Tag Archives: blogging

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.

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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.

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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.

Brain Dump

11 Replies

I’ve said it before, and no diggety doubt I’ll say a thousand times again, my head is a complete and utter shit tip at the moment. It feels as though some of my thoughts, who are meant to be on MY side have gone against my wishes, posted that they’re having a rave in my head, invited 700 different thoughts I don’t want in there, probs from Facebook, the utter wankers. After some very irresponsible shenanigans, they’ve left my mind in mess, broken all my good stuff and left me sat amongst the chaos without a clue of what to do next.

When you suffer from depression and mosey over to your doctor for a chat or in my case, sobbing on my knees for some help, most likely they’ll print off a little questionnaire for you to fill out about how you’re feeling. I like these things, it’s like doing a Cosmo quiz without the condescending finale, in this instance you’ll probs get a “YOU ANSWERED MOSTLY B’s – YOU ARE SEVERELY DEPRESSED – HUZZAH CONFIRMATION YOU’RE NOT GOING MAD.”

One of the questions which is resonating with me now, “Do you have trouble concentrating?” I usually put my little tick on the noncommittal ”Sometimes” and haven’t ever given it much thought before. However I think it’s obvious I am, every single time I plonk my arse at the laptop to do some writing, I become incredibly jittery. My leg is VIBRATING with nervous energy, jiggling up and down, up and down. When I actually attempt to write, I end up going through ten different drafts, get frustrated with myself and give up, go to bed and stay awake most of the night with a constant stream of stuff I wanna write about.

You’re fucking hilarious, Brain.

Honestly, I am not entirely sure what it is that’s going through my head, what my mind is on, what’s draining all my magic powers. The stupid thing is, it feels like the incoherent, unfinished conception of a gazillion thoughts and absolutely stark nothingness simultaneously.

Seriously though, I appreciate how self-indulgent this all is, I’d hate me too if I was reading this.

Possibly rather stupidly, I’m gonna have a go at a brain dump, since it’s all the shit that’s keeping me from blogging about what I want to blog about, I’ll fucking blog about this shit instead. That’s logic, right? Yeah. I always give the advice of “writing about how you’re feeling,” whether you keep it completely private and personal or if you wanna share it around the group is your prerogative.

So. Under my own advice – BTW NEVER TAKE MY ADVICE – LOOK AT ME! – I’m gonna try to wade through this mind sludge over the next few weeks. Clear the never-ending drafts and half arsed written posts in the vain attempt to get through this.

 

Britmums Live 2013

27 Replies

OH MY SHIT, WHAT HAVE I DONE?!

Yes, dear reader, I have done something, something of great magnitude. Something that scares me to the extent that my insides feel like they are going to fall out of my bum.

Yeah, sorry about that.

Meeting you lot – yes – YOU LOT. *squeak*

I bought a Britmums Live ticket, and I suppose I’m now, like, going to have to actually, go? Big arse room in London full of bloggers. Bloggers that I may on occasion, stalk.

Ya see, I am awful in social situations, unless I’m drunk, and then I’m just several shades of awful, so I hope you can appreciate the insides-falling-out-of-bum sensation. Plus I have zero knowledge of how to speak to people in actual real life without my wingman Bean by my side.

*awkward silence*

“LOOK! ISN’T HE CUTE?!” *points at child desperately*

But never fear, Britmums is ages away! It’ll be fine. It will. Won’t it? There will be alcohol present, yes? Please don’t inform the organisers and make them hide the alcohol from me. I’ll have to hide gin in my pants with a series of inconspicuous straws and such like taped to my body. Wait. DON’T TELL THEM THAT EITHER.

Anyway. I’ll introduce myself, shall I, just in case you haven’t yet run away shrieking.

I’m Cas – short for Cassandra. Yeah. I know. You have no idea how many Only Fools and Horses comments I have had. Thanks mum, thanks dad.

I’m 25, although I feel about 75. I have one son, Bean, he’s three and half and completely mental. And I’m my other half’s carer – he has ME.

