starting school

It’s that time. We are coming up to the time of year where everyone of a certain age will have their every social media platform flooded with pictures of children in brand new shiny, soon-to-be-ruined uniforms, shiny, soon-to-be scuffed/lost shoes, being forced to smile for a first day of school picture.

Last year I had a chuckle at the two people on my feed who chose to break the mould-my 23 year old cousin, who posted a picture of Sloth from the Goonies, with the caption ‘this is what I see when you all post pictures of your so called cute kids on their first day of school. Stop already,’ and my friend, who posted a picture of herself jumping up and down and high fiving the air, while her child cried in the background. Both were a humorous break!

I won’t be posting one, not because I feel strongly about them one way or the other, but because I don’t actually use my own social media very often-I’m mainly a bloody antisocial misery! I also seem to be the only person who is glad that their child is going to school. And it might not be for the reasons you think.

Firstly, he has made it very easy for me to look forward to him going. He has been excited about it for months, and lately has been asking to go to nursery more than his regular two days. He is so bored and over being at home with me and the assassin child. Admittedly, if he was terrified and anxious about going, this post would probably have a totally different tone, with me scouring the world for all cotton wool supplies to wrap him up with for ever, and looking to totally re-evaluate my future so I could homeschool him.

I can’t wait for the better balance I am 98% certain will make our fraught house a slightly more harmonious place to be, when I get to spend more time with both children on their own. Tensions between the two children and constant conflict over satisfying everyone’s needs (including the ‘third child’ husband,) has left me feeling kind of destroyed recently. Every day has felt like a battle, and one I haven’t had a chance of winning, or even neutralising.

Since the smallest was born, when the eldest was 14 months old, I’ve never managed to find anywhere near a balance of spending time with both of them individually-something I often ruminate may have inadvertently damaged my relationship with both of them. Last week, I had my first day on my own with the eldest, that I’ve had since his brother was born. That’s 3 and a half years ago. It was an AMAZING day. One of the best parenting days I’ve had in  such a long time.

When he is at school, I’ll have time with the smallest on his own, and during school holidays, when the smallest is at nursery, I’ll have the eldest on his own. They are both looking forward to this time like you wouldn’t believe-and so am I. I feel like I can finally get to know them properly, and enjoy each day, instead of dragging myself through it, dodging my ever boiling temper, and constant fights for assassin supremacy.

During a park meetup last week, with some of the parent/children who will be in the eldest’s new class, all of the parents were throwing out the classic phrases like ‘hasn’t the time gone quick?’ ‘I can’t believe we are at this stage already!’ Half of me wondered whether these are just small talk phrases, that nobody actually believes, and the other half of me wondered if I actually just feel time differently to everybody else-because I’ve felt every second of the last 4 and a half years. Then I settled on the fact that people only feel like it’s gone quickly because they can’t remember every second of it- your brain can’t possibly do that, so you just remember the abridged version, which makes it feel like there’s been much less time than there has been. I have been parenting (mainly solo, apart from occasional full weekends,) for about 1632 days. And as much as I’ve marvelled over the milestones, and enjoyed some of it, it certainly doesn’t feel like it’s flown by. At all.

I’m also feeling quite selfish at the moment. Maybe it didn’t help that until 2 weeks before I became a mum, I had spent 10 years in a job where I selflessly put other people’s needs before mine, mostly working more hours than I ever got paid for, to the detriment of my social life and anything I wanted to do for myself. I went straight from that, into a job with a very similar job description, which was 10 times harder, and completely unpaid (although largely more rewarding and love filled.) I just want to enjoy more time to myself now, and do something for me. I can’t wait for this, actually.

So yes, he’s my oldest baby, and I’ll miss his careful, considered, deep thinking (if somewhat a little moany) presence in my life. But, there are a lot of feelings that come along with having both children at home, that I’d rather not be feeling, given the choice, and that is why I’m looking forward to the new balance that his going to school will bring. I’ll more than likely send him off with a lump in my throat, and totally forget to take a picture of him, because I’m just a bit shit like that…!

