I’d Say No Anyway…Honest. (I wouldn’t… or would I?)

I sometimes wonder, usually late at night when I am unable to sleep, due to too much caffeine and too little romantic pillow talk (last night we discussed the origins of the humble sprout, apparently they originated in Ireland, like most things) if it is likely I will be married before my face starts to resemble a walnut.

At the rate the Irish one gets around to things (faulty light switches, smoke alarms and fixing the washer) probably not, which unfortunately can only mean one thing.

Botox. (And no clean clothes for months.)

These are the thoughts that tumble across my skull as I toss and turn in bed trying to ignore the (Irish) snoring and disregard the tugging from my darker self, willing me to lie there and regret everything I have ever done in my life.

Insomnia ain’t nice especially when your insomnia taunts you, so while lying there the other night regretting a cake I made, which gave everyone the most god almighty shits, when I was 17, I decided to try and coerce my brain in to thinking about something a little more pleasant.

Inadvertently, because of this, as the nights have turned in to days, and then back in to nights, my wedding plans have taken flight.

The one small snag being, he hasn’t asked. Yet.

But it is ok, as I have decided, that if and when he finally gets around to dropping to one knee, (Yes, my proposal is planned too) if my face looks like a gnarled tree, I will allow myself some Botox.

I do believe in growing old gradually and of course, I do believe in growing old gracefully. (Although I also love Donatella Versace for her complete denial of the passing of time. If I had her money, my belly button would already be a chin dimple. Believe me.)

I completely believe though, that lines can make women look beautiful, they tell a story, they show laughter, they show pain, they show immense strength but most of all, to me, they show courage.

A life being lived.

But, soppiness aside, here is the issue I currently have.

I seem to have caught some sort of era ignoring condition, which is making me grow old before my time.

I am only 32 but on some days I am sure people in the street assume I am Addison’s grandma.

Hell, on some days I feel old enough to be his grandma. (And the stoop doesn’t help I suppose. It’s that bloody pram though. It’s too low! And seriously? Car seat in the back? With the weight of this child? My back in in bits!! Never mind looking like a walnut as I walk down the aisle! I will need a Zimmer soon!)

It may be conjunctivitis, this condition, as according to my not very proficient GP, it does seem to be, as my eyes are all swollen and puffy.

(What is it with Gp’s these days? Are they so scared of being sued they now refuse to diagnose? Excuse me Dr. Quack; ‘I seem to have a baby coming out of my bum, could I be in labour?’ ‘Well you certainly seem to be!’ Ergh!)

It may be called Lazy-itis too, according to the Irish one, as some days I do wear the same clothes from the day previous due to (THE BLOODY WASHER STILL BEING BROKEN!) Tiredness.

But if I were to be completely honest, and I usually am, I actually think the condition I have definitely caught causing me to look less yummy mummy and more scummy granmummy has been with me a lot longer than the last few weeks.

It started around the same time the postnatal condition I have suffered with, did. (I.e.; Post NATALLY.)

68 hours in to labour, the Irish one ready to take a blunt fork and perform an impromptu caesarean section at my sweary, teary, insistence, noticed a shock of my hair, right at the back, had turned completely white.

Since then, my natural highlights, as I like to call them, have been coming thick and fast, even hair dye doesn’t cover them. (Spray paint does.)

Since being hospitalized, Eczema has ravaged, chomped and chewed my poor fingers away to that of a 90 year old, dashing my dreams of being a hand model, and the only way I can hide the bags under my eyes is by touching them up with black makeup, so it looks like they are part of my look.

As if I still have a look. (Dodgy old rocker is what I seem to be pulling off these days… is it me? Or does that sound rude?…moving on… )

I really don’t know what the condition is, but every time I look at my face in the mirror, I seem to have grown another crevice.

The last one to materialise runs right across my forehead from left to right, (or right to left, if you are Japanese) and after a few minutes of screaming, for the first time in my life, I flirted with the idea of a fringe, before I Google searched face lifts and affordable on a shoe string surgical enhancement.

Botox of course, being a much safer option than a fringe in the Irish One’s opinion.

His reasoning being that my chin is too big for a fringe, (nice huh?) and the effects of Botox, should it all go “awfully” wrong and I end up with shelf at the top of my face, wouldn’t last long enough for it too make too much of a negative impact and hey! At least he would have somewhere to rest his brew while I was…

Who was it that said romance was dead?  (Oh and FYI? That NEVER happens.)

Yes ladies and gents, this is the man I want to marry.

And yes, questioning his motives for our relationship, green snot pouring from my eyes, face all bright red and wrinkly from an hour in the bath and my knickers holding my hair back, I am probably doing myself no favours.

But I want to know you know?

Its not that I don’t already think I will be stuck with him, enjoying his company until death do us part anyway, and it isn’t that I plan on leaving him if he doesn’t propose soon, it’s just…

It’s just…

I need something to think about (Read; stare at in the form of diamond) at night instead of the long days ahead.

And er, yeah, I suppose I love him.

I didn’t dream of a wedding as a little girl, in fact I never believed in marriage until recently, I just never thought it could work, that a legal piece of paper with your names on it could ever or would ever make a difference to the inevitable. (That you break up, hate each other and unsuccessfully plot each other’s deaths at least twice a year, from a far, for the rest of your lives…. In case you were wondering, my parents don’t get on.)

But now, after 18 weeks of therapy, 132 stiches in my vaganzza, a year of absolute hell and the love still going strong… (ish)… despite all infrequent ups and soul destroying lows, I want the bloody fairytale all the Disney films promised me.

I actually believe we could have it, check me out, I believe in love.

(You can stick your fingers down your throat now, it is ok, I am.)

We’ve had our bit with the villains, as far as I am concerned, and now I want a great big flipping dress, a teary declaration of our love, and a baileys fountain that you dip chocolate in.

I want to thank him, for everything he has supported me through, as he really has, by giving him a promise I will be around to enjoy our future.

And I want a hen night/hen world tour. (I will be honest, most nights this is what I can be found planning. Rio De Janiero, Australia for 6 weeks and Route 66 have all been on the ‘When I finally win the lottery and finally get married/ Hen night’ list.)

I want a party and I want to be able to say I have been committed in to something other than a mental house.

I want him. (Even if he doesn’t fix the washer.)

So married ladies, help me out here please.

Do I need to stop wearing my trackies to bed and bitching about his razor being on the floor? (AGAIN!!!!!!) Do I need to start cooking steak and giving him a foot massage? Do I need to plaster my face with make up every day and hold my trumps in again? Do I need to avoid onion breath and change Addison’s every bum, while chasing his every whim and making his dreams come true? Do I need to start allowing him to have a poo while I am in the bath? (In the toilet, just to clarify, turns out there is a limit, and that would be mine!!!)

Whatever it takes, I will do it, (within reason!) as I have spent the last few weeks planning this between the hours of 10pm and 5am.

The longer it takes the more outlandish it is becoming, so really, more fool him.

Brazil at sunrise, is where I currently am, him wearing a toga, me looking like a brazilian goddess (courtesy of Tantastic in Bolton!) and believe me I am completely focused on getting the party of my dreams!!!

I mean man.

Of course, hahaha, I mean man.

But just in case, it takes longer than planned…

How much is Botox and does anyone have Donatella’s number, or a winning lottery fund they want to share?

(Route 66 would be a hoot girls, marriage or no marriage!!)

*The condition seems to be known by most as;  Mother (posh mum, still harassed as child will only use this when child wants something.) Mom (American mum.) Mommy (Still American mum- and yeah I’m still jealous.) Mum, (Stop drinking cold tea immediately and get me what I need!!) Mummy (Dogs body but loved.) Motherhood (film.) Motherhood (makes you look gnarly, and not in a cool surfer way.)

See this woman? She is 18.

She is beautiful, there is no denying that, but maybe, just maybe, she should have kept her trumps in a bit longer, much like me.

No ring on has she?

I’ll invite her on our girls trip. She deserves it.

Catching the Egg.

When a priest in a Volkswagen blocked me in to an unmovable position in the car park last night, with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a slight smirk, I knew it was time to drop the charade.

I took it as a sign from God himself. (Kind of.)

LEXY 1; VERSE 12.

‘It is time to pack up your fake smile in an old tin case (or something to that effect) and get the feck home so you can go to bed’

That’s the message that I heard anyway.

I ripped off my smile with a distressing amount of frustrated energy as I sat in my cold and dusty car, littered with empty fruit shoots and Starbucks cups waiting for that (grrr, must not swear in relation to holy man) holy man to buy his bag of chips, and allowed the real me to seep back in through my bones, like a hot drink working it’s way around my bloodstream.

My shoulders drooped; I rolled back my neck and breathed in to the silence a long and slow breath, a breath that in that silence belonged all to me, with no audience.

Here it comes, I thought to myself, feeling the floodgates open.

I am coming back.

For the past few days I have been conducting a social and personal experiment on myself.

‘The power of positive attitude.’ is a poster I am faced with each and every time I visit my GP.

Usually I walk past it and shoot it the middle finger, usually I march past it summoning all my remaining strength not to rip it off the wall, screw it up it to a tiny ball and jump up and down on it, usually when I trudge past it, my bags weighing me down, it makes me sad.

