There was once a woman who lived in the South of England. She was wife of a Keifer Sutherland lookalike, and slave to the role of parenting. Nobody ever listened to a word she said, or ate anything she cooked. She was either found repeating herself like a useless parrot, into an abyss, or trying to reduce the size of her cellulitic, insulin resistant ass, by #shabammingtheshitoutoflife and letting out a bit of wee.
She had started to wonder if she had anger management issues. She had always prided herself on being calm-in her old job as a nurse (pre #shabammingtheshitoutoflife and incontinent days,) she was often referred to as ‘the calm one,’ or ‘the kind one.’ Outwardly, she mused, she was probably still those things, except pretty much 99% of situations nowadays, led to her screaming a stream of expletives in her head, or into the abyss (98% of the time out of earshot of the children, but she was only human, and has let out the occasional shit and twat around them. They don’t listen to a word she says though, so it’s ok, they’ve never repeated it.)
Old ladies tutting at her moaning children in coffee shops-old her thinks: ‘oh gosh, I really must stop inconveniencing these poor people.’ New her thinks: ‘FUCK YOU, YOU CRUSTY OLD BINT.’
Her child at playgroup is trying to ride one of the bikes down a slope, with the moderate threat that he might fall off. Another mum tells him he shouldn’t be doing it. She tells him it’s ok. The other mum won’t leave it alone. Eventually the little one is crying because of the other mum’s persistence, eventually leading to her blocking his path. Old her thinks: ‘She only has his best interests at heart, she doesn’t mean to be completely annoying.’ New her thinks: See above.
She watches a barista put ice in her children’s drinks while taking them out for a treat. Old her thinks: ‘Oh dear, brace yourselves for the shit storm peeps! You’re just about to ruin my children’s day my love!’ New her thinks: ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING?????? WHAT ARE YOU DOING??????? WHY ARE YOU NOT PSYCHIC, DON’T YOU REALISE MY CHILDREN HATE HAVING ICE IN THEIR DRINKS, AND WILL MOAN LIKE HILDA ACROSS THE ROAD DOES ABOUT HOW HER PILES, YOU ARE RUINING MY LIFE!’
People moaning on Facebook, about the same things-old her thinks: ‘Oh dear, I hope they feel better for moaning about that for the millionth time.’ New her: ‘You stupid reprobates, just find some more meaning in your lives, for the love of God!’
And her current favourite-people making a huge announcement that they’re having a social media ‘clear out,’ old her thinks: ‘Oh gosh, I hope I’m not cleared out, I will wonder for years whatever I did to offend them.’ New her thinks: ‘If Jeffrey Dean Morgan followed me on social media, and announced he was having a clear out, and got rid of me, I’d be devastated, and would probably cry. ANYONE ELSE AND YOU DON’T NEED TO MAKE THE BIG BLOODY ANNOUNCEMENT!! JUST. STOP.
I’m sure you’re all getting the picture. She even has a friend she messages for certain rants, and asked that friend the other day, if she thought she had an anger management issue. Said friend kindly recommended a yoga DVD, and a headspace mindfulness app…
There could be many reasons for the woman’s ‘problem.’
She could maybe just not be walked over in the same way she had been accustomed to being.
She had previously astounded herself with the fierceness to protect her offspring, which made herfar less quiet than she had ever been-maybe this had carried on, and she was turning into the feisty woman she always wished she’d been.

Maybe she was starting to realise that she gave less of a crap about the less important things in life, and wished everyone else was the same.

Maybe being asked for snacks 5 minutes after every unfinished meal, had finally driven her round the twist.

Maybe the lack of personal space, proper working conditions, lack of adult company, and scrutiny of her every bowel movement for the last four years, had finally become too much.

Whatever the reason, she didn’t like it too much, and will be working on it over the next few weeks.

Just don’t say that this sometimes happens to ‘women of a certain age,’ she might punch you.

I absolutely love leaving the house with my exclusively breast fed children, watching them skip and form deep bonds with each other in the park, having an outdoor Kumon session (taught by me obvs,) before eating our organic lunch, freshly prepared by me from scratch that very morning. That’s until I realise that I stomp from the house, trying really hard not to just constantly fucking shout at my kids who were mixed fed, have more interest in picking their noses/bums/willies than learning what I think they need to be learning, while bribing them with chocolate to just put one foot in front of the bloody other, who would rather chew off their own faces rather than eat fruit, all while spending about 95% of the day trying to kick the shit out of each other.

