Black Eyed Fleas. (Journey.)

A lot of things have happened today.

I had my tattoo touched up.

I got tricked in to taking part in some sort of unorganized and ghastly impromptu nature trail by the kid.

But most horrifically, during the moments I wasn’t fully focused on the decorative agony emanating from my bruised, poked and horrifically damaged (but soon to be very pretty) wrist, or peering closely at, and pretending to be enthralled by a Worm split disgustingly in two, or a leaf that looked like a bit of mud, or gasping ‘Ooo look Addy, it’s a big dog poo! This is nature at it’s very best’ my mind was effortlessly wandering, as if it had a mind of it’s own (see what I did there?) on to thoughts, of the big D.

Death.

Yesterday I found a lump.

An actual real life, wobbly mass of tenderness, of indefinite size and shape, commonly painful, sometimes painless; Also commonly referred to in the medical profession as an abnormal mass or swelling that usually will cause irritation.

Mostly referred to in this household as ‘The Irish one.’

Joking.

I do not refer to that lump.

I am referring to an actual medical lump.

After the first fleeting and heart crippling thoughts of;

‘OH MY GOD I HAVE A LUMP, I AM PANICKING LIKE A MOFO, SOMEONE GET ME A DOCTOR AND SOME GAS AND AIR, STAT!’

had petered off and moved on to thoughts of;

‘WELL IF THERE IS A POSSIBILITY I AM GOING TO DIE, I MAY AS WELL EAT THESE SEVEN EASTER EGGS FIRST’

And I had poked and prodded and marched randomly up and down the hallway, in a blind panic, stress eating chocolate without really focusing on what I was doing, I found another one.

‘Irish one!’

‘What?’

‘They say I’m really sexy.’

‘What?’

‘The boys they wanna sex me.

They always standing next to me,

Always dancing next to me,

Tryin’ a feel my Lump, Lump.

Lookin’ at my lump, lump.

You can look but you can’t touch it,

If you touch it I’m a start some drama,

You don’t want no drama,

No, no drama, no, no, no, no drama

So don’t pull on my hand boy,

You ain’t my man, boy,

I’m just tryn’a dance boy,

And move my Lump.

My Lump, my Lump, my Lump, my Lump,

My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump.

My lovely lady lumps…

My lovely lady lumps’

‘She’d got me spinning, you got me spinning, what you gonna do with all that junk, all that junk inside that trunk, fillin out them jeans….’

None of that actually happened.

But it was a lot more interesting to write than what actually happened.

Which was him ignoring me in favour of the football, then absentmind-ingly telling me not to worry as they were probably flea bites, off, and I quote ‘the Mangy Dog.’  (He is NOT MANGY HE IS A PART OF THIS FAMILY! WARTS AND ALL! Pay me some attention!!!)

Infuriating.

Anyway.

After a sleepless night tossing and turning, continually prodding different parts of my body, running through scenario after scenario in my mind and repeatedly reminding the Irish one that me checking my groin for lumps was not in any way intended to be any sort of come on, morning finally arrived.

‘Hi Dr Phillips, us again!’

Addison bowled in to her office, shouted ‘I am a Nincompoop!’ at top volume and made straight for the drawer where she keeps her stickers.

She fended him off like a medical Kung Fu Panda, and with a sense of ease I will forever envy, got him sitting messing with her thermometer, in no time.

(It was only after the event I was like – hang on, don’t thermometers have some sort of dangerous mineral in them? Liquid dynamite, or something?)

‘What can I do for you Lexy?’ She swivels away from my two-year-old time bomb and faces me expectantly.

I showed her my lumps. (My lovely lady lumps.)

‘Are you worried?’ she asks as I inadvertently envelop her in a smell similar, but not identical to cowpat and she professionally struggles, not to wretch.

‘Yes. I am worried.’

‘What about?’

I imagine I look at her in the same way Doodle looks at me when I say something he doesn’t understand.

I tilt my head to the side and open my eyes really wide, (stick my tongue out, start panting and manically scratch my ear… Not really. Ok…. A little bit.)

‘Is it not obvious? Doesn’t everyone immediately jump to concerns about Cancer the moment a lump is mentioned?’

She nods, and urges me to go on.

‘I am not scared of dying though. How could I be?’

I pause and look away for a split second to calm the noise in my mind and check Captain Bonkers is not swallowing a needle or something.

He is.

He actually has his head in her yellow ‘contaminated waste’ metal medical bin.

‘ADDISON!’ we both screech in unison.

He jumps out and smiles guiltily, chucking a pump of somesort behind him in a jerk reaction, before asking for the ipad and smiling sweetly at the Dr, who seems to be shaking somewat.

As I rustle in my handbag looking for my iPhone to occupy him, I continue, without really focusing on what I am saying.

‘I have spent the last three years swinging violently between wanting to die and being euphorically happy about finding cake in the cupboard. It is not death that scares me, it is the thought of having to say goodbye to Addy Woo. No! You cannot have a donut, mummy hasn’t got any with her!! Hang on I am looking for it…’

I turn my bag upside down on the floor and manically spread out it’s contents, vaguely aware as I ramble on, that my iphone doesn’t seem to be there.

‘But the thought of Death?’ I continue ‘Well that is the dream that keeps me warm at night. Yes baby, mummy is looking for it… Sometimes, I can actually feel the relief you see, of what it would be like, ceasing to exist. Quite something to behold. Doesn’t it just sound wonderful? To have the world disappear? I imagine it to be like lying on a sandy beach when you are nineteen, the heat of sun on your face, your toes digging in to the sand, your emotions deep and even, blissful. Where the hell is my phone?’

The doctor hands me my phone.

I don’t acknowledge how she has it. (I didn’t even realise she did have it until I was just writing this, how the hell did she have my iphone?? See? NINJA DOCTOR.)

‘Some days, it is all I can think about. Dying.’

Slowly the truth is loading. I am on a roll, getting faster and faster…

‘No longer feeling weighted down by love, no longer strung out by the white noise in my mind, the pain. And seeing my brother, feeling his protection again, but even if he isn’t there and it is just blackness, just … nothing. Not romantic at all, I still think it must be lush, better than this ignorance, this pain, this world where dogs kill children, and precious mummy’s have their babies stolen from them, where people hate just for hating sake. Imagine it! Just… nothing.’ I sigh, blowing it all out.

I then hand Addison my phone and begin putting my bag back together.

‘Give me half a chance to experience ‘the end’ without the blame I would most definitely get if I did it to myself, and I would take it. Cancer is acceptable, suicide, although it should be, is not seen as acceptable. When I talk about suicide, about how it has affected my life, my family, I see people recoil in discomfort. I don’t want to cause that for anyone.’

I glance up at her to check she is listening.

She is.

Intently.

This urges me to continue on as honestly as I can, without losing my courage.

‘Some days I am bursting with unshed tears and excruciating half remembered shadows and demons, that torment my every second moment.  Who I am, where I am, the continual voices, the continual annoyingly jovial people who try to jivvy me out of being miserable, when miserable and bleak is the only emotion I can feel without having to try, and that in itself is exhausting. And then I have the days where I can’t stop the happiness, it floods me and floors me, I am euphoric, and then bereft when it leaves. All I want to do when these mentally stable people smile kindly at me, is cry and scream and scrape at their faces with my nails, because I am so angry. I am so angry. I want to shout about how it is not fair that I will never be normal, I will never get to just be, so no, death doesn’t scare me. Death feels like heaven.’

The office is thick with honesty.

It is suffocating us both.

The silence is seeping under my skin, wrapping itself around my head and my heart.

I cough.

I know she is gawping at me.

‘So then why are you worried about these lumps?’

I snap my head up to look at her in the eye.

‘Should I be worried about these lumps?’

‘No Lexy, I am pretty sure these are viral lumps, swollen lymph nodes, but if they haven’t gone down in three weeks come back ok?’