It reminds me of all the times I have been told to get a grip, to just smile more and to just be happy and then ‘you will be.’

Of all the times I have told myself, I am not normal, not worth it, useless.

A lack of understanding from those who you love, including myself, has been for me and probably always will be, like the most hurtful of shots fired from a weapon, which I could never recover from.

One of the biggest lessons I have learned from all of this therapy?

Realising it is ok for me not to be numb, that to have those mixed emotions, to feel angry and sad, with others, with myself, with the world, both at the same time is actually perfectly acceptable.

Just because I own the diagnosis ‘depression’ doesn’t mean I am not entitled to feel.

And hey, get this!

You are actually allowed to feel more than one feeling at a time! Who knew?

It is ok, to feel angry and sad, as an example, instead of feeling angry BUT sad.

(The ‘but’ negates the feeling prior to the latter. It takes away the importance of the first feeling, and in doing so, makes us feel like we shouldn’t be feeling it. Does that make sense? But hey!! We can feel many things all at the same time; no one says we cant, except perhaps ourselves, when we so effortlessly put ourselves down, with a great big ‘BUT.’)

‘Think positive and watch your life change.’ The poster screams at me.

This last time though, on my way to pick up my never ending subscription of medicine (or ‘meds’ as they say in the mentalist business) I paused directly in front of it and stared it down, like one of my demons.

I remember struggling to shrug my shoulders from the weight of the guilt, self hatred and confusion resting upon them but definitely attempting to, thinking ‘ok, as my 2^nd return to work in a two month period is looming in front of me, why not, I may as well try to be positive, it isn’t like I have anything left to lose, and as I am now struggling to control this depression again as it seems to once again be mauling me on a daily basis, I may as well give it a go.’

I thought that possibly if I hit it with the element of surprise for a change, instead of IT slamming me up against the wall, I could rid myself of the fear that had been growing up my mood like wild ivy since the week previous.

It worked for a while too.

Monday was a success in work, smile plastered on my over made up face and acting like a show puppet filled with coo’s and ooo’s and yeay’s! And slaps on the back and beams.

Tuesday was ok too as the show carried over. ‘Woohoo I ran out of petrol!’

The only truth in the act, being the overwhelming sense of love that every now and again, tugged at my heart strings as I watched my son tap dance to Thomas the tank engine. (It is the Irish gene I am sure.)

I feel it some days now you know, that sense of the future being exciting, that all these women kept going on about, right at the beginning.

Every now and again.

And that gives me hope.

By Wednesday, I thought I had beaten my diagnosis.

I really did.

I was all ready to ring the manufacturer of the poster and thank him (had to be a man) personally for his contribution to mental health.

Somewhere during the performance I had lost my heavy, down trodden and sodden suitcase containing all my self hatred, depressive thoughts and dark inner turmoil and yeah ok, the underlying murky water was ever present lapping at my feet, but it had become more like a puddle Addy tries to stick his tongue in, rather than a lake I have to rescue doodle from, and yeah I was exhausted from all the fakeness but hey! That isn’t important is it?

As long as I seem to be winning, thats all that matters!!

Could a positive attitude be working?

Then I met James for therapy.

I love Wednesdays because of James.

For the first time in my entire life I have an emotional safe zone.

As I type the words ‘emotional safe zone’ my stomach clenches up with the discomfort of it all, and I have to fight the urge not to stick my fingers down my throat and call myself pathetic.

To need somebody?

To trust somebody and for them to have told me they trust me?

Erghhhhhh makes me want to peel my skin off and set myself on fire.

I am actually physically shuddering.

‘Wow’ he exclaimed at seeing me bound in to the room, bounce in to the chair and shoot him with a grin I thought was sure to make him believe I was all better, and therefor re-confirm to me, that I was cured ‘That’s scary!’

I laughed at his insightfulness, but it was as hollow as my misguided recital.

Two weeks ago I glanced over at a piece of paper I shouldn’t have peeped at during an appointment with a consultant, and saw the words ‘Postnatal / Clinical depression’ scrawled in blue ink below my name.

I will be completely honest with you, the tears streaming down my face as I type this; it has knocked me for six.

I am little girl again, scared, looking for a leg to cling on to for protection from those evil words, words that make me feel like a failure, hoping to find nothing but the familiarity of an empty hardened gate post.

‘Feelings aren’t facts. You are not a failure. You will be ok. You are ok. Things are changing for you, you are learning, educating yourself about yourself, opening up and accepting new rules for living. Being kinder to yourself, recognizing the need for living in the moment, being proud of your achievements. Every little step is a new beginning Lexy.’

I am once again curled up in a ball at the sound of all this horrifying and unwanted, desperately needed but horrendous support.

But, this is the thing I notice, I am hearing it and allowing myself to be comforted by it.

The egg is no longer sliding off the glass.

Depression may still control me, and currently there may be nothing much I can do about it, except continue to fight, but control is always overpowered with knowledge.

Understanding is key.

Right?

The curtain came down on my performance as the rain hammered on the roof of my dustbin of a car and my beliefs of needing to win went up in flames.

It isn’t about winning against the illness; it is about treating myself thoughtfully, considerately and with care while I am experiencing dark times.

Treating myself the way I treat others, one moment at a time.

These dark times will not always be present, and it isn’t you will be ok, it is you are ok. In this moment.

And fear is good, fear is healthy, it keeps me fighting.

It isn’t a competition, it is my life, and I am about to start living it for me.

Maybe the vicar blocked me in on purpose to make me stop and take stock.

A positive attitude is all very well, if it serves a purpose, if it supports you and it feels honest, but not everybody can coast through life like the Duracell bunny, not all of the time.

LEXY 2; VERSE 13.

‘Do not swear at a holy man, he wanted chips AND you needed your wheels turning to bricks’ (or something to that effect.)

Does God rhyme? I should probably check that out.

Can I borrow a bible please?

I think I am finding some faith.

I am hopeful AND scared.

Alpine Goats, Winter Coats &…

‘Yooodeley Yooodeley Yodelayyyyy HuuHuuuuuuuuuuuu!!’

‘Again, again!!’ Addison roars, pronouncing it ‘Gin gin!’ (which is actually pretty embarrassing/handy particularly when I am in the wine aisle at the supermarket) at top volume from his car seat where he is now strapped in looking very much like a trussed up turkey, unable to move like a little cardboard man, due to the sheer chunkiness and bulk of his new winter bomber jacket.

I am not the only one who buys clothes too big so he ‘can grow’ in to them right?

I may, however, have gone a bit far this time; I think to myself looking back at him from the drivers seat, it reaches his feet. He looks like a mattress with a little blonde head.

‘Yooodeley Yooodeley Yodelayyyyy HuuHuuuuuuuuuuuu!!’

I yodel back at him channeling Dolly Parton and sticking my chest out. (Does Dolly Yodel? She totally should.) While he once again hoots (albeit completely motionless) like this simple and strange noise emanating from my lips, is the funniest thing he has ever heard.

I put the car in to gear and promptly stall (I do this a lot, but try and make it seem like I meant to) and whisper my thanks to the universe as I check the clock and notice with glee that for once, woohooo for once!!!! We have actually managed to get out of the house on time and without any of the usual D.I’s

(Dramatic incidents, which can include but are not limited to, losing spot the dog, losing Doodle the dog, banging our heads, taking off our shoes and throwing them in the toilet bowl, trying to shove our toothbrushes up Doodle’s bum hole, banging our heads again for attention and not being able to leave without our favourite Dummy, which has been missing since the dawn of time.)

I smile to myself at his continued merriment circling it’s way around my healing heart, like a great big hug, from the back of the car.

It is honestly just so lovely to hear the fruit of my loins giggle, it is a sound that makes me feel like I have arrived home, the best sound in the entire world. I love it.

It is also such a lovely change from what currently seems to be the sound track of my life, which isn’t the Benny Hill theme tune anymore, but instead Addison telling me his teeth are hurting.

Pronounced, just so you are fully aware,

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa’

While he is making this god awful racket he is also always attempting to shove everything and anything in to his mouth, including but not limited to, my new Ugg boot, Doodle’s bed, Doodle himself, the Dyson, the bath plug, my handbag, my leg, Doodle’s leg, a full toilet roll, The take away menu and sometimes, if I am not quick enough, the 50 inch flat screen TV. (Which now has flickery teeth marks right in the corner… No Irish one! Of course I was watching him! I have NO IDEA what those marks are!)

During these times we also, and by we I mean me and Doodle, have to don ice skates due to the overwhelming amount of dribble, spit and snot that leaves the entire house saturated and soggy.

I could do with one of those yellow flip signs. Or a boat.

‘Right Addy, let’s go and buy you some new shoes before nursery!’ I holler over-excitedly before finally getting the car to move, ‘YEAYYYYYYYYYYYYY NEW SHOOOESSSSS ADDISONNN, NEW SHOES YEAYYYYYYY!’ I look back at him inviting him to join in with the excitement, hopeful that he will take me up on the offer.

You’d think the kid would be excited anyway at the thought of new shoes, him being my kid and all, but unfortunately and true to form, I am met with the customary response.

‘‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa’

‘‘Yooodeley Yooodeley Yodelayyyyy HuuHuuuuuuuuuuuu!!’

