The gun has gone off.
Its offensive and obtrusive noise ringing out through all of our lives, whether we want it to or not.
The race to survive December, for those with depression, has commenced.
My hands were pressed against the asphalt, my voluminous arse stuck in the air, my chubby thighs ready to break free from the starting position and run like the clappers.
Get through it.
Grit your teeth, head down and just sprint, hobble, bunny hop – Whatever! Just do what you need to do to get to January.
And as expected, what went and happened as the clock struck midnight on the first of the twelfth?
All hell broke loose.
My dad rang me on Facetime.
His dog had sadly passed away minutes before.
And now, he was alone, in his house, in the middle of nowhere, in Spain, in shock, and utterly devastated, his heart breaking all over my IPad.
And I could see it all happening, playing out before my very eyes, and could do nothing to stop it or prevent it.
Facetime is all well and good until you need to provide comfort, then it is a torture.
At the same time, in the next room Addison began to wail, infection giving him a temperature and causing him pain, thus ensuring I had to also grit my teeth while being ‘vomited on solid’ (it’s how we talk here in manchester) for the very first 12 hours of December.
My intentions were to make this piece of writing funny.
Too much doom and gloom sends me barmy.
I wanted to write about the inconsequential ridiculous guff that comes along with being an incredibly unorganised mother, suffering with depression, around this time of year.
Like how while I was hastily (before my dog rolls in it) trying to clean up more sick this morning using 3 million floor wipes and a face cloth, Addison opened the cupboard (a cupboard he has previously never shown an interest in!!!) where I had precariously piled up all his christmas presents, and a Huge Thomas set fell on his head, almost knocking him out.
‘Wow look Mummy! Santa sent this from the sky! Is he angry? Cos that kinda hurt?! but wow look! A new Thomas set! It must be because I am poorly!’ (Manipulative little….)
And how I wasn’t able to re-hide the present so now we are one present down for christmas morning.
A main present down.
And I wanted to tell you about how, because of all the drama and vomit, I ended up doing an online shop for the first time ever, and somehow, we seem to have ended up with a shop for Actual Giants.
The ketchup bottle is 3 litres.
I shit you not.
I very clearly need to get to grips with the metric system.
‘No wonder it was expensive.’ The irish one gasped as he squeezed it between his thighs in a bid to lightly sauce his sandwich.
If December was a person, I strongly believe it would be a belligerent, ignorant, self obsessed, opportunist bastard that enjoyed robbing both the young and the old blind, and then crapping on their front lawns to mark it’s territory.
I hate December.
But I am not going to let it win.
Mind over matter.
I have sat with my Dad for hours, listening, virtually hugging and encouraging him to tell me about his grief, and I have taken a risk.
Sometime soon a little bundle of joy is going to be delivered to his front door… I believe he is to be called Freddy…
Too soon you think?
Screw you December.
Addison is still poorly.
I am off work and fretting like hell about it.
I am working as much as I can from home and thanks to an unexpected toy being lobbed at my son’s head all the way from the North Pole, have managed to get lots done.
But then I have mummy guilt.
He is still hot and miserable so I should be focused on him, not work, so given that as a working mother you seem to be screwed if you do and fecked if you don’t, that is what I decided to do today.
I looked after him.
I am a working mother but I know which part of that title means more to me.
SCREW YOU DECEMBER.
We fly to Spain on the 20th. (OH GOOD GOD I HATE FLYING.)
But that’s a long way off yet, and I know what this month is like.
Jog On December.
Screw you December.
Whatever else you wanna throw at me, I am ready.
I have been to hell and back, and have a Vat of ketchup to prove it.
Giant sausage roll anyone?