I nod.

I am relieved.

After all this I am relieved.

I know Cancer doesn’t mean death, I know it is far from a death sentence these days.

But…

‘Saying goodbye to Addison. That is my daily fear, on top of all the others. Fear I am going mad, fear I am not going mad, fear I have cancer, fear my dad will die, fear the dog will go missing, fear I will never be happy, never feel light, I cannot live, die, exist, not exist, whatever – without him. The thought of leaving him is like…’

As I say this, searching for a painful analogy of what my life would be like without Addison, he looks up at me with his baby blue eyes and smiles.

This is it.

The overpowering love all the baby books spoke of.

‘Mummy?’

‘Yes baby?’ I ask him this while tracing my finger around his chin gently, looking down at his precious little face, my eyes begin filling up at the thought of missing out on his life, his tenderness, his beauty.

‘I am doing a big wee wee.’

I fly out of my seat like I have a rocket up my arse.

‘GOD DAMN!’

I nearly headbutt her desk in my haste to reach for my bag.

The Dr jumps up too ‘What, what, what is the matter?’

‘HE ISNT WEARING A NAPPY!’

I think I may have screamed in her face.

The appointment came to an abrupt end after that.

But not before she whispered the words every mental patient dreads hearing.

‘Have you ever wondered, ever considered, ever put any thought in to, or researched the possibility, that you may be Bipolar?’

No I haven’t.

And I won’t.

My son has sodden pants, lets just focus on that for now.

A lot later, as in, about ten minutes ago – as I lay in bed poking at my lumps which are still very definitely there, and wondering if I should, under her instruction, perhaps consider another, different medication I have not tried yet for my mental health problems, whatever the label they fall under, the Irish one trundles in.

I feel almost romantic.

Maybe I will allow him some sex this evening.

‘Addy has shit the bed. Do you know where the wipes are?’

It is these tiny moments of bliss that make life worth living.

Even with all the pain.

Together, we will clean up the poo.

And I will feel less alone.

Actual Social Suicide.

I didn’t see it coming.

I was trying to play it cool while carrying my tote bag, my handbag, Addison’s toys and a large red box in one hand, and the wriggling chocolate covered, sticky fingered juvenile himself in the other.

‘Can I just leave this here with you?’ I stoutly questioned the security guard on our way out of reception while fumbling in my pocket for the phone I had found on the three-story dismount from my office.

It’s a shame I am unable to step in a lift as if I could, none of this would have ever happened.

It would certainly make my life easier too, but alas, my fear of being stuck in a tiny unmoving box with a two and a half-year old, in the dark, ensures we always climb the stairs.

Up and down.

Up being no easier than down.

It adds an extra twenty minutes to my commute.

Addison comes in to work with me now, you see, at my brilliant new job for Elite magazine.

Unfortunately though, the office is on the third floor.

Which is great if you aren’t a two-year old who seems to believe stairs are magical concrete boxes which give you powers of aviation, so that usually ‘taking the stairs’ means mummy having to have the emergency services on speed dial, or mummy dislocating her shoulder and his wrist as she dangles him mid-air from each step in a bid to get him to ‘JUST BLOODY WALK PROPERLY!’

Sweating slightly as I keep one of the bags aloft with my teeth, I hand the phone over  ‘I found it on the stairs.’

‘Thanks.’ comes the gruff voice.

As I reposition the bag in to my hand and shift Addison’s weight on to my hip and place the phone down in front of him, all jute bag and rustling, I look up. ‘Is that ok?’ I squeak.

He is a lovely looking lad with blue-green eyes and incredibly white teeth.

He looks a bit like Harry Styles.

I am instantly hit with how carefree he seems to be, it is oozing off him from behind the desk.

Young, carefree, maybe a little hung-over and definitely relaxed.

As oppose to me.

Old, laden with crap, stinking of a night squidged in to a cot bed with a sticky two-year old and so rigid, I’d make a ruler jealous.

‘Yeah.’ He responds cockily, sliding the phone towards himself and then frowning in barely masked disbelief as Addison decides at that very moment to stick his tongue on my eye-ball and I yelp like a mauled mongrel.

I must appear to be the most harassed, overloaded, red-faced and agitated, carrying a huge stuffed finding Nemo plush under one arm, out of breath ‘associate’ in a suit, anyone has ever seen in this posh office building.

I smile back, after pushing my son’s face away a little and acknowledge I look a bit weird with a wink. Yeah I am weird and have responsibility but yeah, I am cool yeah? I can still be ‘down with the kids yeah.’ I can manage all of this, and still pull off sexy, calm, collected and cool yeah?

He smiles a little oddly at me so I decide it is time we move on.

I am probably coming across like a mental patient.

I huff like an elephant as I begin re positioning the weight of our belongings and start marching in the general direction of the exit.

And then everything happens at once.

As I turn to leave the busy reception area and get away from the crowds of young people, my phone starts to vibrate against my leg distracting me, I notice it is raining heavily outside, the clock on the wall tells me we are running very late for job number 2 so I speed up, and for some unknown godly reason Addison decides to stick his finger right up my nose.

I didn’t see it coming.

I was extracting a sticky knuckle from probing the depths of my inner face cavities and I was in a rush.

I heard the panicked shouts of ‘NOoooooo!’ from a few people in reception before I actually felt the pain, but by that point it was too late.

I, rather embarrassingly, strode in to very clean, squeaky clean some may say, Glass bastard wall.

I witnessed actual stars popping about my head cartoon like as I was tumbling backwards on my boots, boxes and bags, tampons and toy trains exploding from different parts of my person, in to the air around me before thudding to the floor and screeching across the classy marble in every direction.

I may have shouted an expletive in to the ether before hitting the deck and trying to stop Addison head butting me on the way down.

I may have shouted something a long the lines of someone’s mother being a fucker as my nose started to bleed and the stunned silence was slowly replaced by gasps of horror from all around us.

I could taste my embarrassment in the audible silence before I tasted the blood.

I didn’t know what to do.

It was too late to brush anything off.

I couldn’t limp off pretending it hadn’t happened.

It will probably appear on You’ve been Framed or You Tube at some point!

I couldn’t even open my eyes properly to locate my son, my god the pain was unbelievable.

Mortification and actual pain.

My face felt like it was sliding off my chin.

And the Silence was only serving to magnify my injured grunting and moaning, that oddly I was aware did sound a little sexual. (Very random.)

And then somebody sniggered.

I snapped my head to the left, holding my nose together, to peep through the tears at who the perpetrator was.

It was Addison.

He was rolling around on the floor grasping for his trains and trying to open my tampons in barely concealed delight.

‘MUMMY ALWAYS LOOK WHERE YOU ARE WALKING!! SWEETIES!!!’

And then he started properly laughing, the little sod.

And then the tittering from the rest of the room started.

So I just lay back on the floor staring at the ceiling as strangers passed me back my tampons and the security guard got me some tissues for my bleeding nose.

Me and my black eye are working from home from now on.

I used to be cool.

Honest.

Hickory Dickory STOP!!

I had an argument with my mother last week.

This isn’t an oddity, as my mother and I, well, although we do get on famously well when discussing anything important like  ‘handbags, make up, perfume and when the Selfridges sale starts’, we don’t always seem to see eye to eye when it comes to the more miniscule of life’s details, like, oooo I don’t know, successful parenting?

She has her tried, tested and successful parenting techniques you see, parenting techniques that ‘did you no harm’ and ‘worked fine with you so I don’t know why it’s all changed now’, and I of course have my ‘new fangled, totally wrong but go ahead and try it, I look forward to saying I told you so’ techniques.

*DO not ever bring up Baby led weaning in our presence PLEASE. I’m serious. Just don’t. Baby led weaning is the root of all-evil! I have been reliably informed it was to blame for the bubonic plague and also that the Queen and Kate Winslet themselves think it is cruel, just cruel!!! It is obviously also the reason Addison doesn’t like vegetables now too, as I ruined his early childhood memories of eating. (Obviously.) So just don’t mention it ok? Please.

