted a new prescription for my antidepressants. Please.

D: OK, and how have you been feeling recently?

(thinks: What is she typing on the computer? Breathe in more FFS. Look normal.)

M: Um. OK, I think.

D: You don’t look very happy.

(thinks: Wow. That hurt.)

M: Oh.

D: Has anything triggered thi-

(thinks: Totally tune out. Nod. Look interested. Get the fuck out of here with that green piece of paper ASAP.)

*****

Street, walking fast

I want to be home, I want to be home, I want to be home. I don’t want to leave the house again. I want to go to bed and forget all this. Everyone’s looking at me. Everyone thinks I’m nuts. Bloody hell, I’m crying. Why did the doctor say that? She wasn’t even very nice about it. WHY CAN’T I WALK ANY FASTER?

It’s alright, we’re nearly home now.

Was that one of the mums from nursery that just drove past? Did she see me? How can I take Bean to nursery now she’s seen me like this? I can’t take him to nursery ever again. I just want to go to bed.

Hang on two more minutes and we’ll be home.

It’s too far. I can’t do it.

You can, you have to. Just focus on seeing Bean.

Oh no, I can’t. I can’t see him like this.

You have to. Look, there’s our house.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

STOP IT. Just smile and get through it.

*****

Front door

Bean: MUMMY! MUMMY MUMMY MUMMY MMMYMMMYMMMYMMMY! Look! I stuck stickers on the cat and I had a really big poo and daddy gave me FOUR yoghurts and I missed you and LOOK AT THE CAT and I WANT TO GO THE MOON AND EAT CHEESE and bees make honey and watch my new dance – it’s good isn’t it? Can I have another yoghurt please?

(thinks: it’s OK now, it’s OK, I’m safe.)