I started this blogging madness in August 2012, so I’m still very new, and I blog about… Well… Anything. However I suppose my niche is mental health / depression stuff. In an awesomely funny way though, obvs.

Ooh I’m rather tall, I’m 5″10, so officially I am in fact a giant. I have rather large tattoos about my person and tend to do stupid things with my hair. Such as erm… Bleaching the ends of it orange. And cutting it myself. Oh, and I wear ginormous glasses.

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I’m totally nice though. Be my friend? Please? Please?! PLEEEEEAAAASE?! *chases you*

So I have approx four and half months to prepare myself for this. Shit. Only four and half months? That’s enough time to lose 4 stone and have a lobotomy, right? I mean, that’s realistic, isn’t it?

*deep breaths*

It’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine….

I’m linking up with Outmumbered’s Britmum’s link up, do go and check out the other – much more coherent entries.

Oh and looking forward to meeting you all! Of course! *nervous laugh*

Free Puppies!

2 Replies

Have you heard?

Blog is the word!

It’s awards season folks, and I’m not just talking about the Oscars and whatever washed up, stretched face lobotomised host they’ve rustled up this year.

Hell no.

It’s blogging award season!

The SWANs Blog Post Awards

Firstly there’s the SWAN Blog Post Awards, specifically for blog posts rather than blogs as a whole. Run by SWAN UK, a brilliant support network for children with undiagnosed genetic disorders. The awards are to celebrate the diverse blogging community and also coincide with ‘Undiagnosed Childrens’ Awareness Day’ on 13th April 2013. You can vote for your favourites and find out more about the different categories here.

MAD Blog Awards

Next are the MAD Blog Awards which are the biggest and bestest UK parent blog awards. You can find out more about them, how to nominate – and yes that’s mummyneversleeps.com – yes that’s right - you can do so here.

So please go and have a little looky at the all the details and get your voting hats on, arm yourselves with gin and I’ll see you on the other side. Also, ya know, just saying, if you should feel at all compelled to vote for me, then that would be OK. If you send me a stamped addressed envelope I shall promptly send you A FREE PUPPY*. Yes, a FREE PUPPY**. All I require is for you to state whether you want the FREE PUPPY*** to be:

  • A: Cuddly, cute and fluffy.
  • B: The specially designed non-shit all over your carpet variety.
  • C: Alive.

Now what are you bloody waiting for?! Go! Off with you! Shoo!

* Total absolute blatent complete and utter barefaced lie. It was worth a go though, wasn’t it?

** Not that I expect you to vote for me. Of course. There’s a gazillion of bigger, better, more SHA-MAZING blogs out on these blogging waters than mine. Obvs.

*** Vote for whomever you like, I shall say nothing more on the subject. Yes, it’s mummy never sleeps dot com, DOT COM yes.

Block

8 Replies

Yep, you know where I’m going here.

No, don’t go and ferret under the sink for the plunger, not that sort of block. This one’s much nastier.

Writer’s block. Blogger’s block. Complete and utter bastard block.

It’s not that I can’t write anything, more that I have so much I have to write. My head’s in the midst of a full on clusterfuck and my thoughts now resemble soup. Cold, grey vegetable soup. I imagine.

It’s a total cliché to go on about this nonsense. And act like the troubled, deep thinking artist. I’m not a troubled, deep thinking artist. I’m an exhausted mum, jacked up on more than my recommended daily allowance of caffeine looking for a way to fly tip the unwanted rubbish from my grey matter. Plus my foot is twitching, it’s rather alarming.

All day I’ve been listening to the incessant metronome in my head. Counting down the seconds until the Bean is in bed and I can write. And now…

Nothing. Not a sausage. Nada. Zilch. Squat.

Being the proactive sort that I am, ahem, I decided to refer to a blogging book the I have. Yes indeed, I own an actual book about blogging. Don’t waste you’re money folks. I’m wishing I bought a load of donuts instead, for all the good it’s done. I could’ve got at least 20 of the greasy bastards for the price I paid. Just imagine.