I love my mother, I love her lots, Addison adores her, she has done us countless favours and even though over the years we have had our differences (usually because she has been right and I don’t like to admit it)  I have to be honest, she has and is right most of the time when it comes to stuff like… handbags and make-up.

And ok, I relent. She has been right occasionally when it comes to Addison too. (Turns out ice pops aren’t full of goodness and aren’t one of the daily recommended 1 of 5! – Who knew?) ok, she is always right. Thanks mum. I love you.

Anyway, last week as I approached the drive to her house at a sensible 60 miles an hour with ‘that awful Rihanna’ blaring out and Addison ‘head banging in the back of the car’ (this is how she would describe it) we ended up having a little tete-a-tete about suitable childhood music, and I like a naughty teenager, was duly handed a CD of nursery rhymes for the drive home.

Much to my dismay, Addison seems to prefer it to Eminem (It was radio 1!!!! Its not my fault what they play is it? But ok whatever) so I have been forced to endure HOURS OF MINDLESS NUMPTYNESS over the past week instead of the usual array of musical greatness we usually head bang, I, erm, I mean, listen to and I have, in fact come to this conclusion.

NURSERY RHYMES, or EARLY LEARNING SONGS as they are called on this CD actually teach much crueler and much more careless lessons than Rihanna or black Sabbath ever could. (….I don’t actually listen to Black Sabbath, I’m more of a Chesney Hawkes kind of girl, but that’s totally beside the point….was I the only one who grieved when he got his mole removed? Anyway… )

Don’t believe me?

Check these out!!

5 little ducks went swimming one day, over the hills and far away, mummy duck shouted quack quack quack….  Ok, first off, who in their right mind lets their children swim over a hill and far away? Even if it’s a sunny day, that just bad parenting, I mean, and to let them keep going even though she seems to be losing one at a time?? DOES SHE NOT CARE? She is lucky to get any of them back I’m telling you, I’m seriously considering ringing duck protection services the next time I forget to take my meds!!

Hickory Dickory dock…. Ok there is too many things wrong with this song. Firstly why have they rhymed dock with clock and why use dickery? That’s just too funny and I intend to use it the next time The irish one and I are trying not to swear. ‘WHAT THE DICKERY ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?’ and then lets see if mum thinks it’s appropriate huh? And also, Have these people never heard of pest control? Mice are vermin for godsake!! If it’s run down the clock may I suggest a) setting a trap? And b) sealing the hole in the back of the clock? I mean what if it messes with the time? Then what!!!! You’d be dickery Docked!

12345 once I caught a fish alive, 678910, then I threw it back again…  Did you even stop to consider the impact this would have on the fish? It’s just inconsideration.

This old man (what old man?) he played… KNICK KNACK PADDY WHACK ON YOUR WHAT??? Who is this old man and why do I need to give a dog a bone? Is he rolling home from the pub? What kind of lesson is that? I am trying to teach Addison to respect women and not drink in pubs, sure he is only 2, but you can never start too early, and what if he asks me what knick knack paddy whack is huh? What do I say then? His daddy is a paddy!!! Is that not politically correct? WELL THEN NIETHER IS THE SONG! (Just go with me.)

Please pudding hot, please pudding cold? Please pudding in the pot nine days old…some like it hot, some like it cold, and some like it in the pot nine days old… SERIOUSLY? Yes, and some prefer not to get GASTROENTERITIS.

Pat a cake bakers man…– now I like that one. Apart from all the tossing and pricking that is. Just give me the damn cake and baby isn’t getting any. It’s mine.

Do your ears hang low, do they waggle to and fro, (?!?!?!) can you tie them in a knot? Can you tie them in a bow? Can you throw them over your shoulder like a regimental soldier? – Why? What if they did? WHAT IS THE POINT IN THIS SONG???? Is it ok if I can’t do it with my ears, but can with my boobs? DO I still count????

There was a farmer who had a dog and bingo was his name… STOP RIGHT THERE PLEASE DON’T SPELL IT… oh my god. You spelled it. 40 times. And now I need to go back to the mental hospital. But seriously, what was the name of that dog? I forgot.

Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, (OK SHE HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME!) Polly put the kettle on, we will all have tea. Suki take it off again, Suki take it off again, they’ve all gone away… I’m unsure as to whether they all left because you refused to stop singing at Polly or because this song is trying to teach children it is ok to mess with kettles. IT ISNT!! THIS SONG IS DANGEROUS!!!

I’m a little teapot… HERE IS MY SPOUT?  Really? I am re-naming willy to spout from now on. IRISH ONE! KEEP YOUR SPOUT AWAY FROM ME. That is an order, and I will throw my boobs over my shoulder like a regimental soldier to prove it.

Wind the bobbin up… What is a bobbin thank you please? To be honest, it seems to involve a little too much effort for my liking. Why am I pointing to the ceiling? Why am I pointing to the floor? And WHY do I need to put my hand on my knee? IM DRIVING!!! HAVE YOU NEVER HEARD THAT OPERATING A BOBBIN WHILE DRIVING IS DANGEROUS?  I should have this CD reported to the DVLA.

And don’t even get me started on the spider ones!

I like hey Diddle Diddle though. It was clearly written by somebody on day 2 of new medication while staying in a mental institute. I remember it well.

It was me who jumped over the moon, and the dish did run away with the spoon. I KNEW IT!!!!

ANYWAY, as of tomorrow we will be listening to Rihanna again*.

‘When the sun shine, we shine together, told you I’d be here forever, said I’d always be your friend, took a note and now I’m gonna stick it out till the end, now that its raining more than ever, know that we’ll still have each other, you can stand under my umbrella…EE EEE EEE EEE !!!’

Those lyrics say more to my son, inspire more hope in me, and ensure more smiles, than 5 little speckled frogs sitting on a speckled log eating poop (not original lyrics) ever could. (That’s my excuse and I am sticking to it.)

HEAD BANG ADDY HEAD BANG!

*I may change to nursery rhymes sometimes. If I have to. On a Wednesday. Between 10-11. If it’s raining… or if he tantrums… which is likely…  you know what? I’ll just buy ear plugs.

The Inevitable Inconvenience of the HeeBee GeeBies.

Someone, somehow, has downloaded the entire Bee gees album on to my iPhone without me noticing.

There I was trying to relax after a long day of looking after Addy Woo, my heart beat slowly returning back to a normal rate after nearly blowing up the microwave with his Thomas the tank engine bowl (yes the one that says Do Not Microwave in massive letters on the underside) and slowly feeling my muscles loosen after having to apologise to my ever so tolerant neighbor for his massacred rose garden when out of nowhere Sheryl crow was rudely interrupted by an inappropriate amount of Jive talking.

So there I am in the bath and…What?

Oh the roses?

I was busy trying to respond to my best friend in Florida and researching glandular fever (long story which I fully believe will have a happy ending, but your prayers would be welcome none the less) when I looked up to see Addison pulling the heads off Gary and Stuart’s, precious flower garden arrangment. Well by the time I made it over to him, he was so proud of his efforts, picking up each individual petal and passing it to me, snot streaming down from both nostrils and shouting ‘TA! Mammy! Ta!’ I just didn’t have it in me to be cross.

It was my fault anyway; I should have been watching him. Interestingly though that isn’t what I said to next door. This is the very same next door neighbor who had joined me for a cup of tea last week and was relaxing with Doodle sat on his knee, when unfortunately for him the dog decided to open his bowels, all over his favourite tracky bottoms. It was runny too. Makes me shudder just thinking about it. Funnily enough, I think they actually just put their flat on the market too, but I am sure that is just a coincidence.