I try, and once again am thrilled to hear it working like a goddamn dream, so much so, that I end up yodeling like a mental Inga from Sweden (even Dolly has disowned me) all the way to Clarks Shoe Shop.

Which is a 40 minute drive.

I am aware I sound like a bad copy of a mad milk maid and that my voice is going hoarse but if it keeps him laughing and distracted while I navigate my way around rush hour traffic, taxi drivers and white van men sent directly from hell to taunt my insufficient high way code knowledge (amber means slam your foot down and go, right?)  Then so be it.

Unfortunately by the time we reach the Clarks Sale and find ourselves waiting to be served behind a million other well behaved and surprisingly quiet school aged children accompanied by their calm and in control mothers and lurking Nannies, (Hale Barns- they have help, these women in Hale Barns and even though I know I shouldnt be, I am eternally Jealous) yodelling is the last thing I am prepared to do and Addison is far too annoyed at now being wedged in to the pram, for it to even be considered as an option.

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa’

He signals that he is about to pass out from heat exhaustion and I whip his coat off hoping against all odds this will quieten him down somewhat.

The shop is packed.

Other mothers are glancing over at my designer Primarni gear, disgusted, touching their Gucci wears as if to check they are still there and that making eye contact with my screaming son hasn’t transformed them in to someone like me. (Nannyless! Oh the atrocity of it all!)

The shop assistant seems to be in a hurry to get us, due to the ear piercing disruption coming from my pram and I silently thank my son for his persistent reminder of the fact we are waiting.

Fast forward 3 very long years.

‘Addison just sit still for one moment while we try this shoe on, OOOO ISNT THIS SHOE NICE? YEAYYYY!’

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa’

As the shop assistant becomes huffy and it feels like all eyes are now on my little beast who has now doubled over the manky puff seat and is trying to fit the whole thing in his mouth, I finally give up on a magical nanny appearing out of a lamp to save me and go for the tried and tested calm and happy maker instead.

Throwing caution to the wind, believing will all my heart, that this will work, I yodel.

‘‘Yooodeley Yooodeley Yodelayyyyy HuuHuuuuuuuuuuuu!!’

All eyes are now definitely on me, and during the year and a half’s silence that follows my outburst, I am sure I hear someone snigger.

Addison eyes me warily as the shop assistant takes the opportunity to wedge the shoe on to his paddle foot. (Seriously, they are ridiculously big for such a small boy.)

‘Yooodeley Yooodeley Yodelayyyyy HuuHuuuuuuuuuuuu!!’

I try again, and even at this moment right now, as I sit here re-living the horror, I am not sure why I decided in my infinite wisdom to do it again.

As if it wasn’t excruciating enough.

I think, by this point, I was trying to make a point. Do you know what I mean?

‘Laugh Addison, laugh.’ I whisper in to his ear through gritted teeth, my face coloring up as I notice the shop assistant hiding her ill contained smirk behind a colorful shoebox. ‘Addison please laugh for mummy, don’t leave me hanging here!’

The child doesn’t laugh.

Instead choosing this exact moment to remain completely silent, glowering at me from above the two dummies now sitting snugly in his mouth, neither of them recognizable as his own.

‘Let this be a lesson,’ his eyes seem to say ‘I do not like carrot mummy, remember this the next time you are tying to intravenously force feed me carrot. I do not like carrots mummy, and I am the master. Let this be a lesson to you… you now look like a fool, and this could have been avoided, just like the carrot. This is what they call, in simple terms, so that you understand mummy, Payback.’

‘Are these ok to be left on?’ the shop assistant asks me, standing up and walking away, before I can respond, the entire shop I notice, still giving me their focused attention, most of the children smiling, the mum’s horrified on my behalf and still completely confused by my lack of nanny.

‘Yes.’ I mumble quickly before tripping up over the pram in my rush to get to the till, this of course, raising a raucous bubble of laughter from my son.

Normal noise levels in the shop resume as we pay, but as we head out of the door, new shoes on feet, my face beetroot, a man that can only be described as a male daddy model, holding a tiny little baby motions to me.

‘Yes?’ I ask flustered, secretly hoping he was going to flatter me with compliments about my parenting skills and how he has always admired women without hired help.

‘Great yodeling’ he replies mouth full of plums and hilarity.

‘Thanks’ I mutter, before shooting him daggers and skulking out, cursing the child and his evil plot, and driving at warp speed to nursery internally reliving the hell over and over again, while Addison cackles evilly in the background 3 dummies now wedged in his mouth, none of which seem recognizable as his own.

He is an evil genius by day. Teething menace by night.

But hey at least he has a new pair of Clarks, and there are loads of branches of those, meaning I never have to return to that particular place again.

Well, that would have been the case anyway, if I hadn’t left his old shoes, which I desperately want to keep forever as a memento, (they are Adidas high tops – the chav in me loves them) behind.

This time though I intend to walk in with my head held high, wearing my old Octoberfest outfit, carrying Doodle dressed up as a goat under one arm and my hair dyed blonde and plaited down both sides of my head.

Once a yodeler, always a yodeler, and it isn’t like I have any shame left in me, so why not?

***This post wasn’t a sponsored post, as I don’t know what that is. But let me assure you, if it were, it would be sponsored by evil babies.com. And yes. He is having sprouts for tea. He may think he is the master, but I am the Mammy.

*Evil cackle*

I don’t know where he gets it from. I really don’t.

Nine, Ten, never sleep again! (Front bum fermentation.)

As I finally sank my bottom in to the moist garden chair, cup of peppermint tea (I have the most god awful trapped wind constantly at the moment – Depression, the gift that keeps on giving) at the ready and laptop open with a fresh, clean piece of lit up paper glowing in front of me, I was excitedly anticipating a well deserved five minutes peace.

At that very same moment however, the little boy from next door, was eagerly anticipating pecking my head.

He screamed my name across the garden and came positively bounding over, filled with a sense of glee at noticing me.

His timing couldn’t have been more perfect and I, of course, was absolutely thrilled to see him. (She says through gritted teeth.)

‘Hi Lexy!’ he shouted at the top of his voice, even though he was now stood directly beside me, bouncing about from foot to foot like a mental seagull.

(Him not me. I only behave like a mental seagull on a Thursday. Today is a Tuesday…. I believe. But if the days were counted by nights of sleep, I could be duped in to thinking it was Saturday… … the 14th April 2010.)

‘Hi Ben’ I replied with a not very well hidden sigh ‘How are you today?’

‘Ok’ he replied happily, eyeing up my laptop like a lovesick puppy ‘You?’

‘I am ok.’ I smiled at him kindly; he really is a cute child. ‘I am about to do some work though, are you busy playing with your toys?’

A not so subtle hint that I had just managed, finally, to get Addison down for his long overdue nap, after hours of whinging, my new least favourite sound in the world, and finally, was looking forward to an hour in peace, finally, to spend with my (second) favourite piece of machinery in the world. (Ahem.)

Him being a man though…sorry I meant child, he didn’t pick up on it.

I was all set to write a post, which had been burning inside me for days, about how feelings aren’t facts, and neither are thoughts.

Deep huh?

When out of nowhere my scheduled and very well deserved (did I mention I deserved it yet?) me –time was thoughtlessly interrupted by little Ben, who was on a mission (from god, it now seems) to chat utter shite on toast to me, for as long as he possibly could.

I will have to share with you our conversation due to the fact, that during the course of the hour, it became apparent my deep and meaningful was going to get shoved to the side and so instead of typing nothing, I decided to type directly from the horse’s mouth. (Ben is the horse in this scenario.)

And as it happens, the conversation turned a little… well a little… well, you will see.

I was sat outside in the shared garden so I cannot blame him for pestering me, but neither am I the type of woman that will directly tell a child to go away.

He had every right to be there, beside me, much to my dismay, and the apparent delight of his mother who mouthed over ‘Just popping out for a bit, that ok? Before disappearing back behind her kitchen window before I could protest.

I should probably explain, before you call social services on her, that the garden is a free zone and as we have built up years of friendship, the neighborhood gang and I, we often keep an eye on each other’s kids.

(Read: I often keep an eye on their kids, but when Addison is old enough, I fully intend to send him out to play while I bugger off on a two week holiday to Mauritius. They owe me.)

‘Oh balls!’ I hear from below me as I try to focus on my writing.

‘Don’t swear Ben please.’

‘But I dropped my truck.’ He says standing upright again.

‘Well then say Oops. We don’t swear ok?’ I reprimand, trying on my teacher voice and trying not to laugh.

Why is it so funny when cute kids say completely inappropriate words?

‘Ok….’ long drawn out pause…. ‘Oops.’

‘That’s better.’

‘Lexy?’

‘Yes?’

‘How old are you?’

‘Ben you should never ask a lady how old she is.’

‘My mum says the same thing but’ he pauses lost in thought for a second before going on to profess ‘you aren’t ladies. You are a mums.’

(See? Horses mouth.)

‘I am 32.’ I answer directly, avoiding a debate about how mum’s can still be ladies, not sure I would win.

‘Wow. 32 is ancient.’ he interrupts my flow again, just as I am getting to a crucial part.

‘Thanks Ben.’ I reply deadpan and without looking up from my screen.

I was trying to come up with something poignant.

‘Lexy?’

‘Yes?’

‘Can I type something?’