In the ridiculously tiny section on blogger’s block. It tells you, dear reader, to try the following:

 Have a change of scenery.    Take a class.      Exercise.     See friends / family.   Blog less.    Have a blog break.

At this juncture, I throw the book at the wall, and pine for my imaginary donuts.

That’s all there is, simple as that allegedly. Go for a walk, sit on the sofa – rather than the desk and have a civilised chat with your mate over a pretentiously iced cupcake. You’re welcome! Have a nice day!

Well, at this time of night, on a Monday, a school night I hasten to add, most of that twaddle ain’t possible. Have you felt how cold it is? The only exercise I shall be doing is to continue stabbing these damn keys into submission and lifting a mug to my face. And a class? A flipping class? Really? Like, truly?

Behold, my troubled, deep thinking artistic friends, for I have some tips for the dreaded, the feared, the OH SHIT I HOPE IT’S NOT CATCHING, CLOSE THE PAGE, CLOSE IT, Acute Blocked Blogitus (Trademark pending).

  1. Coffee. Loads of it. It’s not a coicidence that the majority of writers appear to have kicked the bucket a fortnight ago, haggard, numb husks of the person they used to be. They need more coffee, buckets of it. Failing that, turn to the hard stuff.
  2. Get a notebook. It’s a standard solution, I realise this. Stick one by your bedside*, if you’re (like myself) prone to 3am brainstorming in between ferrying your children / other half back to bed, this could come in handy. Some clever speccy type person, could’ve been Philip Semore Hoffman**, I dunno, famously once said that 3 O’clock is always too late or too early for anything you want to do. True dat. But some mindless scribbling on a bit of paper shouldn’t get in the way of that, eh?
  3. Read a couple of right-wing rags, such as the Daily Mail. Browse the “Sidebar of Shame”. That’ll get your blood pumping.
  4. Drink more coffee.
  5. Partake in some tags / memes / linkies. Hell, write some poetry, some fiction, write a haiku on breakfast cereals.
  6. Lastly, DON’T PANIC, no one is gonna get all up in your face because you haven’t posted for a few days. Except if you’ve got a deadline. In that case, totally PANIC. I could use another Douglas Adams quote here, but that’d simply be too much***.
  7. Do not buy Blogging for Idiots type books. Buy donuts instead, at least from the donuts you’ll gain an inch or two around your middle.
  8. Failing everything, write something where it sounds as though you know exactly what you’re talking about, ramble on about nothing more concrete than candy floss and you should manage to fight your way through to the other side. Also, quote a load of clever people, this’ll make you sound very cultured and well read.

That feels better, doesn’t it? How was it for you? Well, it worked for me. Was I too rough? Soz.

* I personally hide mine under the bed, akin to a filthy porn stash, after waking one morning to find that my darling son had decided all my notes looked better with fat spiders with 15 legs scribbled all over them.

** Truman Copote. I know.

*** I love deadlines. I like the whoosing sound they make as they fly by.

 

Top Ten

8 Replies

It’s been a somewhat strange four months since I began this blogging lark and foisted myself upon this alternate world. I’ve enjoyed it mostly, I’ve made a twat of myself a good few times, and I haven’t had a bloody CLUE what I’ve been doing for roughly 99% of the time. Possibly more.

I thought I would recap over the past couple of months and my blog posts that they brought, and yes, unashamedly be a bit of a blogging ho and pimp my ass out. *pushes up boobs*

I figure most things do a yearly (ahem) round-up, why can’t I?

Yeah, it’s totally self indulgent. Who cares?

My first post that got any attention was Knocked Up, everything I wrote before that I got a big fat tumbleweed trundle along my screen saver and very drawn out awkward silence. I can only thank Mammasaurus for somehow finding my blog and giving me a little plug that sent my viewing figures into overdrive. Knocked Up is about my life imitating art, if you can call that dodgy Seth Rogan film art. No, didn’t think so. Moving on.

Next up is Sick and Sorry, two posts but are essentially one and the same, where I try to explain, not particularly well, my other half’s (halves? half’s?) illness.

Granny Basher is the result of me, well, erm, granny bashing.