No, I told him I was watching him like a hawk and I couldn’t understand how he had got there and ruined each individual rose bud so catastrophically when I was honestly Gary, watching him like a BLOODY HAWK! NEVER TOOK MY EYES OFF HIM, honest.

He said it was fine (between gritted teeth now I come to think of it) and asked to borrow an onion, and it just so happens I had a spare one, so all’s well that ends well I suppose.

The not having the heart to get cross, however, did not last long as one after the other, a catalog of errors the likes of Basil Faulty would have been proud of proceeded to occur one right after the other. (I liken it to being stuck in a huge game of domino’s and being the one right at the end who gets twatted, really hard!)

Are you ready for this?

• I slaved over a hot stove for at least 12 minutes putting together a delicious and nutritious pan of pasta, which instead of ever making it to Addison’s mouth, actually ended up being sent by air mail to each and every corner of the kitchen.

I somehow managed to punch the pan handle sending the contents flying in to my face and all over the floor.

• Not long after, just as I was prizing long strings of buttery and strictly forbidden (he has a dodgy tummy, in case you hadn’t gathered) carbohydrate from Doodle’s mouth, Addison came running inside with a worm hanging out of his.

There are really no words, but seriously? Can children get lung worm? Should i get him a vaccination? I feel like I should.

• And to top things off, about 20 minutes later The credit card company rang asking if I was possibly considering doing them the great honor of paying the minimum payment any time soon.

Nope.

• And finally, finally, just as I am getting over all this, settling down in to the bath with Sheryl crow and her Tuesday night music club (which is a total coincidence by the way) I find myself asking how can I mend a broken heart and then bloody jive talking.

Yes, I sat through ‘how to mend a broken heart’, trying to figure out who it was. (I thought maybe Radio one live lounge at first.)

‘Irish one!!’ I had screamed from behind the bathroom door (which now stays locked for reasons each and every female reading this will understand – not only do I NOT want you grabbing my boob, but unplanned shits just aren’t on ok? THEY ARE NOT ON!)

‘What?’ he had shouted back ‘I am watching the football.’

Shocker.

‘Why the fuck am I listening to the Bee gees?’ I had elegantly responded. ‘I didn’t put this on and now I can’t change it because my hands are wet!’ I shout back irritated ‘Keep your shit music off my fancy laptop!’

Struggling to hear his response over the crooning trio, I beckon him (with words that would probably get me thrown off wordpress) in to the bathroom. (I listen to a lot of Eminem and on occasion my white trash mode, gets the better of me. Bitch.)

‘What? He says unlocking the door from the outside (damn.) ‘What do you want? Wayne Rooney has just knocked one off at the side of the pitch, and I really want to see how Fergie reacts.’

(At least I think that’s what he said; I’m not very up on my football terminology.)

‘Turn this shit over for me please, and stop downloading weird folk music on to my iTunes account.’

‘Only if I can grab your boob’ he replies grabbing my boob just as the opening bars for ‘tragedy’ ring throughout my steamy bathroom, the aura now completely ruined.

‘Tragedy!’ he shouts as he walks out without changing it, the git, and unbeknownst to him, we both do the dance hand movement, at the exact same time.

Because, really, it really is, and if you can’t beat them (with a great big stick) you may as well  join them.

Did you ever see that programme on tele where that woman walked down the aisle to ‘tragedy’ doing all the dance moves, like in the S club 7 video?

What a random.

Therapy 101. (An unrelated post!)

This house smells of poo.

Actual poo.

It has just taken me an hour and a half to get a very over tired Woo down for his morning nap and now that I finally get two minutes to myself with a cup of tea, all I can smell is poo.

I cannot ignore it.

I must find the poo.

I have smelt Woo’s finally sleeping bum and it is not coming from there.

I have chased the dog, trying to catch a glimpse of his monkey bum, and after, all but picking him up by the tail and dangling him by the goolies, I can knowledgeably and safely say it isn’t coming from that particular dodgy doggy orifice either.

Maybe it is coming from me. God forbid.

Hang on a second, just let me clarify this point,

When I say maybe it is coming from me, I do not mean in the sense, that I have pood and not realised, or that I have a poo sat in my pants and have not noticed as I am over tired myself, underpaid and overworked. Nor do I mean, that in my haste to achieve  the 65 allocated morning jobs that need doing, in the next 25 minutes, that I rushed for a restroom break, and missed the toilet.

What I mean is, that there is a strong possibility that somewhere on my person someone has left me a little gift.

A little parcel.

A plop package, if you will.

I can’t see anything, yet, I must change my clothes immediately.

I am now re-dressed, back on the sofa and was actually looking forward to a little catch up time with the wall…(Think Shirley Valentine but without the fried eggs, and the greek god… and definitely without the rocking on the bloody boat, lucky cow!) and yet still, the aroma de teeny bottum lingers, distracting me from doing nothing for 2 minutes. I ONLY WANT 2 MINUTES WALL! JUST TWO MINUTES!!

What the hell is going on?

I must ignore it.

This wasn’t meant to be a post about poop.

This was meant to be my follow-up to therapy post. (Hmmm, poop as a diversionary tactic anyone?)

So how did my therapy go?

It was an hour well spent.

I was an emotional slut.

I am glad I went.

My therapist may disagree. (She had a look of a rabbit caught in headlights the whole time. Maybe I am just imagining the shocked facade? Maybe she just has thin eye brows and big eyes? Who can say?)

But yes it was a good time. (Not like, going out on a night out with your mates is a good time. But you know, I feel cleansed and a little stronger… which is actually the exact opposite of how I feel when I go out with my mates. (Dirty and weak??….. ok, maybe not the exact opposite, but you know what I mean…. ) But yeah, I got a lot off my chest. We didn’t work through anything yet. We start working through my issues next week. (Should I be worried by the fact she kept pressing home that I only had 8 sessions and that she would do the best she could within the allocated time frame?)

Anyway, aside from the therapy, and not wanting to talk about anything remotely close to what was discussed (discussed? Ha! She didn’t get a word in edgeways!) during that hour (its personal you know?) I am now going to spout random shite for the next 4 minutes (or 11 minutes if you are a slow reader.)

Are you ready? (Please remember! This has NOTHING TO DO WITH MY THERAPY OK? NOTHING! Nada, zip, this did come up at all ok? Not once, I didn’t even mention it… this is a totally different subject ok? Got it? Nothing!)

Ok here goes,

Do you ever worry that you are turning in to your parents? (NOTHING to do with my therapy session!!)

‘When I have a baby, I am going to let my child do what ever it wants. I am going to let my child watch as much TV as it wants, I will never tell my child to tidy its room and i will buy so many sweeties, that if it wants to eat sweeties all day and no disgusting vegetables that will be absolutely fine with me. My child will not have a bedtime! My child can stay up as late as it wants! I will be the coolest parent ever! My child will love me because it wants to! Because I am THE COOLEST PARENT EVER!’

Do you ever remember saying things like this? (Don’t deny it, it can’t just be me! Fair enough, I was 9 at the time, but for 9, I had my head screwed on you know? I was talking sense. I was going to be NOTHING like my (poor, undeserved) parents!)

I was going to be the coolest parent ever. I was going to have tattoo’s, give them wine and let them smoke pot. (I didn’t say that at 9, that was probably more when I was 15 – not that I ever smoked pot dad! Not once! And I don’t have a tattoo either. I just like wearing long johns when you come swimming with us… honest……. Bag of Cheetos anyone?)

So what the hell happened? (Other than the much mentioned, arse stitching??)

Imagine my surprise then, if you will, when, last month after a particularly bad night of screaming and wailing (Addison and me) I caught myself  a little irritated and worldly worn (code for; ye of shortened temper) spitting out the words ‘Look with your eyes not with your hands!’ (To the Irish one not Woo, but still! It was there!… and before you start getting all dirty on me, I was referring to the spots on my head nothing more!! No really, nothing more!)

You don’t think that is bad do you?