 

Two glasses of wine

The dawn of the internet era and the rise of ‘honest’ parenting being available for all to see, has seen (in my opinion,) the evolution of The Wine O’ Clock Mum come full circle. I’m certain it’s always been there-my nan enjoyed a large brandy once her brood (of NINE! WTF nan, how did you even…?!) were in bed (the little ones,) or off down ‘Spin A Disc’ (the hangout of choice for the older ones.) My mum enjoyed a sherry (the only thing I judge there mum, is that sherry is VILE, but I’ll let you off, Prosecco wasn’t a thing then.) and I’m sure they sometimes (gasp,) had more than one, and I know from the stories they’ve told me, that they both had friends who knocked it back during ‘working hours’ too.

They didn’t have large whatsapp groups to post pictures of themselves at 7.01pm, holding a large glass, with thumb well and truly up. They didn’t have blogs to read, that told them that all the other mums were doing it too, so it was ok. They just did it, and probably poured another while dutifully getting dinner on the table, and sighing about what was in store for them the next day.

What the internet has done is:

1. Make it known that other mums found being a parent a bit hard.

2. Make it ok to want to reach for the wine at the end of the day.

3. Make it divisive-it’s ok apparently to openly call these parents out for being ‘slummy,’ and to put those who don’t choose the same end of day treat, into a different category.

4. Turn it into a cliché-the ‘war cry’ of the pissed off/tired/stressed/delete as appropriate mum. Enjoying wine as a parent, is apparently different to enjoying it when you aren’t.

I recently saw an advert looking for a parent to write a (click bait, troll inciting) article on why the end of day roll call of the parent shouldn’t be to reach for the wine-it wanted the writer to explore how life has come to this, and why it’s wrong. Why has it become such a cliché.

Well, I for one, love wine. I did before I had children-in a wine tasting holiday to the south of France kind of way. In a going to the pub after work kind of way. In the taking the edge off a stressful and shitty day at work kind of way. Nobody however, ever turned that into a cliché-it was just normal, and nobody ever gave it a second thought.

I have a grievance with these ordinary things, that you do all the time before you have children, being turned into something entirely different once they’re here. What’s the difference in a pre children instagram snap of me and my friends drinking after work, to one of me as a non working parent, drinking with my non working parent friends? It’s not always a ‘look what they’ve driven us too Lol!’ or ‘look, wine time before bedtime #badmum!’ It can be quite simply, ‘oooh, I’m going to sit down, now it’s quiet, and have a lovely glass of cold wine,’ like I used to after work. Like my parents still do now.

For me, I savour my husband flitting in from work and taking over bedtime, having the quickest shower, so that I can get into my pyjamas, and enjoy that lovely Gin and tonic-that is nothing to do with my children’s behaviour, or trying to be part of some post bedtime alcohol club-just simply because I like Gin.

I don’t do it to be cool, I don’t do it to try and put myself into some sort of parenting category. I don’t even do it every day-sometimes I have a herbal tea and go for a run instead. My appreciation of alcohol, and the fact that I’m a parent, are completely separate things. I am not the Wine’ O Clock cliché that the internet would have everyone believe, I’m just someone who appreciates good wine, who happens to be a parent.

waiting to use the toilet with orlistat

Have you heard of Orlistat? If you haven’t, here’s a treat! If you have, poor you…

I haven’t updated my ‘Cysters Are Doing It For Themselves’ series for ages. This isn’t because I fell off the wagon, walking around with carbs and dairy dangling from every orifice, or chucked my gym shoes in the bin for being completely unhelpful in my bid for unfattydom (not a word, but I like it.) It’s partly down to laziness-I had big plans to type up recipes, and buoy up my fellow Cysters with tribal hollers of ‘we can fucking do this,’ whilst getting a hashtag trending, about empowering PCOS losers (in the weight loss capacity obvs,) to carry on the ‘fight’ and the ‘journey,’ and other empowerment buzzwords. But I lost impetus, and also went a bit batshit and needed a break from writing. It was also mainly because I had nothing much to add, as after the initial loss of 28lbs, there have been about three months where I’ve lost nothing.

Nada. Sweet FA. I’d tried moving the scales around the house, in the hope that one room would hold some voodoo power, and tell me I weighed less. I’d imagine weightlessness (jeez, the desperation,) when weighing myself, and try and lift all my bodyweight towards the ceiling. I even announced them to be ‘fucking faulty,’ and got myself weighed properly, only to have a tantrum of frustration to be told they were, in fact, correct.

So off I trot to the GP, to see if there is any straw clutching thing that can be done. And she prescribed Orlistat. If you don’t know what this is, it basically takes 1/3 of the fat you eat, liquefies it into fluorescent orange oil, and you crap it from your body. I know.