Terrible and Terrible Part ll are two posts where it is suddenly dawning on me that this terrible two’s shite isn’t going away, and I affectively headbutt my keyboard a lot in desperation / frustration. Bean sits on the cat. It’s all terribly dramatic.

The Line is me getting all emo in your faces and questioning how far we let mental health issues and depression go before it starts to really affect our kids.

And What Not To Say, is a well, what not to say, to someone, with da ishoos.

David Dimbleby isn’t me going all fangirl on the old codger from Question Time but in fact Bean’s birth story.

And finally, at number ten, is Hurt, the fallout of when you’re loved ones read your blog and all that entails.

So that’s my top ten.

Bloggers, what are yours*?

* I am obvs reffering to your favourite posts that you have written – not your favourite posts of mine – I’m not that deluded.

Lies

23 Replies

Well, that got a bit melodramatic didn’t it…?

Apologies dudes.

I’m gonna level with you here and explain, I know I don’t have to, but I feel I should. In a nutshell, I was getting to the bottom of the barrel of my writing vat, I was getting very bloody frustrated, with myself, therefore when I should have been doing productive things, like washing up or feeding the cats, I was on Twitter making cum jokes and other suchlike nonsense, my OH didn’t approve, so then like a child, I was SECRETLY making cum jokes on Twitter, and told some lies, which is totally uncool. Especially when I always go on about how honest I am.

Massive arguments, horrible horrible, me feeling like a prize bastard, him feeling betrayed and like he and Bean are coming second best suddenly to people I’ve never met. A whole day of literally not talking to each other, me feeling so sick with myself I psychically felt ill, him looking at me differently, something new in his eyes which I really couldn’t stand, disappointment and hurt.

Not painting a pretty picture here, am I?

Super Amazing Mum and a few others mentioned that I needed to set boundaries and rules, and honestly, it’s such a fucking simple solution, it never even occurred to me. Thing is, I think the reason I get carried away on Twitter sometimes, is purely because it’s a completely new thing for people to want to speak to me, every day I never speak to more than four or five people, and two of ‘em I live with and one of ‘em is the lady down the corner shop.

Anyway, that post was a reaction to me feeling like I’d made a really healthy thing, nasty and ugly. I wasn’t attention seeking. I honestly couldn’t see a way to continue this blog, as much as it killed me to write that post. I will be back, bigger and better, maybe, in a few weeks. My OH has got a big appointment coming up about his illness which we need to concentrate on and be prepared for… I hope you’ll all have me back, and forgive me for sounding like a right arsehole.

See you soon my loves, I hope you’re all OK.

If you need me, just drop me an email…

Emotastic Cas x

But Why…?

8 Replies

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?

Do I insist on carrying this much shite in my bag?

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?

Me?

There ya go… Apparently I’ve gotta tag 5 people to do this too… I’m truly, very sorry to…

Mummy and the Monsters

It’s Misty Srsly

MS Mummy Of 2

Nearly Everything but the Kitchen Sink

Yeah it was supposed to be five people… What ya gonna do, eh? Karate chop me? Hm?

Knocked Up

12 Replies

I knew I was pregnant before I did the test. Bloody knew it. From having to get up in the middle of the night for wees (for once not caused by late drinking seshes) to MUST. EAT. EVERYTHING. NOW. WITH. ADDED. CHEESE. compulsion. Of course the unprotected sex thing a few weeks before didn’t occur to me once as the catalyst.

I did a test. It was one of those standard one line = negatory, two lines = your Mothercare Membership Code will posted out to you shortly jobbies. After getting the pee off my hand, and sitting on the toilet lid looking pensive, I definitely had one line, and another very, very faint second line, “OK,” I thought, “I’m not going on a journey up north to Duffland, then.” Until a friend pointed out that even though it was faint, it still counted as a line nonetheless*. “Oh… OH! This is gonna get interesting.”