Ok, so what about two days later when I told Addison to ‘eat his crusts and it will make his hair curly.’ – (pre, dairy allergy diagnosis.) We all know eating crusts doesn’t make your hair curly. Just like we all know sucking a polo mint doesn’t ensure you never end up with horse teeth. (Have I confused two sayings there? I think I may have…)

I knew both of these things when my parents attempted to trick me at age 5 and I still know it now, when I am saying it to Addison, age 31 years!  If Addison could speak, the first words out of his mouth at this point would have been ‘yeah right Mammy!’

So why am I saying it??

I have no control over what comes out of my mouth that is why!!! (Just ask my therapist! Not that this has anything to do with that…)

Is it inevitable that at some point we will all turn in to our parents?

(Ok, hold up a minute. Read that last sentence again. Is it me or did I sound like Carrie Bradshaw when I said that? All I need is an American accent, a perm and a weight loss of about 18 stone and i’m todally her! I todallly am! Oo oo and shoes!  I need shoes!! And BIG! I NEED BIG!!!! Or Aiden, Aiden would do…. ahhhh, it’s good to dream…anyway…back to the post…)

Is it inevitable that I will slowly morph in to the female version of my father? (He, who brought me up. He, whom I love very much, and he who actually is now my best friend?)

Will I start saying;

• You’re not going out like that!!! (On his first day of nursery?)
• While you are under my roof you will do as I say! (sleep, dognammit! Sleep!)
• Were you born in a barn? Shut the door! (When he crawls in?)
• That’s my name don’t wear it out!! (When he repeatedly calls mama!)
• Money doesn’t grow on trees you know! (Then inevitably buy the present anyway.)
• I love you to the moon and back a million times (I love this one. I don’t mind about this one.)
• If you fall out of that tree and break your legs don’t come running to me. (Eh?)
• The pots won’t dry themselves you know! (Get those tiny fingers in the nooks!)
• Thunder is just the clouds banging their heads together. (Another one I love.)
• It’s just the pilot getting everybody to sit down. (On a bumpy flight. Took me a good decade to figure out this wasn’t true. As soon as I realised, I developed a fear of flying! I will probably use this one too… if we ever fly again…)
• If you eat one more biscuit you will turn in to a bloody biscuit! (Excellent. Meet my son, he is a Rusk. His life is normal. Just don’t get him wet!!)
• Eat your sprouts. There are thousands of children starving in Africa. (Which was very sad. But I never really understood the relevance at 5 years old. They could have my sprouts if they wanted? I certainly didn’t want them. NOW of course, I give to charity and do see the relevance!)
• Don’t swallow chewing gum. It stays in your appendix forever. (I should have asked for it all back when I had them out! Addison won’t ever have chewing gum. My carpets can’t take any more. They are under enough gloop as it is!)
• Father Christmas is ALWAYS watching. (I won’t mind using this one, especially when he uses his new ‘Aim, pull and Pee’ technique when I change his nappy.)

And finally, la piece de resistance,

• If little Susie jumped over a fire would you? (If there is fire jumping at nursery he is never going back ye hear me?!!!!)

So is it inevitable? It certainly looks that way!

But can you still be a cool parent and not allow your kids to jump off cliffs with little Brandon and get their eyebrows pierced at age 10 with little Miley? (Sorry, I’ve gone back in to Carrie Bradshaw mode. I’m even holding a cigarette and pretending to puff. Puff puff ahhhh puff pufff ahhhhhh. Cos everyone knows thats how you smoke!)

I’m not sure about that. (The bit about being a cool parent, not the bit about how to smoke.)

But to quote Carrie herself;

‘As we drive along this road called life, occasionally a gal will find herself a little lost. And when that happens, i guess she has to let go of the coulda, shoulda, woulda, buckle up and keep going.’

Which is what I’m going to do.

I’m going back to therapy next Saturday.

Not that this post was in any way related to my therapy session, you understand?!

Can you smell poo?

I’m off…

 

Carrot?  They help you see in the dark you know!

(Do you have any nuggets of wisdom your parents passed on? I’d love to hear them!!!)

The Fairy, the Meme, and Me. (Read this, or eat poo.)

Last night I had a dream about a fairy.

She appeared in front of me, wearing the most amazing nylon fairy outfit you ever did see, and told me to stop moaning.

She was quite aggressive for a fairy, it has to be said.

She advised me, that if I was so unhappy with my body (She had obviously been watching the meltdown I’d had in Topshop around 3pm on Wednesday; Turns out shorts are a no go area post nine months of sheer gluttony) she would grant me one concession. Not a wish, a concession, she was very precise about this. (After I had asked if she meant popcorn and she had explained herself fully and bonked me on the head with her plastic star on a stick.) She explained that although she could not get rid of my excess body fat (aggressive and useless) she could help me out in some way with my body image! (WOOP!) She squeaked in my ear that due to the horrendous birth and subsequent alligator attack (It was a dream ok?) I had endured and survived over last ten months, she would allow me, not to lose weight, but to spread my body fat out amongst the rest of my body, as I deemed fit.

(Are you following me here? So, let’s re-cap, essentially annoying, aggressive and useless dream fairy was allowing me to push the fat around my body to enable me to feel more normal and look less rotund around the middle. It wasn’t the ideal deal, but it was the best I could hope for under the circumstances, so I took it.)

The next thing I remember, I am grabbing handfuls of fat and pushing them (in the same way you coax a hidden string back to the open hole of your jogging bottoms – know what I mean? The push and pull? Push the fat! Pull the skin, Push the fat, and Pull the skin!) down in to my ankles. I had, in my dream like world, decided the best place for all my belly fat, all my arm fat and all my chins would be, for some reason, my ankles.

Before I knew it, I was then thanking her and staggering off with a heavy plod of each foot to buy a pair of boots to hide my enormous, donut like, cankles. 

I woke up pissed off. (With very numb feet, oddly enough.)

I mean, for starters, EVERYBODY has a meltdown in Topshop at some point don’t they? It is like a rite of passage. You go in to the shared changing rooms, you are surrounded by 14 year olds parading around screeching ‘Oy Jordan do I look fat in this? I can’t believe I am a size 8!’ and the curtains never close properly. I was trying on a size 16 skirt and I couldn’t get it zipped up. I was pissed off. So ok, maybe I should have acted with more decorum but when the 5 year old changing room assistant asked me if I would be taking the skirt as I was trying to make a sharp exit, I couldn’t help but shove it back at her in contempt and inform her
 ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead in that skirt while i’ve still got a stitched up beehind and by the way, your sizes are all wrong!! DO you hear me? Wrong!!!!’  

Funnily enough though, she didn’t seem too shocked by my outburst. (Probably because she sees it all the time! See! Rite of passage!!!)

She did, however, seem slightly more worried and edgy when I returned an hour later bearing the gift of coffee and burst in to tears while apologising. (Ah well. Such is life.)

I won’t be going in Topshop again, but that doesn’t give a fairy any right to beat me over the head with it.

But the main reason I was pissed off? Why, ON GODS GREEN EARTH did I push all my fat in to my bloody ankles? I could have had the most fantastic, fabulous, fruity, full and fricking amazing set of perky, but bouncy, pert but firm breasts!! What the hell was I thinking? MY BLOODY ANKLES!

Idiot!!

Anyway. Enough  of that. Moving on.

I am not here today to moan about my droopy breasticles and ripped gaping hole, (for once I hear you cheer!) Nope! I am here today because I have won an award! I have been tagged and although I want to, I can put it off  no longer. I have to take part. (The only reason I procrastinated over this, is although I love to blog and write, the whole mummy bloggers world scares me a bit if I am honest. There are so many amazing, wonderful writers, and I am just, well, me. I like to be kind of hidden. Less pressure that way…but anyway…)

Now, let me explain. I have never taken part in a meme before. Mostly because it has taken me the best part of a year to figure out what the bloody word meme means. (See? I am useless! But not aggressive, before you go reading in to the whole fairy dream thing.)