‘No’ I say hurriedly, switching in to autopilot, forgetting I am talking to a child and not the Irish one. ‘How many times do I have to tell you that this laptop is mine and just like my other favourite possession, you do not get to be involved!!’

‘What?’ He looks confused.

‘I said, how old are you?’ I ask shocked at my autopilots vehemence, giving him my full attention.

‘I was six, 2 weeks ago.’ He smiles heartedly, easily distracted by his world  ‘But I’ll be seven soon.’

‘Great.’ I say distracted once again.  ‘Can you go and play please? I am trying to write.’

(Oh. turns out I am that kind of woman. Oh well.)

‘Ok’ he replies joyfully, staring at me, and much to my annoyance, not moving from my elbow.

‘Lexy?’

‘Yes?’ I reply reaching for a sip of tea.

‘Is Doodle scared of buses?’

‘Maybe.’ I reply letting out a sigh.

Where do they get these questions from?

‘Lexy?’

‘Yes?’ I give up and turn to face him.

He has picked up Addison’s empty weeble bus from the patio.

‘What do Weeble’s actually do?’

I grin, remembering to haul myself in. I was six once. Give the kid a break.

‘They wobble but they don’t fall down.’

‘Why not?’ his brow is furrowed beneath his fringe.

‘Because they don’t.’

‘Oh ok.’ He seems satisfied with this answer so I turn back to my screen, feeling good for having made an effort.

‘Lexy?’

‘Yeeees?’ I say with a smile, starting to enjoy the conversation even though I am now more than mildly frustrated by the interruption.

‘Have you got a baby in your belly?’

Enjoyment over.

‘No.’ I retort, a little bit huffy. I know I’ve got a pouch but give a girl a break.

‘Lexy?’  The questions now come thick and fast.

‘Yes?’

‘Where is Addison?’

‘Sleeping.’

‘Lexy?’

‘Yes?’

‘I found an army tank yesterday. Are you missing an army tank?’

‘No.’

‘Have you ever watched Megamind?’

‘No.’

‘I have.’

‘Mmm.’ I am back staring at my computer screen, wondering where his mum is, whether I could be arrested for gaffa taping a child’s mouth, albeit a cute one and seriously beginning to regret the decision to sit outside.

‘Lexy?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you live with your mummy?’

‘No.’ (Too many potential inserts here, and not enough time.)

‘I live with mine, Lexy?’

‘Yes?’

‘Can Weebles have babies?’

‘No.’

I begin to feel strangely uncomfortable.

The way one would when watching a horror movie, and the main character has decided to walk down a very dark alley, just for the heck of it. (While you scream at the television calling her an idiot. IDIOT! IT”S COMING RUN RUN OH MY GOD RUN!! *Grabs cushion and hides from the inevitable*)

‘Why not? Why can’t they have babies?’

‘Because they can’t.’

Unfortunately that didn’t do it this time.

‘Because they don’t have inside bum bits?’ he asked, face of innocence placed immediately in front of mine.

I looked right back at him and tried very hard not to spit out my tea directly in to his face.

Paragraphs of that book ‘The Slap’ started racing through my mind.

Is it ok to hit someone else’s kid? Not in my opinion.

Is it ok to end up misinforming another woman’s child about sex though, just so you don’t end up telling another woman’s child the truth about sex?

The rules are not clear here!!

‘Aha.’ I cough on my tea. ‘Sure. Yeah. You know, it’s cos they don’t have those.’

He raises one eyebrow (looking a bit like a mini Austin powers.)

‘You are fibbing’ he points his finger, as if catching me out ‘my mummy says God put a baby in her stomach, that it has absolutely nothing to do with front bums and inside bits!’

Oh. (Front bum’s? Brilliant!)

So his mummy is having a baby.

My discomfort level shoots off the scale. (I still can’t trump though. God I hate trapped wind! It kills!)

It is almost definitely time to close my laptop and make a hasty exit.

‘That is nice,’ I over animate for his benefit! ‘You will have a brother or a sister!’

He ignores me and continues down his own thought path as I flap around gathering up my stuff as quickly as I possibly can.

‘Mummy said you have to be married to have a baby,’ he pauses while my heart begins leaking out of my bottom (FINALLY!!!) ‘but you and the Irish one aren’t married are you?’

Rub it in why don’t you.

‘No’ I reply, the wind knocked out of my sails.

‘So how come God gave you a baby then?’

‘Because he knew we loved each other?’ I respond trying to sound authoritative but blatantly clutching at straws, as I am not religious and don’t really know those rules either, all the while standing up and heading for the living room garden door trying to escape before this goes any further.

He follows me.

‘But how does he know? How did the baby get in to your tummy Lexy if you aren’t married?’

I contemplate running.

I cough and try and change the subject.

‘Ben have you seen that plane up there? It is going very fast!’ (Seriously wishing at the time, that I was on it.)

‘I am six you know.’ He admonishes me from just above knee height. ‘Not five and nearly seven!’

‘I know.’ I reply pushing my door open and setting down my laptop on the couch, abandoning any hope of the passionate post I was desperate to write, for the day.

Damn it. I forgot to close the door.

He followed me in.

Now there is no escape.

‘I am learning about flowers at the moment and how they fermentilize.’

I nod non-committedly and listen out for Addison while attempting to appear busy so he will get bored and leave.

‘So, you see’ he goes on, toddling after me in to the kitchen ‘I know God didn’t put the baby in your belly or my mummy’s belly. I know it’s got something to do with being fermented.’

That’s one word for it.

Actually, that is pretty accurate.

I was certainly fermented at the time anyway.

‘Ben.’ I give up, ignoring his serious face, trying to stop him. ‘I have to wake Addison up now, but maybe you should ask mummy these questions. I can hear her calling you.’ (I could. I didn’t make that last bit up.)

He ignores me and like a child from an honest to god horror movie, eyes me intently and with a very, very, very serious and quiet voice whispers;

‘Mummy says it was God, but I don’t believe her. I intend to find out, you know. One day I will find out how that baby got in your belly, and in hers. I am six not five… one day I will find out.’ (He didn’t say ‘mark my words’, but he may as well have!)

And with that he runs out of the door.

Hang on?

‘I haven’t got a ruddy baby in my belly’ I stick my head out of the door and shout petulantly after him, Freddie Kreugars lullaby playing through the shadows of my murky brain. (One, two, freddie’s coming for you… three four, better lock your door…)

‘I know!’  I hear shouted back from the other end of the garden, just as his mum shoots me an odd look and waves her thanks, and Ben, from behind her, looks on seriously, with one finger pointed at me, very slowly nodding his head.

(Not really but I am setting a scene here.)

I turn around, completely confused and a little worried about his methods of finding out, promising to avoid him at all costs for the foreseeable future, pick up my laptop and sigh as Addison shouts for me before putting it right back down again.

Thoughts aren’t facts, is typed at the top of the page.

I am wrong, I tell myself while thinking ‘thank god Addy isn’t six.’

Sometimes they can be.

Glass of fermentation anyone? I have red or white.

It’s Ok not to be Ok.

‘I stare at my reflection in the mirror, why am I doing this to myself? Losing my mind on a tiny era, I nearly left the real me on the shelf. Don’t lose who you are, dreaming is believing, it is ok not to be ok. Sometimes it is hard to follow your heart, tears don’t mean you are losing, everybody is bruising, just be true to who you are.’

I am drunk as I write this.

It is 1.20 am on Friday night. (1 20 and I am already home with my laptop on my knee! What a party animal!)

Tonight I left the house and faced Jessie J in concert, courtesy of a very good friend who I met… well; it doesn’t really matter where I met her, suffice to say I will know her and love her and who she is forever.

We have a shared journey.

I didn’t want to leave the house, which is why I say I faced Jessie J.

I wanted to disappear but reaching an understanding with myself while drying my hair, I realised with iron certainty it would not matter where I was (in or out, shake it all about) I would undoubtedly feel the same way, so with a heavy sigh, I put on a skirt and left the house.

I was wearing a top too, just in case you wondered and boots. I am not lady Godiva, as I do not have a horse and my boobs are too saggy. But fair play to her and thanks mum, as we are on the subject, for sending me to a primary school fancy dress party as the blessed mad woman, wearing only tights and a hobbyhorse, at the age of 3. It really didn’t scar me for life. Not much anyway.

The skirt however, is significant.

I talked myself in to making an effort; the aim being to re discover the part of me that used to be confident enough to wear a skirt and unearth the tiny morsel of me that used to be able to strut.

I don’t like going to concerts usually, especially concerts of artists whom I love.

The reasons being that normally, as I stand crushed in the crowd, too hot, claustrophobic and bursting for a wee, I often find myself looking up at them, the artiste I admire, living their dreams, fulfilling ambitions and inadvertently and irritatingly sink in to a pit of self hatred.

And then I drink too much.

I could have been somebody, gulp,  I am nobody, gulp, what is the point? Gulp.

This time though, was a little different.

For a start I avoided the mosh pit and found myself with a seat. (God I am SO old. I did have a pint though just so you know, it wasn’t like I ordered a pot of tea or anything.)