I sat there as she prescribed it, half devastated that this was the only option left to me (because my diet isn’t that fatty right?? I don’t need them, they’re pointless, right??) and half smug that I wouldn’t be shitting the contents of a room full of 80’s disco goers clothes, because my diet is so fucking good.

I tried to be optimistic. At best, the tablets would take whatever fat got through my diet barrier, and would help, at worst, I might get a slightly grumbly stomach (which happens if you aren’t eating enough fat, apparently.) It turns out that Orlistat doesn’t like salmon. It doesn’t like avocado. It doesn’t seem to like you cooking anything with olive oil. It waits like the omnipresent predator that is, and liquefies the tiniest bit of fat that happens upon its evil clutches, and evacuates if from your body before you can scream ‘SHART!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’

Every single meal became a silent prayer for my sphincter muscles to brace. I needed to stick a military training officer up there to scream at it to toughen the hell up. If I needed to go, I had to GO GO GO. And getting there in time was the easy part-imagine your entire south region then being covered with an oily lava, that just won’t for the love of GOD, come off. ‘Why are you in the shower again mummy??’ became the biggest FAQ of every day.

I’m actually happy with my diet as it is, and I feel pretty unwilling to cut out anything more (haven’t I already lost enough-cheese, I really fucking miss you. Never has anyone understood me more.)  If I cut out the remaining good fats from my diet, I’ll basically be living on nuts, raw vegetables, and despair. Imagine if I ate a McDonalds with these bastards??? I’d illuminate the whole of Bristol with fluorescent lava, in one tiny bum pump.

Enough, I’m not taking them (although interestingly, after the first five days, the scales did finally shift in the right direction by 3lbs.) But I already have to wear a pad for body combat, because of the likelihood I’ll roundhouse, punch, and piss myself. Double incontinence at 34 is not on my bucket list, I don’t have time for this (literal) shit. If I continue like this, you might as well check me into a care home, write my care plans for my double incontinence, and call me Mildred. Orlistat, it’s been a blast (from my ass at least,) but I don’t wish to form any long lasting partnership here. Off you trot back to Satan’s asshole, or wherever it was you came from.

 

 

Imagination: a fairy next to arailway line.

My children always want me to play with them. They seem physically incapable of playing by themselves, and I often have to ignore their pleas of ‘please mummy, PLEASE-WE DON’T WANT TO PLAY ON OUR OWN,’ not only because my house is a total shit tip, which is in grave need of my attention, but also because my imagination appeared to be completely dead.

They can hand me a Darth Vader, and they’ll be shouting: ‘And Luke Skywalker is going to jump out of God’s mouth, fall through heaven, collect eleven five ten thousand bajillion stars on his way down, then use the light power he collected to kill all the baddies, and the Ewoks will see him falling from God’s mouth and use power from their minds to save him. He will use his pants as a parachute, and use fart power to jet propel himself to somewhere safe, and the Ewok’s minds will stop him hurting himself, and build him a castle of chocolate to live in. What does Darth Vader do then mummy??’

‘Erm, get out his lightsaber and hurt some people?’

‘No mummy, that’s boring.’

‘Ok, yea, I am kind of lame…’

I always think that I could never write a children’s book, because I’ve lost that part of my brain that delights in simple, magical adventures. I can’t think of anything remotely exciting to bring to their games-I don’t know why they insist on trying to include me to be fair. I did think I’d completely lost all imagination-a brain deadened by a mundane adult life. That was, until a few recent car journeys…

I was getting really annoyed by someone driving a few inches from my bumper, recently. It’s the kind of driving offence I put up there with people who drive in the middle lane, and people who don’t indicate at roundabouts. ‘If he gets any further up my ass, he’ll need to use a condom,’ I muttered. ‘WHAT DID YOU SAY MUMMY?’ ‘Nothing!’ And my brain then proceeded to imagine a world where all bumpers were fitted with sensors, which when another car got too close, made a neon flashing sign rise up in the rear window, saying ‘STOP VIOLATING MY ASS, THIS IS YOUR FIRST WARNING.’ If they continued to drive so close, they’d get a second warning, then if they still didn’t back off, cars would spray theirs with condoms, which on impact, would cover their car with a corrosive material-surely a sure fire way to get people AWAY FROM MY ASS. Maybe repeat offenders could then have their heads placed on spikes at the entrance and exit to motorway junctions, along with those of people who drive in the middle lane, to serve as a deterrent to not be such a dick.