Turns out a Meme is a bit like a chain letter but without all the ghastly ‘you will fall down a hole, have 12 years of bad luck and be forced to eat your own poo for the rest of eternity unless you pass this to nine hundred and eighty eight people in the next seven seconds’ type thing.

So here goes. Thank you to @Theboyandme @themummylife and @tinylittlebaby for the mentions…

Seven things you don’t know about me. (Or something  like that.)

1)     I used to have three nipples. (No! Honestly i did. And before chandler Bing made it cool too) It was a nightmare. I used to erm, spend time (my dad may be reading this!!) with boys in my teen years and keep one hand firmly placed over one breast at all times. It was awkward to say the least (in both the literal and the metaphorical sense.) Turns out there are a fair few activities that require you to use both hands. (One of those activities being unlocking a Chubb lock to let out a startled looking Spanish boy called Pablo. Scarred me for life he did. Or was it the other way around? Anyway…) I eventually had it lopped off in 1999. (If the world was to come to an end in 2000 (remember the millennium bug?) I didn’t want to be buried with three nipples and dug up millions of years later and re- discovered (remember Neanderthal man?) I didn’t want history books to be re-written. Picture big green blob with one eye, (yes i have just watched monsters inc.) ‘Hey ZOC!!  Tik tick, tok tock…. Humans actually had three nipples!’  
‘Right, thanks Dave (there is always a Dave) Tock tok, tick tik… I’ll get it painted in. Does the body have ID?’

CAN YOU IMAGINE THE HORROR?

Shame though really, imagine the fun I could have had breast feeding! Expressing would have been much quicker! I could have been known throughout the land as the breastfeeding tripod!
Ah well, you live and learn.

2)     I have always dreamed of swimming the channel. In 1993 I very nearly made it in to the England national junior swimming team. My brother used to say I could swim like a whippet. (I hope he means fast and not that I looked hairy with a big nose.) I broke my ankle two days before my big debut, spent the summer on crutches and moved back to Spain not long after. (In a mood. My friend had pushed me off a curb and trodden on my dreams. The fact I was ranting at her for ‘stealing my boyfriend’ (ahh Daniel Rubel!) is neither here nor there.) I can still swim very fast, (I have ‘swimmers shoulders’ code for; I am as broad as a portaloo) adore losing myself in the water (not in a kinky way – although… no, no I won’t go there!) and one day I fully intend to realise my dream. (But not until I have lost some weight. Wet suit? With these thighs? I think not!)

3)     I worked in Walt Disney World Florida in 1999 (post nipple removal.) After a year of listening and loving American children asking me all manner of random questions;

• Does the U.K stand for the Ukraine? (NO)
• Do you know the Spice girls? (No!!! Ok i may have said yes once. It made her happy!)
• Do you drive a horse? (I LOVED these types of questions! SO CUTE!)

I moved on to Paris eventually, where I made my childhood dream come true by taking part in the Electric light parade. (I can’t say what exactly I did! I could get sued! But I was crying the whole time, while waving and smiling and listening to hundreds of children shout ‘my’ name.) It was the most magical moment of my entire life. (Except for, you know. Ripping my arse out.)

 4)     My favourite film is ‘The cutting edge.’ I have watched it at least a million times and to this day my heart still skips a beat at the end. (Not seen it? That is probably for the best. It involves a lot of 80’s music and a lot of figure skating.) Go on, take the piss, it is ok. I am used to it.

5)     If I had been a boy my parents were going to call me Nathanial. (I would have made a fabulous gay. Big hair, big glasses and tiny hips… Ah well such is life.) Not that a name like Nathanial makes you gay. I just mean, I would have made a fabulous gay. (I will stop digging now.)

6)     (This is hard! I could go all dark and tell you about my PND or my once upon a time self harming problem or my eating disorders, my drink problems and my phobia of eggs, but I want to keep this light and fluffy so I won’t. But just so you know, I am interesting ok? Even if this post isn’t! ) I am writing a book (isn’t everybody?) It is a dark tale of a woman suffering with PND who self harms, doesn’t eat much and drinks the bar dry . Funnily enough she has a phobia of eggs too…Go figure! It’s going to be a real page turner! (I am joking! I think….Damn!)

7)     Can I come back to you on this one? I am exhausted, my back is shot to shit and Doodle the poodle needs walking. I can’t? You want to know one more thing? Oh bloody hell. My deepest darkest secret?  Ok but don’t run ok?

 Are you ready for this?

Are you sure?

I see dead people…

Was that the door slamming?

Hello?

Anybody there?

Come back!!! I was kidding!!!

But that would have been pretty cool, if it were true, huh? Especially if I got to wear the kind of stuff Melinda Gordon wears. (Ghost Whispererer.) She has everything! A jeep, a baby, big hair and amazing boobs! (Still not a lesbian!!!)

But in all honesty, sometimes I do feel a bit psychic.

Like I know for a fact i will probably eat three ice creams in one go, in the next ten minutes.
I know for a fact tonight there will be no rest for the wicked in this house,

And finally I know for a fact the following people will probably not keep this going!

OY @3bedroom OY @squidmommy and OY @andthenkate and OY @thisismommyhood

You have been tagged! Seven things we don’t know about you by next week please! (If you don’t you will be forced to listen to me drone on about poo for the next seven years!)

Oh and one last thing…

I was once Miss Europe!!! (At disney!) That’s me in the wig!

I told you I would have made a great gay man. (And if I had been wearing that wig last night, there would have been no fat ankles!)

May the meme be with you….

Sometimes.

 
Sometimes I feel I cant breathe,
Like I’ve no energy left for this fight!
There is all this routine and this pressure
For a mother to get everything right.

We could throw all the dishes at the wall,
And leave the frigging house in a tip!
We are all so frightened of failing,
We could all disappear on a trip. 

Sometimes we feel like dancing,
And wish we could just be free,
Sometimes we feel like escaping,
And having some time just for me!

I am told I am a good mother,
But really I know I am not.
How can I succeed on autopilot?
Walking around like a frumpy robot.

Sometimes we look in the mirror,
And all we can see is the lard!
We were expecting motherhood to be difficult,
But who knew it would be this hard?

Sometimes we are walking through fog,
We don’t always want to be boss!
‘I just need someone to cuddle me.
I am feeling so isolated and lost.’  

Sometimes I feel like screaming,
I want to spend a day in the sun!
Do you even know who I am anymore?
I used to be so much fun!

Sometimes we lie there and wonder,
If things could be different somehow?
If we were alone, single and rested,
Would we feel a bit better right now?

We know deep down in our hearts,
We are never really alone,
There are plenty of mummy’s just like us,
Just at the end of the phone.

My baby and my friends keep me going,
When everything feels a bit rough.
With them I don’t need to keep smiling,
To hide the more worrying stuff.

We do miss the freedom and independence,
We are guilty of having this thought,
But we wouldn’t change a thing to be honest,
Because these moments with you cant be bought. 

Sometimes I feel like running.
But my heart lives here with you.
Sometimes I feel like escaping,
But Mammy couldn’t live without Woo.

Once upon a time in the life of a fairytale ….

There lived a princess who loved life. She was vivacious, and ambitious, happy and a little bit chubby. She would often give long ambling speeches to anyone who would listen about how happy she was. She had the perfect relationship, the perfect 2 bedroom flat and just enough money in her bank account. She went on luxurious holidays spending her days sipping martinis and lazing by the pool. Occasionally she would shop, all her money being spent on beautiful clothes and handbags all for herself. She would often wander around her kingdom gently humming to herself and pondering life’s little nuances like she had all the time in the world.

And then she woke up to the sound of a drunken stumble entering the bedroom, and realised with a sinking heart, she had no money, was more than ‘a little bit chubby’ and her husband had obviously been sticking his pencil in somebody else’s sharpener.