And while I’ve written many times about not being the mother I thought I’d be, this is nothing new-it has happened to every generation before us. Every generation thinks they invented sex drugs and rock and roll, when the truth is it’s always been around, just under different guises. And every generation has decided exactly what kind of parent it’s going to be, but will never be that parent, because we will never have the children we thought we’d have. But yet it will go on-my mum smiled and nodded as I made all of these sweeping statements about what I was going to be like as a parent, and I’ll now smile and nod in the future when my children make the same announcements.

I went away at the weekend-just me and my husband. And I won’t lie-IT WAS FRIGGING AWESOME. We arrived, we drank. We (I) shopped, we drank. We went to the hotel, we slept. We went back out in the evening, and I drank my body weight in vodka, and we chatted like toddlers on speed. I totally forgot about my carb free diet, and spent the end of the evening inhaling carbs like I’d just been told potatoes had become extinct. We had hangovers the next day, but it didn’t matter, because nobody was screaming at us to do shit. Having a hangover while reading magazines and watching crap tv, is only a moderate inconvenience.

But as the day wore on, and I started to miss the children, I started to make new rules about the parent I was going to be once we got back to them. I was never going away again-they need a mum who is always present and there for them. I’m never going to shout at them again, because some random article written by someone who isn’t a psychologist, and has no actual scientific research to back up their opinions, says I shouldn’t do it because I will make them end up in lifelong counselling, and I will need to answer to the devil. I will totally overhaul their diet-it’s appalling, and they will end up contributing to the childhood obesity epidemic. I will be patient with them when we are trying to leave the house, and they are getting undressed quicker than I’m dressing them, and are suddenly fascinated with where babies come from, and with a barely visible ‘baddie’ on their left toe. I will explain where babies come from, because I’m a really fucking cool mum like that, and nurse that baddie with every nursing skill I own-it’s the small things that count right?

But, just like when you were given fresh exercise books at the start of the school year, and vowed to always write in them with your bestest, neatest handwriting for the whole year-then end up making a right fucking mess of them by the end of the second week, like on New Years Eve when you say you’ll never drink again, but manage to make exceptions such as the cat’s birthday, or next Tuesday will be a really hard day so I’ll have one then , and like the generations of ‘I’ll be this kind of parent’ before me-I wasn’t home five minutes before I was muttering ffs into the snack cupboard, looking for Pom Bears to alleviate the incessant moaning into my face which started the second I walked in the door, which my mum assured me she’d seen absolutely bloody none of the whole time we’d been away, while planning my next bid for freedom.

I do it every time I go away too. I have these little epiphanies about all the shit I’m going to change. And it never happens. It’s the circle of parenting life-I’ll always do it, as have those before me, as will others after me. And it’s a funny old thing to keep doing, and never learn your lesson from really, isn’t it?

So this week has been a bit hard… Firstly, my children have been REALLY hard work-including the day I spend much of the afternoon at my GP surgery, being prodded around by several doctors, while the children swung from the curtains, attempted to destroy blood pressure monitors, emptied drawers, and generally made me want to die from shame. In fact, they’ve generally been like that all week, but at that time, I was really feeling the need to tell them in my best angry-but-trying-to-sound-kindly hiss, to just calm the heck down.

Anyway, as you may have guessed from the Drs visit, I haven’t been feeling too well this week. Despite that, I’ve still made it to Sh’bam, spin, HIIT, and body combat. But First, LET’S TALK ABOUT HIIT. My lovely friend convinced me to go along, ‘it’ll be great!’ she said, ‘there’s pair work, we can work together, it’s an amazing workout, better than circuits,’ she said. YOU WILL WANT TO THROW UP DURING THE WARM UP she DIDN’T say…. Jeez, I have given all the classes so far, a really fair shot, but I think it’s fair to say, I am 100% not going back to that. By the end of the next day, my legs were crippled, and I was still suffering the humiliation of being a hot and sweaty mess beside the rest of the class who were MACHINES, and feeling like I’d give myself a black eye from my gut flapping up to smack me in the face, during what felt like hours of ‘high knees.’