Unplanned pregnancy, you say? Young mum? Not in proper relationship with the father? OMGZ HOW CAN YOU BE SO IRRESPONSIBLE?! I hear you hysterically shriek. My answer? Stuff happens. And that’s OK. Not everything works out to the grand Life Plan that girls my age seem to believe it will. Sorry to disappoint. Not for one nano second did I or do I think that my son was a mistake. He is a beautiful, life changing, life saving surprise.

Imagine the film Knocked Up, Katherine Heigel as a brunette, with a bigger bum, fewer neurotic siblings, with an additional side of commitment issues. Seth Rogan but less hairy and pathetic, and more tattoos. Pretty much sums it up, it all worked out in the end, and it’s OK that we did things a bit mixed up, I never liked conformity anyways.

Do you think plans are all they’re cracked up to be? Or do you like to see where life leads you? Answers on a postcard, pls. Or ya know, just that comments box down there will do, I guess.

* I still have that pregnancy test. That’s not creepy is it? You can still see the tiny faint line that (eventually) told me of Bean’s existence. Weird you say? Pffft.

Men In White Coats

5 Replies

When I was pregnant, over three years ago now I was terrified. Fucking terrified. Yes, I was scared of my baby’s health, I was scared about my health, and money, and if I was ever going to be OK at this parenting lark. But there was something else lurking that was causing me to figuratively shit my pants.

Men in white coats.

Allow me to elaborate; I’ve been struggling with depression and it’s derivatives for more than half my life now. I’ve seen more mental health professionals than I’ve had proverbial hot dinners. I’m on that radar. Add in the factors that I was 21, on anti depressants (which my GP deemed safe to take during pregnancy), had very little family for support and at the time I was also single.

Therefore when I was seeing the kaleidoscope of midwives, health visitors, GPs etc while my bun was in the oven, there was always, always always, the awkward question pop up after being prodded and poked:

“And um… Your… Um mental health…?”

To which I’d answer honestly and say something along the lines of, “Oh, yes I’m fine, thanks. I’m really looking forward to it, I’m feeling very positive.”

They’d nod and type something on their computers and that’d be that, I’d leave feeling a bit ashamed and panic as to whether they were going to suss me out as an unfit mum to be and chase me down the road and say, “Oh sorry, there’s been a mistake, you didn’t actually think we were going to let you keep this baby, did you?!”

It was advised for me to have an appointment with a social worker to see if it was necessary to have them involved when my baby came along, that was the terrifying part. Social workers? They’re the MONSTERS that take people’s babies from them! OMG OMG OMG all irrational thought took over and the meeting I had went pretty badly, me answering questions to a very nonplussed, bored looking social worker that would convince them I could keep my baby.

I am absolutely not knocking social workers, or the work they do whatsoever, but the woman I saw did NOTHING to settle my fears. She made dissapproving noises at everything I said.

“No partner? Tsk tsk.”

“You work in a pub? Tsk tsk tsk.”

“History of depression? Oh, this won’t do at all, tsk tsk tsk.”

Of course, the prospect of taking my baby away was never mentioned, but being as vulnerable as I was, I just felt that this was a given. The social worker’s offices were scary, they were official, the waiting room was full of people screaming and shouting at each other and the staff, banging on the perspex partition of the reception desk and fruitlessly attempting to pick up the bolted down seating with the intention of lobbing it at one another in the face.

The meeting ended with an ominous, “We’ll be touch soon,” and even when my son was a few months old, I was still waiting for the men in white coats to come a-knocking and demand evidence that I was doing OK or off they’d go with my swaddled newborn under their arm.

To be frank, the whole affair was rather unpleasent to say the least. Add in the mental healthcare guy I was put in contact with by my health visitor when Bean came along, who I saw once and became a bit Creepy McCreepsville by texting me, and trying to arrange meetings for coffee which I found wholly unproffesional and odd.

And do you know what? Nothing happened. No follow up, no letter to say, “Ah, we think you’re alright actually, it’s all good.” Nothing. Zip. So the entire process was all mouth and no trousers. Which  I just find strange and unsettling TBF.

Have you got any experience on this? Any thoughts? Would any of the above make you feel the same as I did, or am I really just a proper nutbag?