I have never been married to a golfer, a footballer or a rich celebrity type. I have never been hounded by the press. I have never been voted ‘most gorgeous ass 2009.’ (Although to be honest they missed a trick on that one. My arse is something to behold let me tell you. Something big to behold. Anyways..) I have however, been cheated on in the past. So feel that in some way I can relate to some of the ladies in the press in a small way.

I was dating a pilot. (Do I need to go on or can you guess what happened?) Apparently a bright orange uniform and too much make up did it for him in a big way. Not that I knew. Although I don’t own anything orange so never had the chance to find out…  We had been together for a lovely 2 years when I found out he had been shagging all and sundry behind my back. I was humiliated in a big way, as it turned out most of our friends had been aware of this. I blamed myself for a while and it was truly awful. Even though we had no children, no responsibilities other than a mortgage and a dog, we did have what I thought was ‘the perfect’ relationship. Now for me, personally, there was no coming back from that, or those, particular acts of unfaithfulness. That relationship was dead the second he admitted to countless acts of indiscretion at 32 thousand feet. (I use the word admitted loosely here, it was more of a ‘blood from a stone’ scenario, involving a large stiletto and a lot of tackling.) I now refuse to fly with ‘sleazy jet’ as honestly? If their pilots spend so much time in cubicle one? Who the hell is flying the plane?? But anyways.. there you go. The trust was gone. And so was he. (I kept the dog.) 

As a child I whole heartedly believed that one day my prince would come, so to speak. And that no matter what happened, somewhere out there, under the deep blue sky, was a man that would whisk me away and I would live my happily ever after. And even though that particular short arse, smelly footed, small dicked prince ran off with another (unlucky) princess. I still never really gave up believing that one day my prince would come. (teehee, ok sorry ill stop now.) So when Sir Fucksalot Chlamydia Willy (as I now refer to him) ran off with Princess Ms. Sucksalotofcocks, he actually did me a favour as it hardened my resolve (ooer missus. Sorry don’t know what’s up with me today) that I was living my real life fairytale. 

Did it hurt at the time? Yes. Did I get drunk and listen to Sinead O’Connor at 4am while warbling on to anybody who would listen about how I would make him regret it? Yes. Did I eat too much ice cream, pizza and MacDonald’s and endlessly dream of him ploughing a single man craft in to the side of a cliff? Yes. Did that mean my life was over? No it didn’t. Did that mean I wouldn’t get my ‘happily ever after?’ No it didn’t.

I got to the point after a lot of soul searching where I vowed I would enjoy my continuing search for my happily ever after. Which also meant in the meantime I could enjoy the fairytale of rebound, the fairytale of drunken nights single, the fairytale of enjoying me and all that I am, and the fairytale of finally meeting someone else and thinking ooo could this be it, this time? And this of course proceeded…

The fairytale of first words with the new hottie in the office, first hidden glances, first emails, (the digital age eh? If only the beast had IM’d a photo to Belle first.) Followed by first dates, first kisses, first rambling midnight phone calls, first holidays, first ‘I love you’s’ and first ‘ OK you’re doing my head in now’s’.  Followed by first night in the bedroom (ahem, yes I always wait that long) and the first morning sex. NB- for the record this only happens at the start. Followed by the first ‘did you just have a wee in front of me? Im in the bloody bath!’ and then the ultimate ‘oh my god my period is late’…. and before you know it. You have a house, a mortgage, a baby boy and other than the odd bout of post natal depression fog you are blissfully happy… ..ish.

 And if this one cheats on me? I may forgive and forget, I may leave him, or I may do a Mrs. Bobbit and chop his nads off. But either way I will keep going, keep living, keep fighting and keep searching for the happily ever after I was promised..

I don’t have any advice for Cheryl Cole, Coleen McLaughlin or Pam who lives at number 42. All I can say is do what’s right for you.  It will all work out one way or another. In the end.

 And really it’s nobody’s business but your own. Do you think Cinderella asked the fairy godmother for her opinion after prince charming was caught in the back of the pumpkin with an ugly sister? (See Cinders the untold story.) Nope she stayed with him, or may have left him, I can’t remember. But either way. She lived happily ever after.

 The end.

The Mummy Club.

At school I was the kind of girl that always, without fail, was picked last for any type of team sports. Hang on; I feel I need to labour this point. I was the kind of girl that got picked last for any kind of team sports even at my own birthday party. If there was ever any clubs invented and assembled by the popular girls in the school or even the popular girls in my class, I was never ever part of them. Not through lack of trying either, let me tell you. I endured the initiation tests and humiliation routines endlessly but unfortunately for me I was just never cool enough. I was the girl the ‘cool’ guy in school would call and take the Mickey out of. (I put cool in inverted comma’s here because this ‘cool’ guy is called Tony and last time I saw him he was still living off mummy and daddy and is a complete loser. So from here on in I will refer to him as the tool guy. Because really, what a total tool! Not that Im still bitter…..)

So basically I was the girl all the other girls would look at and think ….well that’s just it! They looked at me and didn’t think. They didn’t think at all.

I wasn’t big, (not that, that should matter) I wasn’t dressed badly, (not that, that should matter) I wasn’t short (you get the picture.) I wasn’t unfit or unhealthy with smelly feet or stupidly tall. My boobs weren’t enormous; I wasn’t so flat I could make a wall jealous. I didn’t say stupid things in class, I wasn’t the joker, and I wasn’t super intelligent. I was just blah. Non-descript. My nickname wasn’t ‘sexy Lexy’ as I would have liked. Oh no. My nickname was ‘Lampy.’ Because with my thick brown hair cut in a bob (thanks mum) and my bony physique I looked like a lampshade. I shit you not. Kids can be so cruel.

Thankfully things moved on after I left school, I got rid of the bob and I made a life for myself. I met a few boys, some idiots and one finally I decided to keep. Had a few jobs – some boring others that included dressing like a huge mouse and dancing in parades. I lived in a few cities – some crap, others that included showing your boobs for beads at certain times of the year. I had a few drinks, some soft; some that made me go a bit crazy. I have been fat, I have been big, I have been thin, I have said stupid things, I have been the joker, and I have had smelly feet. Courtesy of wonder-bra, my boobs have been big, small, hard, soft, and at times free (I blame New Orleans for that one), but still I have never ever been part of a club. The slightest inkling of a club or ‘clique’ forming around in me in my adult life and I would run for the hills.

 Even now the word club fills me with a sense of dread. Clubs are for cool people. And although I have been many things. Im not sure I have ever been truly cool.

However, and this is a BIG however, I realised this morning as I was crossing the road, (after almost dying pushing the pram up a slight incline) and as two other mothers were coming the other way, I have undeniably, like it or not, without realising, become part of a huge great big sodding club!

And you know what?  It’s actually not that horrendous.

There is, in my opinion, still a hierarchy. I realise this by what some refer to as the ‘mummy once over’. For those still pregnant, you will come across this once you are pushing a pram. It can be quite odd, quite annoying, but also quite funny. It goes a little like this. Feel free to correct me or add nuances if need be.

Mother stranger crosses paths with another Mother stranger.

Look up, try and keep it casual.

Slight eye contact but only for a second.

Slight, but not too forward acknowledgement of situation.

And GO!

Quick glance at;

• State of mother. (Outfit, hair, shoes, general ‘coolness’ of other mother. Is she getting as much or as little sleep as you? Is she relaxed, happy, flustered?)
• Pram. (Is it cooler? comfier? Cosier? More expensive? How many wheels does it have?)
• Weight loss. (Belly particularly – this tells you if you are doing well or not, then boobs, face and finally ankles – if you can see them! (NB I find the other woman ALWAYS wins on this…)
• And finally.. Baby. (How old is baby? (This helps with earlier weight loss summation.) Is it a he or she? Is he or she cute? Cuter than your baby? (You always win this one so don’t worry!) By this point a lot of women have to turn to look. And when this happens, and you see it out of the corner of your eye. You deserve a smile to yourself. You aren’t going mad.. it did actually happen and the fact you didn’t turn means you’ve won…

 And carry on walking casually…  

And now for the results!….