I realised I’d gotten massively carried away. I also realised I did in fact, have an imagination-just translating that into the innocence of my children’s games, is just a whole different ball game, right…?!

mental health

I’ve been telling myself for quite a long time now, that ‘it’s ok, you’re just a little bit mental at the moment, you’ll be alright soon.’ Because often, we find ourselves tired, stressed, juggling 6.2 billion plates with just two hands (often while the other halves casually spin just the one on the tip of their finger-they totally have the other hand free to catch it with, if it falls,) and it all can make us feel just slightly crazy.

Except I noticed that I was telling myself week after week that the mentalness was going to go away, and making more excuses when it didn’t. I needed ‘that event’ over with, or when I’d had ‘that day to myself,’ that’s when I was going to be fine. Except, I still wasn’t. Before I knew it, I was in a painfully familiar pit of not wanting to leave the house, making excuses not to leave the house, crying in secret, and trying to hide the fact that I wanted to be crying the rest of the time too, but didn’t want to do it in front of the children, and everyone else I know, and dwelling on the fact that I wished I’d punched Becky from school in the face in 1993, when she said the best thing that could happen to me would be for me to be run over by a bus. I know we are told that violence solves nothing, but responding like that would’ve been really fucking satisfying.

Here is an example of my stream of consciousness, when I’m particularly batshit:
*Wake up, ears are ringing, head feels foggy for no reason*
‘This is going to be a terrible day.’
‘Don’t leave the house today because BAD THINGS WILL HAPPEN.’
‘The children won’t eat anything decent all day. Go on, give them the full sugar breakfast, and then they’ll get diabetes, and you’re going to feel like SHIT.’
‘Ooooh, what’s that on the news? Someone has a terrible illness? You better add that to the list of illnesses you need to be vigilant for, because the children can’t be left without a mother.’
‘Well, they could be, because you’re actually a shit one, and they’d be better off without you.’
‘In fact, if you did die, nobody would actually notice, because nobody really cares.’
‘Remember not to go out today, or if you do, just go to the park and stay in one corner, where you don’t have to talk to any other humans-you are shit at making friends, and you’ll make a dick of yourself.’
‘Oh, you’re looking forward to Mr W coming home are you? I don’t really know why he stays with you-you’re completely dragging him down. He should be with someone much prettier, thinner, funnier, and just, well, better, than you. He’ll probably be off at some point and then what will happen, you’ll have NOBODY.’
‘Stop snapping at the children, you used to be so patient. There’s another good quality you can tick off the list, that you don’t have anymore.’
‘Conserve energy for bedtime, because the children have decided that as you’re the worst mother ever, they’re going to bring you to your knees-you totes deserve it though, for being an all around crappy waste of space.’
‘By the way, while you’re being selfishly self absorbed with these thoughts, and only thinking about yourself, your mum told the eldest off for saying bugger. He’s replied with “it’s not as bad as fuck, nanny.” who swears in front of their fucking kids?’

Like I said-totally batshit. And it’s just soooooooo exhausting. I start every day feeling like I’ve run a marathon. Stuff hurts, that has no reason to be hurting. My eyes ache, my throat feels course, my stomach cramps, and my arms and legs feel like they’re made of lead. Everything sends me into fight or flight-even just handing over money at the till at the shop. The thought of coming to my laptop to write something, was making me feel sick. Plus, not going anywhere, and feeling like I was on the precipice of some kind of life destroying incident all the time, was becoming too much.

I went out last week to get my hair cut, which I was actually looking forward to, (I took this as a step forward,) until the hairdresser heard ‘can you please cut it a couple of inches below my shoulders,’ as ‘do whatever the fuck you want!!’ and gave me a long bob. I didn’t panic as much as I thought I would, about a) actually going there, and b) not being able to wear my hair in the bun it’s been sporting everyday for the last 5 years. It goes into a half bun now, so I resemble a mental hipster, minus ironic beard (unless you count the odd PCOS related chin hair flapping around.)

I’m also seeing a person. Someone actually qualified to deal with the mental. Someone taking my mental seriously, who has a plan. I feel better knowing there’s a plan, because although I’ve tried to embrace the crazy as being one of my quirks, and as a part of me, I also can’t and don’t want to, live with it to this extent anymore. So, it’s time to take a stand.