As she exploded on to the stage, her eyes bright from excitement, wearing, well, not much, welcomed by a million screaming teenagers and greeting us all with the token ‘Hello Manchester!’  I caught myself just in time and cautioned the approaching negative behavior and my inclination for what I can now see to be jealousy at my unfulfilled ambition with strong words, learnt over the summer.

You are somebody, focus on that, remember who you are, what you have achieved and listen to the words, they may touch you.

If you feel worthless at the end of this evening, I will allow you to sink.

Deal?

Deal.

(Apparently when you talk to yourself you are mad, but I have to be honest, I find it madder not to. Who wants to live in silence?)

At 1 am, after leaving my friend behind in a busy and overcrowded bar, after admittedly, having a bit of sing to Kylie, I did something I promised the Irish one I would never do.

(It is ok, he says he reads this but I know he doesn’t, how do you think I get away with so much?)

I strolled, completely alone, around the busy night time streets of Manchester, purposely placing one foot in front of the other, as my boots clicked on the stone pavements, my arms wrapped around myself tightly, to warn oncoming revelers I wasn’t up for a chat, with a half smile on my face, heading nowhere and with no direction.

I needed some time.

I could have stayed in the bar, but I didn’t want to.

I could have jumped in a taxi home, but I didn’t want to.

I needed some time. To just… be.

Deliberately I slowed as I reached a heavily packed pub and looked through the window. A group of four women around a table, warm with drinks in front of them, throwing their lined faces full of experience, back in laughter.

I watched briefly from the outside looking in as they touched, and giggled, sharing secrets and enjoying the arrival of the weekend together.

One of them noticed me stagnant, peering in from the cold outside and as her eyes briefly made contact with mine I hurriedly started back on my journey.

The air was biting cold; it brought me pleasure, soothed by the alcohol buzz as it numbed my pain and wrapped it’s arms around me, a blanket of protection making me feel free.

I walked around the city that used to feel like home, that I used to know so well, knowing that I would be safe and that I could leave this trip behind at anytime, as the taxi lights flowed past me in fluid motion.

I could have been anybody, a student with no responsibility, just a girl.

Anonymous.

I couldn’t help but grin.

Two policemen gazed over at me as I crossed a deserted road picking up my pace.

I didn’t care.

I was doing nothing wrong; it felt that way, for the first time in a long time.

I was just walking.

Will I get run over?

I glanced down a dark alleyway filled with dustbins and discarded rubbish however I did not feel fear.

Can I disappear in to that darkness and be forgotten?

Can I forget?

I queued for cigarettes behind two bouncing young girls buying pick and mix, wearing ballet pumps and talking about boys.

Freedom.

Youth.

A slap in the face.

A reminder I still had life in me.

A middle-aged man behind me talking to his friend ‘What I love about tonight is, it could go anywhere…’

I smiled to myself and carried on.

His feeling of promise washing over me as for a split second as I remembered.

Two young women in shoes too high, both too wrecked for them to navigate properly at this hour, being supported by two younger men ‘I don’t usually get this drunk’ was howled in to the night as she fell, he friend collapsing in to giggles beside her.

I continued on.

I’m past that.

I watched myself as I approached the library in the full-length glass.

I was a teenager again for a moment, laughing, surrounded by friends, full of promise, full of hope, enjoying the moment.

And then I saw me.

A woman in a skirt, half drunk, alone, unable to hold her pelvic muscles when she sneezes.

When did I lose that ability to enjoy the moment? I questioned myself, not realising I was enjoying this moment.

Will I ever sneeze again without wetting myself?

The library so majestic back then, full of promise.

Back to work for me on Monday.

A future where each day is longer than the last.

Maybe.

Back to my silence, back to my prison.

Maybe.

Will those moments where I could have been anybody, always haunt me?

Or can I let go?

Too old to dance too tired to try.

Maybe.

Life.

How did I get here?

When did I lose me?

Will I ever find me again?

Yes.

Maybe without realising.

It reminded me as I stood, finding the courage not to vanish, but wishing I could, the fight of it all becoming a little too much, of what I read recently (here)

Do I actually want to die?

No, I just want to be saved. (Not shaved. Saved.)

But how?

Creeping back in to the house, fitting my key silently in to the lock and turning, I am greeted by my over excited poodle, full of kisses and warm welcomes.

My little boy, face down and snoring.

The Irish one asking me ‘Good night?’ as I trip over his bloody electric razor discarded (ONCE AGAIN!) on the floor, before sleepily turning over with an ‘I love you’ and falling back in to a deep sleep.

Smells like home.

In this moment, the answer is clear.

This is how.

I just hope I remember that in the morning, when I have sobered up.

Jessie spoke to me tonight by the way, and I was touched.

‘You’ll never leave me, you’ll never leave me, I just want one more minute to finish this fairytale, how did you disappear?  I wont say this is over, you are still here, in my shadow, everywhere I go. I don’t see the need to cry, you’ll never leave me…you’re in my shadow.’

I enjoyed the concert.

The deal paid off.

Music as Therapy.

I used to listen to music all the time.

Back when I was young, free, single and happy (read; drunk) turning the stereo on while searching through a huge pile of cd’s with one hand, and grabbing my glasses and a pint of water with the other, was all part of my very brief morning routine.

The music would go on before the shower did.

Before the kettle did.

Before the make up would.

And usually before I could actually see what I would be listening to.

The music would usually be on before I was even fully conscious.

Music was my therapy.

The therapy I didn’t even realise I was getting, free of charge, from my top of the line, mega blaster, sat in the corner of my bedroom. (I do miss that chunky thing. Sometimes my iPod just doesn’t cut it. I miss slamming he cd holder down Wham! Waiting for the whirr of the Cd… Ahhh the good old days. IPod’s are just so delicate… but anyway.)

I would dress in front of the mirror listening to upbeat tunes, singing in to my hairbrush and imagining myself performing to millions… (Like I am sure we have all done.) I would point the hair dryer at my head and imagine myself in a music video as my hair blew out behind me… (Like we all did, right? RIGHT?)

I would catwalk in my work heels, up and down my tiny hallway, to some new tunes, coffee in hand, and with Doodle staring at me like I was demented, before leaving for work. (Like we all did right? RIGHT?)

I would plod about the place if I had been dumped, was about to dump, or was just generally feeling lousy, listening to Alanis Morisette and feeling every poignant word.  (LIKE WE ALL DID! Right?)

I would wash up listening to show tunes. Imagining I was Cinderella, or that girl from Chicago. I would throw my soapy hands wide and belt out the tunes in my tone-deaf way, completely living in the moment and not caring who heard. (I KNOW WE ALL DID.)

It was as if each piece of music had been written for me, and was talking to me.

So when did I stop enjoying music?

When life got in the way.

When I forgot I mattered, and when my list of things to get done, got so long, there was barely time to have a wee, never mind put the radio on, or gently maneuver my iPod in to the shitty docking station in the kitchen.

Cbeebies is the soundtrack of this home now, as that is practical and I have come to terms with it.

Hard to imagine, or find enjoyment out of imagining myself as a giant blue sausage man singing ‘Iggle Piggle’ at the sink though, to be honest, so these days I tend to just wash up in silence, focusing on the task in hand. (And the other 8 million things I need to do.)

After many therapy sessions though, I am starting to see how sad this actually is and once again am beginning to see the importance of me time and finding time to do something I enjoy even if I am doing it while I wash up.

So, recently while struggling through a huge pile of bills, I found ten seconds out of my busy schedule of worrying and stressing to plug my iPod in.

And an odd thing happened.

The bills didn’t seem so bad, the task didn’t wipe me out completely and the music actually lifted my mood somewhat, as I sang along, living and loving it, in that moment.

(I may have even stood up and done a twirl.)

I was katy Perry, I was A Goo Goo doll, and I was Eminem all the while opening the motherfunking bills. (Seriously, trashy rap me has such a potty mouth!)

So on the back of this, I am going to do something I have never done before, and I am proper nervous about it.

I want to share the experience, so I am going to start a meme.

A meme called Music Therapy.

You can join in, if you would like to, no pressure though.

When I was younger, I could sometimes swear a song had been written just for me.

That the lyrics spoke to me, told my story, touched every bone in my body and recognized in me a need to be heard.

So, while I was trying to enjoy the music again, I found, once again, this began to happen.

I took twenty minutes for myself when Addison was in bed, plugged myself in to my music library and chose three songs that I had recently heard and enjoyed, and felt touched by and I copied down the lyrics that spoke to me.

I hope that makes sense.

If you would like to have a go, just pick;

3 beautiful songs.

3 different bands.

3 sets of lyrics that touch you in anyway you want to show.

Mine were all speaking to me directly, So here goes my effort.

*****************************************************

October 2011. 

Dear Me,

I am not the one who broke you.

I am not the one you should fear.

I have no solution to the sound of this pollution in me.

And I want to be free, to talk to me…

…

Lately I’ve been hard to reach; I’ve been too long on my own

I’m just so fuckin’ depressed, I just cant seem to get out this slump

If I could just get over this hump

I took my bruises, took my lumps

Fell down and I got right back up

I don’t know how or why or when I ended up in this position I’m in

But I know one fact, I’ll be one tough act to follow

One tough act to follow

Here today, gone tomorrow…

…

Sometimes it feels like everything’s going wrong

And we feel like it’s all our fault

But there ain’t nothing wrong

With thinking with our hearts

And letting someone near

That storm might break you down

But you’ll get up again

And learn from your mistakes

And you will be loved be loved be loved, you will be loved be loved be loved…

*****************************************************

Wow.