 At the top end of the hierarchy you have Yummy. The head held high, beautifully clad, immaculate mothers with smiling babies. At mid way down you have the average head held height, averagely dressed, made an effort with a splash of make-up with sleeping babies, mothers. And then you have, well…. me. The mother who is still a bit podgy round the middle, dressed in the first thing I grabbed before leaving the house (sometimes I get out to find random garment is on inside out), no makeup (because after the night ive had it would only slide off my face) and a baby covered in this morning’s breakfast. (He will only sleep in the maxicosi and wiping his face wakes him up. Ok? OK!)

 There is a catch though. And it’s a fabulous catch! The difference with this hierarchy is its interchangeable! You can move up and down on a daily basis. This basically means at any given time, you could be right on top! Smiling for all the world to see! Look at me! Look at me! I made it out and I look half decent! But it also means no mother can act too smug. Because the mothers at the top also realise, that tomorrow is a new day. And depending on how tonight goes….tomorrow you could be back in the slummy category. Which is why, when you do find yourself at the top of your perch. Enjoy it! Tomorrow is likely someone else’s turn!

 I find it to be a club where you can exchange knowing glances, be overly expressant – and that’s ok! Chat to people you have never met about nipple torture and stitches and teething solutions. The state of your bladder, your stretch marks and your wieght loss. About how annoying/helpful or downright horny the man in your life is. (Already! I know! What am I a fair ground ride?? Give it a month for god sake!)

 The one rule of the club, I have gathered, is honesty. There is no point lying to another mother, as chances are, she has been there and will see through you immediately! If you feel like crap, admit it! That’s ok apparently. The Mums seem to be supportive of one another. If I admit to wanting to run away and hide when he cries, that seems to be ok too. When I admit I was a little freaked to find I was having a boy, that seemed to be ok. When I admitted, in tears, to not bonding the second I saw him – that was ok too. I was thanked for my honesty! It’s like having a huge network of random strangers, all going, or having been through the same or similar things. All sharing, laughing, spouting crap and understanding one another.

 So when an old (single) school friend of mine recently visited and insisted ‘you must be so bored now you just sit around all day, on your own, with nothing to do but a baby’ I just smiled, because I have thousands of friends now. Maybe even millions. And they understand, like me, that statement couldn’t be further from the truth. I am not on my own and I am not bored!  I am part of a club. A club she may one day join. But a club, finally I am cool enough to be part of.  The mummy club! And Im dead happy. Cos you’re all lovely!

Random advice i could do without.. thanks.

Yesterday I was visiting a friend in a Posh little village outside of Manchester. I was stood outside Marks and Spencer’s while she nipped in to get some caviar (or something equally as posh). I, on the other hand, am far too scruffy for ‘Marksnsparks’ so was stood outside staring in to my I-phone (as usual) chatting to my twitter friends while trying to ignore the looks of disdain my Quinny was getting from the BUGABOO mums.

It was a lovely day, as it always is in cheadle, peaceful and posh. I had given Addison a heads up earlier in the day. No tantrums in Cheadle little boy. Cheadle is far too posh for tantrums. But evidently he had decided to ignore me. He woke up from a nap, and decided that in no uncertain terms, he wanted out of his buggy. THIS INSTANT! It was such a surprise, as he is usually such a happy little chappy, so tranquil and smiling. (and no Im not bragging, Im just saying. – although clearly if I’d brought War and Peace he would have been happy to sit and read that… again.)

I quickly and in a mild panic (it was really, really loud screaming and also being a new mum – baby cries? Pick baby up. Gina Ford piss off.) I began the ‘untangling baby’ dance. Clip one, rope 2, button 3, twist 4 , jump up and down on your left foot 5, clasp undone 6 and he’s out! I wrapped my arms around his little trembling, tantrumy body and began my vain attempt at soothing him. Clearly something was the matter as usually he would stop crying the second he is picked up. (yes, yes rod for my back, I know.) I felt around his person for the usual suspects, belly (wind), bum (wet patches) and neck (eczema) but all seemed to be behaving. He continued with his somewhat angry crying and I began to search for his dummy.(tsk tsk)

While we are on this subject, can I just say that dummies have special powers. They can disappear and re-appear at will. And multiply! I spent half an hour searching for one the other day. I turned the house upside down only to find one, rinse it, drop it and find three at my feet! Anyways..

 I finally located the illusive dummy and was about to shove it, I mean gently place it, in his gob when out of nowhere a head thrust itself towards us. A little old lady in a green mac, a green scarf and a green head wrap with interestingly green teeth had broken all rules of personal space and was literally shaking her nobbly little head in what seemed to be disgust, a mere inches away from our faces. Addison immediately stopped crying for a second due to shock and ill be honest, I was gob smacked and just stood there like a total lemon, mouth hanging open.

‘Hello?’- me (step back slightly alarmed)
‘You know what you want to do?’ Posh, clipped and pretentious.
‘No?’ – me. Tired, gormless and confused.
‘Put a muslin over his face’
‘What?!?’
‘Put a muslin cloth over his face, that’ll soon stop him crying.’
‘EH?’

Seriously?! Put a muslin cloth over my sons face to stop him crying?! Yeah, thanks for the advice but I’m not gonna do that.

This has been playing over and over in my mind since the dotty old Disney villain wannabe  uttered the words. She wanted me to put a muslin cloth over my sons little face, to stop him crying. So basically she wanted me to suffocate my son. Yes Im sure it did stop your son crying missis. Im not sure a baby can cry and gasp for breath at the same time.

As we were walking away from the shops. Me holding a bag over Addison’s face, (JOKE!) It got me thinking about how total randomers seem to think its ok to stop and give you advice on being a mother. It’s like being part of the ‘mummy club’ means every man and their dog can assess you and your skills at any given time and offer totally unnecessary and unwanted ‘advice’. On a very rare occasion it can be helpful (usually off your own parents) but mostly I have found ‘stranger danger advice’ to be totally incorrect and utter crap. These ‘pearls of wisdom’ range from a little odd to full on ‘get your coat Addy, we’re off.’

This advice sharing starts from the second you develop a bump, in my opinion. (that and the touchy feelers, but again that’s another blog). So as I was ambling home I started to mentally Blog some of the other ‘nuggets of crap’ I have received over the last year. 

So here goes..

When pregnant – ‘Don’t reach up or your baby will be strangled on the cord.’ Thank you random woman in supermarket.

When pregnant – ‘You are definitely having a girl you are absolutely enormous, you should buy all pink, definitely.’-Thank you MR bus driver.

When pregnant- ‘Don’t have the pram in the house , its bad luck’ – Thank you random grandmother in Mothercare. (This one REALLY annoyed me.)

Life after birth - ‘He’s gorgeous but Im not sure I like the name Addsion. Theo is a nice name for a boy.’ -Thank you cash register girl.

Life after birth - ‘I can’t believe you aren’t breast feeding. You should be breast feeding’ – Thank you random passerby at Starbucks the Trafford centre. 

On losing baby weight - ‘You shouldn’t have eaten for two until the last trimester’ – The last time I saw this person they were hobbling from a swift, hard kick in the shin. You know who you are!

 I have so many more but I would love to hear some of yours.. Because I am absolutely sure it is not just I, who is subjected to this intrusion. And if it is, then what the hell am I doing wrong??  And also if Im honest I could carry on regaling you but ‘Put a muslin cloth over your baby’s face to stop him crying’ is a clear winner. It doesn’t get better than that. Ladies and Gentleman, round of applause for Granny Green. Disney’s newest villain.

So come on let’s hear them, if you have them. I’d love a good laugh!