Food wise, I’ve stuck to all my usual meals pretty much the same as last week if you wanted to check out last week’s menu! But as well as being a bit under the weather, I’ve had one of those totally unmotivated weeks-you know-where you’re just a bit unmotivated with life in general? My appetite hasn’t been great, and I definitely feel like I’ve been running on empty-physically and emotionally. I was useless at combat today, and spent most of it kind of rolling around on the floor wishing I was at home (it was a very quiet class!) and it’s usually my favourite one.

(What I really wanted to be doing this week…)

I’m hoping I’ll have my mojo back a bit next week! So far, I’m not planning on making any changes to the food, although I might have to look at it again next week if I’m still at a plateau (because I haven’t lost anything this week,) but I have stayed the same, which is fine (I’m a bit disappointed, but trying not to be too hard on myself about it.)

lbs lost: Still 14…

What’s hurting: MY LEGS.

 

Update: Nearly a week after HIIT and my legs are still screwed!

*This is part of my ‘Cysters Are Doing It For Themselves’ series, about trying to kick some PCOS/insulin resistance ass. Other posts in this series can be found below.

PCOS Has Ruined My Life

A Change Is Gonna Come… Food And Exercise Changes I’m Making

Hey Cyster, Go Cyster, Soul Cyster, Go Cyster

Why Does PCOS Always Feel Like A Battlefield, A Battlefield, A Battlefield

Not So Fat Bottom Girl 

See you for next week’s update!

So, we all know that there was once a mum who lived in the south of England. We know that she was married to a Keifer Sutherland lookalike. We know that in her household, nobody ever listened to a fucking word she said, or ate anything she cooked. We know that she has PCOS, which she is currently trying to kick the crap out of its carb hating/insulin resistant ass. We know that she tries to do this by sometimes #shabammingtheshitoutoflife.

Well, today’s story finds her on her way to #bodycombattheshitoutoflife. Except she arrives at the gym to find she *dramatic gasp* hasn’t shaved her armpits…

She is faced with several choices:
1. Turn around and go home. There is no place for female body hair in the gym.

2. #bodycombattheshitoutoflife with her arms pinned to her side. (That would be well worth filming surely.)

3. #bodycombattheshitoutoflife at the back of the room, and hope she isn’t mistaken for a gorilla during any of the punching move busting.

She scratched her head, and thought: WWGGD. What Would Germaine Greer Do?

Well, she’d probably not be at the gym for a start. She wouldn’t give a shit who didn’t like her wobbly, insulin resistant ass-she’d change it for no fucker.

If she did go inside, the woman mused that Germaine would probably strip off to her bra and knickers, and march in there all pubes blazing, plaiting her leg and armpit hair as she went, while singing ‘cast off the shackles of yesterday’ as per Mrs Banks from Mary Poppins fame.

She’d probably use her bikini line hair to make a rope to gag anyone who passed comment on her hairy status.

She definitely wouldn’t wear any makeup, and definitely wouldn’t suffer the same the woman once had, of going to a spin class with last nights makeup on, and getting to the car to find most of the mascara residing just under her eyebrows, and salty sweat streaks running through her foundation.

But, as the woman was a disgrace to feminists everywhere, she chose to ignore #WWGGD What Would Germaine Greer Do? And she went home. Oh well, at least it saved the double whammy embarrassment of possibly letting out a bit of wee during a round house, plus being mistaken for a gorilla.

On her way home she was telephoned by the Keifer Sutherland lookalike.

“Guess what just happened?????” He said, sounding horrified.

“What dear, it sounds terrible,” she replied.

“A client just said ‘you remind me of someone. Someone famous,’ and I said (probably with a swaggy point and a wink) I know, is it Keifer Sutherland, I get it all the time (probably a smirk in there at this point) and she said ‘no, I was thinking of DONALD Sutherland-his father’…”

The bit of wee that didn’t get to come out at body combat, then escaped at that moment, during massive amounts of giggling and snorting that ensued…😂😂

The moral of the story? Invest in a cap sleeved gym t-shirt so that you can indulge yourself in never shaving your armpits while having the added benefit of not being mistaken for a gorilla while basking in your own hairiness. And also, that at a certain age, you will come to resemble the father of the celebrity you love that everyone mistakes you for, and it will be really bloody funny to your younger wife…!!    