I can not tell you how much I enjoyed listening to all that music, I found myself laughing at ‘The underdog’ thinking no, I  cant use that. It says I will not survive!

I found myself grinning at Katy Perry ‘TGIF’ and thinking no, I cant use that in case the Irish one things i screwed someone on friday night… AHH WHAT FUN! And I reconnected with so much music!

I have really got so much out of doing this, listening to the songs, the words and finding the personal meaning to me, and to read the three I finally chose now in black and white… whoa!

Maybe I don’t hate myself as much as I thought I did.

Maybe I will be loved. Maybe I actually am a bit proud of myself for struggling through and maybe,  I have shit taste in music, but the memory’s, the pleasure… well it makes me less embarrassed to share!

I honestly cannot wait to do this again in a couple of weeks to see how it has changed, I have so much music to choose from! (All just as rubbish!)

I have thought of five more, in the last ten minutes!

And I really loved doing it, I really did.

I would love to read, cannot wait to read, some of yours, from you beautiful people, so will tag the following people.

If I haven’t tagged you, it is only because I ran out of time, and the link thing was driving insane. Technology is not my forte.

I would love to read any and everybody’s!

Please join in, you never know, you may enjoy it!

I  know mine is long, but your’s doesn’t have to be!

Miss Boy and me.

Miss Expat mummy

Miss Susan K Mann. 

Miss Spermie Style.

Miss not my year off.

Miss barema Harshman.

Make mommy go something something. 

Miss Live otherwise. 

Miss Mommyhood. 

If you do not have a blog, and want to take part, feel free to send me an email with your effort on, and I will include it on it’s own page.

Or why not just listen to some music??

It can’t hurt can it?

I’m going back to the washing up… with EYE OF THE TIGER!!!

”Rising up, back on the street, did my time, took my chances…”

Love it.

Passion is the Genesis of Genius.

I am a genius.

A genius wearing more colours today than is strictly necessary on account of having to get dressed in the dark, due to an electricity failure in the bedroom coupled with the fact that yesterday, in a moment of sheer madness I bought myself some new clothes and wanted to wear them all at the same time, in preparation for today’s therapy session, but a genius nevertheless.

There is something about a new top, or a new cardigan, or new trousers that really make me feel special. Yes I cant afford them, and yes I told the lady to forget the bag so the Irish one wouldn’t see me coming home weighed down by more credit card debt, but oh it is so worth it.

Wearing new clothes I feel, I don’t know, special, attractive, young and well…unburdened by the everyday humdrum of depression and the unrelenting routine of motherhood.

Do you know what I mean?

My new top meant I didn’t mind when I woke up to find the light switch had given up, the very thought of it sat there, waiting to be worn, motivated me to get dressed even though I couldn’t see what I was doing and once again, experienced the seemingly monthly inconvenience of bounding out of bed to the dulcet tones of my baby screeching, directly on to an upturned plug.

My new top closed it’s ears to me swearing at the Irish one and threatening, like one may do a teenager, to throw out his items if he didn’t pick them up!

(This year alone, I have stood on three upturned plugs. THREE. I will need surgery if it happens again. SURGERY!!!)

My new cardigan meant I didn’t mind when I let Doodle out and he wandered back in, while I was in the kitchen trying to find the coffee I finally remembered to buy, muddy footed and jumped straight on the sofa to eat Addison’s toast.

The thought of my new trousers, waiting patiently in the cupboard for the day when I eventually shed the last few muffins worth of top, did not however, keep  me focused on happiness, when I stepped in to the shower and found myself shin deep in used grubby and bitty Irish water.

My home is slowly falling to pieces, much like my mind, but unlike when I try and fix my faulty mind, I am able to think logically, unlike the man in my life, and rectify the wrong doing in a matter of moments.

The drain has been blocked in the bathtub for weeks. (Ok, so maybe not moments, but I got there in the end.)

Threatening to buy a plunger, call a plumber and buy some drain unblocker for weeks, I finally gave up on the Irish one and took matters in to my own capable and shaking hands. (I think my meds need tweaking. I am currently walking around shaking like an old Volvo going up a hill, and can literally do nothing about it.

‘Are you ok?’ The woman at starbucks asked me yesterday when she handed me my coffee and I proceeded to scatter it, like one would someone’s ashes, all over myself.

‘Yes’ I replied smiling and thinking on my feet ‘I’ve just had a shock that’s all’  which I thought was probably a better response than ‘Yeah it’s just the concoction of anti-psychotic med’s I am taking to stop me going completely mad that make me shake.’

Turns out I should have been honest.

‘Oh no what happened?’ she asked nosily.

And of course I had to make something up on the spot.

‘I thought someone had stolen my son, but then realised they hadn’t.’

First thing I could think of. (Which does actually happen on occasion though in fairness. Again it is the meds.)

‘OH my god!’ she gushed ‘Where is he?’

‘At home with his dad’ and I shrugged.

I left her looking confused and fled. She may think I am an idiot, but she is completely unawares of my genius status, so I will let her off.)

Sometimes though, I do wonder why my brain doesn’t step in and gag my mouth in times like this, but genius that I am, I can only cope with so much.

Wearing my new top, my new cardi and promising my new trousers I would see them soon, I took drastic action on the plughole.

There are only so many times I can listen to ‘I promise to fix it tommorrow’ off himself, especially when I am knee deep in his Gak so I seized the hoover nozzle off the Dyson, and yes I know the correct term is vacuum but it’s a hoover ok? Just like a tampon will always be a Tampax to me, even if it isn’t. Life is too short to split hairs, which actually brings me to my point nicely, and stuck it over the plughole.

With a whoosh and a phaaalunk 7 years worth of hair (sorry if you are eating right now) was sucked up by the magic flute and hey presto!! The drain was unblocked.

Now I know this isn’t an inspiring tale of recovery or a poignant tale of woe but still, it felt important enough to share. (I am in therapy in an hour, so I promise the next one will be better.)

As I looked down at the ‘hoover’ now grumbling and whining, sodden and severely pissed off at being used as a make shift plumber, horns and trumpets started celebrating my ingenious plan.

The water ran down that plug hole like horses galloping towards a finish line at the grand national!

I was victorious.

Too too too toooot!!!

And yes ok, now the hoover smells like something died in it, and yes maybe with it being an electrical item it probably wasn’t the best idea to plunge it in to a bath of water but hey! My hairy shins are now free from second hand water, and that feels marvellous!

I do sometimes wonder about the need for the Irish one.

If Doodle could get a job, I would probably marry him, to be honest.

Because my man, can do a job…eventually, if he has all the right equipment, and the right light, the universe is pulling in the right direction and it is a Tuesday in May, but sometimes, just sometimes, it isn’t worth the wait.

Especially when one owns a Dyson.

If you want a job doing?

Get me round.

I am a genius.

Anyway, I am off to therapy… and then I need to call an electrician about the bedroom lights… or do I?

Hmmmm.

Life in Slow Motion.

Shopping I must shop today, I need sponges and cloths, the one on the sink has been there since New Kids on the Block were at number 1. It is manky. Which reminds me I need to buy some drain un-blocker too. The plug is filled with hair. Gross. I wonder if I will ever stop malting, which reminds me I need to hoover the dog hair off the sofa before the Irish One gets home tomorrow night or he will go mad. Oh we need fish too. I must make Addison’s lunch from fresh tomorrow, he will eat fish, he always does, yes that is a good idea, it will need to be put on at eleven while he naps, or should that be half eleven, what if it goes cold while he is still asleep? You know people don’t like you right? They think you are a terrible mother.

Maybe I should just cook it when he wakes up? But what if he climbs on the TV stand while I am in the kitchen and knocks it over on himself? No I will cook it while he sleeps then wake him up and he can eat. If he is tired he could sleep again this afternoon while I do some writing. If they liked you, you would feel it. I am sure they call you things behind your back; it is because you are worthless.  

Shit, when will we go to the shops? I need sponges and cloths, oh and washing up liquid and nappies. Damn I will need to go to the bank first. Right so if I wake Addison up and give him is lunch then we can go to the bank and then I can go to the supermarket. Nobody will ever love you enough Lexy you are hard work.

Right but before all of that I need to make him breakfast and I need to wash up and let the dog out. What time is it? Oh. 3am. I really should get some sleep. Ok I will try and sleep. Don’t forget the sponges tomorrow. Maybe you should get out of bed and write it down in case you forget…you are pathetic.

Oh and drain un-blocker! Do not forget that, and make sure you hoover…shit the shopping! I went to Asda before! How did I forget that? Because you are an idiot…

It is happening again.

I am starting to run too hard, too fast and for too long.

When I say I am staring to run, I don’t mean in the literal sense because I do not run and never will. Occasionally I will jog, but only if I am jogging towards someone holding a chocolate bar, or maybe after the pizza deliveryman if he forgot the sweet chilli sauce, but running has never been my thing and I am not ashamed to admit it.

What I actually mean is, I can appreciate when I am making myself ill again by never stopping for breath, by driving through the Starbucks ‘Drive thru’, paying and leaving without the coffee, and forgetting to smile at the realisation.

I suffer with depression, this much is true but sometimes I forget I can do things to help myself.

I start to fall in to old behavioral patterns, and one by one I start leaving my marbles behind, losing them, leaving them and most disturbingly, abusing myself instead of coming to my own rescue.

A while back, when my sheets were starched white, a magpie was my best friend and a doctor would pop his head in on me to check I wasn’t dead every fifteen minutes, I learnt a lot about recognizing the signs of illness, and how to live in the moment.

‘Take one day at a time,’ is a phrase I have heard countless times over the last few months, from health professionals, friends and family. In fact I have heard it so often, I sometimes wonder if Addison will whisper it to me as his first full sentence.

And although I nod and murmur my agreement while shooting a Wallace and Grommit type grin back, I don’t really listen, when perhaps I should be doing.

Before being admitted in to hospital I would say I didn’t understand or know how to ‘live in the moment’, I thought it was just an annoying cliché.

Since being hospitalized I would probably say I do know how to, but usually forget the importance and the need for doing so.

How can I only think about today when next Tuesday I am going to the dentist? (and we all know what happened last time!)

How can I only think of today when I have to find the money to pay nursery on Wednesday?

How can I only live in this moment right now, when I have to put Addison’s lunch on in the next hour?

I need to plan.

Life is too fast and too important; there are too many things to think about, to worry about, to fixate on, to only think of today, to only think of this moment right now.

There is no time to slow down.

Getting everything done matters more.

Doesn’t it?

On Monday evening I left my lifeline, my laptop, in it’s newly bought leather case, sat on the top of my car for two hours in the middle of Salford, while I took all my other belongings (my son and his paraphernalia) in to the house to commence the regimented bedtime routine.  I didn’t realise that this is where my life line, my laptop, had been sitting like a time bomb, waiting to be stolen until 8pm when I sat down to write and remembered with a minor heart attack the last time I had had it.

It was still there.

On Tuesday I left the gas on the hob, crackling and bursting away, turned on full for an hour after warming up ready brek. I only realised after I had started to feel drowsy and had wandered in to the kitchen to get a glass of water. After feeling my legs go weak with relief that I had caught it just in time, I ran with a pounding heart, and opened every window in the house.

Thank god Addison was in nursery.

On Wednesday I was so anxious about getting everything done I needed to get done, I was in Asda with my belongings (my son and all his paraphernalia) by 6.30 am. I woke him up to take him.

After no sleep.

On Thursday and Friday I forgot to eat. I wasn’t hungry. At least, I don’t remember feeling hungry.

I probably wasn’t.

On Saturday I dropped my belongings (my son and all his paraphernalia) off with my mum while I went to a wedding. My mum called not long after and said she wanted to take Addison to the on-call Dr again as his temperature was high again, but not to worry, it was just for her peace of mind. I raced there, in my dress, insisting they wait for me and I went with them.

Returning a couple of hours later, prescription in hand and wanting to get my exhausted belongings (my son and his paraphernalia) in to my own car, and go home, I couldn’t find my car keys. The car keys that also had my house keys attached to them. After an hour of searching and panicking, my mum reminded me ‘I saw you put them on top of the car when you strapped Addy in before we left for the Dr’s, did you pick them up again?’

No I hadn’t.

Miraculously though, they were still there, sat on top of her car, inexplicably wedged under the roof rack.  We had driven on the motorway, we had been to Wythenshaw hospital, got lost, taken at least four U turns, and we had driven home on the motorway and yet, there they still were. Heart pounding, knowing the Irish one was away with his keys and Doodle could have been imprisoned at home, I got in the car and thanked whoever it was, who was watching over me.

I also acknowledged that maybe; just maybe, it was time to slow down.

But didn’t…

On Sunday, struggling to function, the depression having seen it’s opening and thrust itself in, an uninvited guest at the party, I lost my cash card. And 2 credit cards. I shouted at Addison over nothing. I made him cry. Over nothing. I self harmed because I shouted at Addison over nothing and more so than ever before, I wanted to give up. I am a terrible mother, a failure. I researched brain tumors in my spare time while Addison slept, and convinced myself I had one. As if I wasn’t anxious enough. I thought a lot about dying. I hated everybody. We went to Asda and did a shop. A shop I only remembered was in the boot of my car at 3 o’clock this morning.

After eating nothing for dinner.

Again.

When I was first in hospital, I thought I wasn’t depressed because I got out of bed everyday and got on with my day. I kept telling the doctors I was just a drama queen. I can laugh. I can organize. I am not depressed.

‘You are depressed.’

‘No I am not!’

‘What makes you think you aren’t?’

‘I get out of bed everyday!’

‘Do you sometimes think about dying?’

‘Doesn’t everybody?’

‘No.’

‘Oh’

‘Do you ever stop?’

‘Not really.’

‘What do you enjoy doing?’

‘Not much.’

‘Do you ever stop?’

‘No. There is no time to.’

‘It is critical that you stop.’

Like plunging head first in to very cold water, I am reminded once again of those words.

My illness is one I have fought long and hard with.

So why am I giving up now? Why am I ignoring all the advice now?

I am not. I will not.

It is time to slow down again.

Before something catastrophic happens.

When I am playing with my son, I have to put my phone down, remind myself that in an hour, I will deal with that hour, but right now, we are playing. The fish will cook. The day will go on.

When I am making dinner I have to be making dinner.

When I am meant to be sleeping I need to be sleeping.

The days will take care of themselves.

No more multitasking for now.

It is too dangerous, for my belongings (my son and all his paraphernalia) and for my mental health.

And that includes you, voice in my head.

(Voice, not voices!)

No more multi-tasking for now.

One thing at a time.

But what about picking the Irish one up from the airport, you need petrol, you’ll need to put your foot down, you’ll be ok doing 80, make sure you pick Addison up, you need to feed the dog, and have a shower, you need to wash, the Irish One will think you are stinky, nobody likes you stinky…

Shut up.

*And whoever you are, that has been looking after and out for me up there, as if I didn’t know; I am listening, and I owe you one. I am listening. I love you and miss you everyday. A hundred times, thank you. x

Separation, Desperation and a Broken Washer.

This weekend I am home alone.

Which is why when the washing machine decided to go on an unscheduled sabbatical to an ashram somewhere in the West Indies (or somewhere equally as laid back as it has clearly decided life in my kitchen is too stressful) I took matters in to my own hands and decided to call a man to get it fixed.

‘Hello? Is this A1 Fixing Stuff?’

‘Yeah’ (yawn)

‘My washer is broke can you come fix it please?’ (Furrowed brow at the lack of his professionalism.)

‘Yeah what’s your address?’ (Creepy scream voice followed by another yawn.)

I gave it to him. (Thinking I probably shouldn’t be, and yawned back.)

‘Are you home alone?’

‘Eh?’ (Concerned now.)

‘I mean, will you be home about 2? I will bring a colleague with me.’

At this point, as he began to sound like Dial a Danger, and I seriously began worrying that I had called 1-800 porno handy men, it was the way he said colleague, I instantly got visions of them turning up ‘We are here to fix your washer missis!’ wearing dungarees and carrying huge…. anyway, I changed my mind about letting him come (stop it) and decided not to get murdered while the Irish one was away.

‘You know what?’ I gushed kicking myself for divulging my address so freely ‘My husband who plays rugby and just got back from passing his black belt exam at kick boxing, just managed to fix it, thanks anyway!’

And I hung up, to the sound of his disgruntled goodbye’s before wondering why I thought it would be ok to invite a random ‘handy man’ off the internet, in to my home, to have a good nosy at the inside of my flat, while there is only me and my wobbly belly and no jujitsu training available here, just because he had advertised he was ‘handy.’

He may not have been a murderer (he wasn’t listed as one, I checked, although I am not sure murderers list themselves as murderers to be honest, as I would imagine if they did, they wouldn’t get much work) but I couldn’t take the chance.

I am too busy to be murdered this weekend.

And honestly think of the mess? I have only just mopped up the last crime scene. (Doodle. Need I say more? Would it be wrong to use a champagne cork to … never mind. I am pretty sure it would be, and the last thing I need as well as a murderer and a porn star on my door step is the RSPCA.)

So when I say home alone, I mean in the most obvious sense.

I will be completely alone, to behave as I please, to make decisions as I see fit, to run naked, wobbly and free in a meadow of long grass shouting ‘I’m free, I’m finally freeee!’ (If I so chose), while both the teething child that never lets go of my leg, and the Poodle with the leaky anal cyst, trail behind me wondering what time dinner will be served at, and at any point will we be considering leaving the house?

When I get hungry and No.

So not completely alone (for all you killers out there.)

But as alone as I am going to get at this juncture.

And I lied when I told the handy predator from A1 Fixing Stuff that I had a Husband. I don’t. I have an Irish One. But we aren’t married, choosing instead to live in sin for a couple of years while he decides if I am worth it or not.

(I ripped my arse open the day before your birthday and delivered you a healthy (ish) son for god sake!! What more does a girl have to do around here!!! Buy me a bloody ring! I don’t care how they do it where you are from, but where I am from, when a girl rips her bumhole open in the name of love, you buy her a new ring!! A new ring with diamonds on!!)