A serious one from me today, a little reflection of the hardest times that having a baby took me to…

There was a woman who lived in the south of England. She was wife of a Keifer Sutherland lookalike, and slave to the role of parenting-but today, she was reflecting on being slave to the role of parenting-there was a time when she never thought she’d get that far…

She remembered a time where she was handed a baby she had just given birth to, and instead of the rush of love she was promised, she felt numb. Empty, cold, nothing…

She remembered feeling like she’d made the biggest mistake of her life, but also the headfuck fear that came with that, that NOBODY MUST EVER KNOW SHE FELT THAT WAY OR THAT THOUGHT EVER ENTERED HER HEAD.

She remembered the feelings of detachment from everyday life that she started to feel, and ignoring them.

She remembered staying awake all night feeling like her heart would beat out of her chest, with the fear that she was going mad. Fear that she couldn’t look after her children. Fear that she’d failed in the one job she had had ever been sure she’d be fucking fabulous at.

She remembered the auditory hallucinations, closely followed by the visual ones.

She didn’t know how she’d work through her feelings about her body and her permanently changed status-how she’d never feel the same about herself again.

She remembered the negative intrusive thought, and how that made her feel she was a danger to everyone around her.

She remembered gagging on any food that came near her mouth.

She remembered the exhaustion-the bone aching, collapse-on-the-floor at any given second exhaustion, but also the nervous energy that made her pace for hours around the streets where she lived-terrified of being trapped inside her house, and inside her own head.

She remembered thinking that she must tell someone, but was worried that telling someone meant that she would be called crazy, have her children taken away, spend the rest of her life locked away. She started by telling the Keifer Sutherland lookalike. He smiled, and told her she’d be ok, and went with her to the Drs.

The Dr smiled at her and told her she’d be ok, and gave her some pills. He told her ‘right, there’s no need to go looking back to 1994 and digging into your past or whatever, to try and ‘find yourself’ or whatever is popular nowadays-this is normal for new parents.’ She still wasn’t ok.

She desperately phoned the out of hours Dr in the night-she couldn’t imagine how she could live a life like this, if it meant feeling like this for ever. The out of hours Dr was cross. ‘You’ve already seen a Dr about this, why are you phoning again??’ She apologised for being a nuisance-she expected a kindly response of ‘it’s ok, it’s what we are here for,’ but was met with a stony silence-the Dr was still cross evidently. The Dr threw some diazepam her way and told her she was incredibly busy. She’s never forgotten that Dr and her total lack of compassion.

She remembered when the shit totally hit the fan, and her mum came to take her children away for a few days. The relief mixed with an indescribable guilt.

She remembered a therapist-one of the nicest people she had ever met. She doesn’t remember a lot of what they talked about, but she remembered that she knew she could tell him anything, and that he eventually made her start to see light at the end of the tunnel. She feels touched by his kindness every day, and knows she will never forget him.

She remembered her heart rate slowing, keeping down her first meal, and the help of people who understood, and even those who didn’t really, but tried.

She promised herself that if she ever came through it, she’d #cherisheverymoment, but in reality, children can still be total shits, if you’re in recovery from postnatal anxiety or not-so she still struggles to #fuckingcherishallofit but she’s grateful that she got better enough to try.

She likes to write funny stories about being a parent, but the reality is, sometimes she just wants to watch Greys Anatomy in bed in her pyjamas, and cry because Denny dies (which is really shit,) and she doesn’t want to see anyone, or do anything, and she feels really quite crap. She doesn’t always feel that stuff is funny. But some of the time it is.

She wants others to know that if they feel the same way, or any way that makes them feel they want help-to keep bloody asking. Screw the shitty out of hours Dr-if they don’t get it, ask someone else. If they don’t get it, keep going. Do not stop until someone goes ‘yep-totally fucking get it-I’m sticking with you till this shit is done.’ Keep. Asking. For. The. Help. You haven’t failed, and you aren’t shit-motherhood is a head wreck and an army to help you through will always help.

Much love. xx
#TimetoTalk