He is from Dublin, the Irish one, in case you were wondering, as I have been for the last 3 years, (I swear he said he was from Cork!) and has asked me to tell you that he would be more than happy to regale you with stories about the potato famine, about how his country have suffered at the hands of my country (Spain??) for trillions of years, and how amazing the floozy in the Jacuzzi is (not me on this occasion) anytime you want.

(May I suggest this as a viable solution to insomnia? It has worked wonders for me honestly, I had to call him every night from the mental institution due to the fact none of the anti psychotics they prescribed were nearly as effective as re-living the last 20 years of Irelands history again, so if you struggle to sleep, give him a call.)

*Just to be clear here, I am not and never will slate Ireland, or their history. I love the country and I adore the people, I just liken it to the first time I watched toy story and loved it, but by the millionth time, I was ready to rip my eyes out, take to my ears with a rusty knife and feed all four of them to the dog. The same rule applies here.

I have to admit though, as much as I will miss the romantic pillow talk I usually have to endure really enjoy about moldy potato’s and some bloke who signed a piece of paper that started a revolution a few decades ago (or something) and how to make Coddle (Boiled sausages, chicken cuppa soup, Oxo cube) I am actually really looking forward to this chance to do the lone living mum thing. (And have the remote all to myself for a full three nights!)

Even though I am not used to being home alone, so am a bit creeped out, Addison isn’t feeling very well so I will probably need some assistance in the night and we will be wearing the same clothes for the entire weekend due to the lack of my desire to be snuffed out, dowsed in hot oil and extinguished (or however ‘handy’ murderers do these things- I don’t know, it wasn’t listed) from not having the washer fixed and some random in Salford now knows where I live and that I am probably alone, and actually, (shit I really didn’t think this post through) now all you lot know that I am alone too, I am still going to try very hard to be carefree and enjoy the experience.

I am having pizza for tea. (Just in case you wanted to drop round. You may as well. You all know where I liiivvvveee (creepy scream voice.)

I am about to watch Drop dead diva and then I am going to have an early night ready for another full day of picking up, putting down, picking up, putting down ADDISON DECIDE WHAT YOU WANT FROM MUMMY!!! Doodle please clench those furry bum cheeks until mummy can open the back door, DOODLE NO!!! NOT ON THE RUG!! OH FOR THE LOVE OF… and maybe just maybe, if Addison is feeling well enough, I may be able to escape the house for a couple of hours and watch a good friend of mine get married.

Ahh another wedding.

Always a guest, never the bride…I wonder when it will be my turn…. She didn’t even have to tear her anus for her fiancée to propose, now that is real love.

Are you listing over there in Ireland?

Hello?

Shit.

What was that noise?

Oh my GOD, IS THAT A SPIDER?

IRISH ONE COME HOME!!! I want to know more about the potatoes… I don’t mind living in sin, honest!!!

Hello?

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

‘Yes who is this? I would rather have a husband to be honest but who is this? Why do you want to know?

‘Because I wanna know who I am looking at…’

ARGHHHHHHHHHH QUICK DOODLE POO ON THE MURDERER! POO ON THE MURDERER!

And look at the state of Roger!!!

‘Jessica Rabbit was curvy wasn’t she? And she was a full on knock out.’

I turn to look at him.

‘Seriously? You are trying to make me feel better about my body, by comparing me to a cartoon rabbit with bigger boobs than me? How unrealistic is that?’

‘Ok, bad example.’ He grumbles walking out. ‘I couldn’t have won anyway.’

Conversation over.

And he is right.

He wouldn’t have done.

He thinks I am gorgeous.

He tells me all the time.

So why can’t I just believe him?

Because the truth is, the expectations I have of myself are way higher than any expectations I would ever have of anybody else.

It is not ok for my body to look like this.

He may think it is.

But I don’t.

I have to be perfect. I am supposed to be perfect. I need to try harder.

And yet, as I sit here taking a ridiculous amount of time to type this due to the fact that one hand is currently fumbling around in the dark depths of a bag of Walkers Taste Sensations and the other is about to reach out for a pot of hummus, I should be saving for tonight’s tea, I am finding it hard to care.

(I am actually typing this with my chin, as I chew. Honest.)

The thing is, it is all very well having therapy to ‘sort your head out’ but unfortunately the down side of this mood reboot seems to be that as my mood increases, and I start to see sense, due to therapists whacking me on the side of the head and switching me off and on (the tried and tested technique for anything that requires technical assistance…hey! Have Blackberry tried this? I should call them…) Unfortunately so does my waistline, which is playing havoc with my internal scoring system.

Hang on, just to backtrack a bit here… when I mentioned that the therapists turn me off and on, I meant purely within the realms of that metaphor. I can assure you I have not once been turned on by any of my therapists.

Honest.

Seriously. I haven’t.

Ok, I suppose there is one who is quite fit but it’s not like I am available, or would ever dream of approaching him and he doesn’t have to know that he has done things to me, I mean for me, that … you know what? Lets move on.

He is good for my self-esteem. End of.

Back to the point.

With every day that passes, the stronger I feel emotionally, the more I shove down my throat, and the less I get done.

(Including the washing up.- I was told to put that in here, he feels very hard done to, poor love.)

Which literally is sending my fragile brain and sense of what is normal, in to a tail spin, because for as long as I can remember my self-esteem has been entirely based on how thin I am, and how much I can achieve as the ‘perfect mother’ on a day to day basis.

If I was thin I could be happy.

If I could just complete the last 8 things on my list, including re carpeting the living room floor, while changing Addison’s bum, in the next hour, I would be worth it.

If you could see my ribs I would be winning, we would be a happier couple and the world would make sense again.

Seriously, I don’t know why I ever worried in the early days about other mothers judging me or my lack of parenting skills, because if truth be told, I was judging myself enough for bloody everyone.

However as I begin to crawl out from this dark hole of self-hatred, self-punishment and unrealistic expectations I set for myself, I am trying to see things a little clearer.

I don’t have the perfect body, but the fact I now have a kangaroo pouch that covers my hairy thighs, nipples that I could clean my belly button with (if I wanted to, which I don’t, cos that would be gross) and bits that resemble something literally, that the cat dragged in, they shouldn’t really serve to make me feel worthless should they?

Sure, it isn’t ideal. And I would prefer the body of (not Jessica rabbit) Jennifer Anniston but hey, she doesn’t have kids, a poodle with the runs or a hectic schedule that involves more poop than scoop does she?

(Scoop being cocktails and botox.)

So why do I compare myself to these people who mostly, are airbrushed?

These things about myself that aren’t actually perfect are just tantamount to the life we have created for ourselves. (I say we because I refuse to believe I am the only woman with serious perfectionism issues here, and misery loves company.)

Because as WE start to look in the mirror and see OUR true worth, worth that should be based on a million different things, good things, friendly things, caring things, hugs, words of support, words we give out, friendship, love, our children, the reaction I get off that Irish bloke that lives with me, the fact we are loved, the fact we can love, the ways we manage to succeed on a daily basis, be it just getting out of bed, or be it telling somebody they are worth it, I really am struggling to put importance on the parts of my body that can no longer be considered thin.

I am struggling to put importance on the things I haven’t achieved today, when there are a good few things that I have. (Like eating two massive bags of crisps and having a rant.)

I know I could be healthier, thinner and a million different other things on my list if I really wanted to be, I could run around like a blue arsed fly all day trying to achieve everything right this second, rather than in a week, rather than in a month, but why should I?

Think of all the moments I would miss out on, if I carried on this way?

Why do we need to be perfect???

I wouldn’t punish others the way I punish myself, I wouldn’t expect others to complete as much as I expect myself to complete, Jaysus, if I gave the Irish one a list of 12 things to do in an hour, I would be happy (and amazed) if he completed 3 things. So why when I give myself a list, do I have to complete them all in half an hour and then add stuff?

I do not have to be perfect all of the time.

I am not Jennifer Anniston.

Whoa.

Hang on, I need a new bag of crisps, this is all getting a bit deep.

I have to be honest, I am pretty damn sure that if the 20 year old me, the one who was obsessed with work and a career and drinking and being thin, and having to have achieved EVERYTHING by the time she was 30, was to see the 32 year old me now, living the way I am, having achieved not much of what she wanted me to, she would probably be a bit appalled.

But you know what?

She can sod off.

She doesn’t have my son, and I do.

And there is time yet for all that other stuff anyway.

(My Aunty Et always used to say ‘The washing up will still be there when the children are in bed dear…’ And I see what she means now.)

So, I will sit here and I will eat these crisps, and rather than starving myself, like I used to, or standing and texting work stuff while at the playground, watching a film with Addison while beating myself up and punishing myself for missing out on all these moments that could be enjoyed if i wasn’t so busy trying to get EVERYTHING DONE NOW,  I may actually just try and be kind to myself for a change and enjoy the moments for what they are and then list all the things I have achieved by the end of the day.

I know it will be easier said that done, but I owe it to myself to try right?

And if I don’t succeed at first that is ok too right?

Because I am starting to see what really matters to me.

And that is me.

And the moments that can never be bought back.

So if eating a Big Mac makes me smile?

I’m going to eat it.

Enough punishment for now.

Yeah?

And maybe, just maybe, next time the Irish one calls me gorgeous, I may let him win. (Briefly.)