Sometimes Motherhood threatens to overwhelm me. Drag me under, down beneath it's relentless waves that crash over me time and again, until I am broken, no longer trying to tread water, no longer gasping for air. Just sinking under, down and down, waiting for silence. The peace that only comes at 8pm at night, when the house is finally still.
This whole game doesn't come naturally to me at all. When I was 9 months pregnant with my son I was still presenting live tv, still meeting friends in air conditioned bars (as a heat wave engulfed London and my ankles swoll to the size of hams), still popping into the centre of London on the packed tube, still hitting the movies, still singing to my own tune. Then I became a mother and my god it was a shock. I hadn't really considered that for the rest of my days, I would come second. That Husband and I would pretty much never be alone together. That the movies would have to wait, and the sunday papers and the meet ups in bars. That every minute of every day I would be responsible for someone else. I genuinely never really thought about - because if you did, no one would ever have kids.
I was so crushingly lonely that the TV became my closest friend. I dreamed of escape - of Husband having a regular job. I had a child minder then - 3 afternoons a week, and still I struggled. I missed who I was.... My local Italian no longer was the place for lock ins - when I'd fall from the bar stool after one shot too many - now it was the place where the sunny Italian waitress would hold our son so we could shovel some pasta in our gullets before holding him once more on a Sunday lunchtime. The fabulous Hampstead Heath was no longer a place to laze and sunbathe, to power walk and gossip - it was for getting the baby to sleep in his buggy. The tube no longer my quick book read, or a sneaky people watch - it was the nightmare - for a buggy up and down a million steps and escalators, the hell as the baby cried and the commuters failed to hide their annoyance - a place to be avoided at all costs. The world became smaller. My flat became the world.
Then I went back to work. I felt like me again. I felt guilty and stressed and always on edge, but it was the price I paid to feel ME again. I loved being a script editor at the soap I worked on - even though I was over worked, underpaid, forever stuck on the M25 going home, and always juggling the needs of my son against the needs of the job. My marriage slid - but then when he got weekends off it kind of balanced out again. Just in time for me to leave the job (because I had to - gawd bless the BBC and their reluctance to make anyone staff any more) and get pregnant again.
This time I knew what was coming. I wanted two, I really did - but I was afraid. Afraid to lose ME again. It would be inevitable. Especially with no job to return to - and no solution to getting a job. (That would involve nannies and basically working to pay a nanny and a huge commute to London etc etc). There seemed no solution. Suddenly, I was trapped again. The world became my village/market town. It became my world. The Mothers and the happy clappy groups and the coffees and the stroll by the canal and the baby cinema screenings.... A world of endless motherhood. Dressing and packing schoolbags, and gym kits, and reading books, and homework and Kumon work, and cooking and laundry and laundry and laundry, and folding laundry and bath times and press repeat over and over again.
Last September I felt low. I took the pills. The post natal depression always bites. But deep down I also knew it was the fear. How to find ME again in all of this? How to work, how to challenge oneself above cooking a great shepherd's pie for tea? I put it off - with this idea and that - maybe a book? Maybe a part time job in TV drama? (HA! because they SOOOOOOOO exist. Not.)
Now I have a plan. It is a crazee one. Possibly my craziest yet. One I can't talk about because you will track me down and call the nice people in the white coats and I will be rocking myself on a cocktail of pills before you can say 'crazy lady.' But it is my hope you know? It is my own little oasis. So I can't give it up, I can't let it go. I won't let it go.
And this week, I've been waiting - for people to come back to me - folk who can help me in my quest. Kind, kind folk who are willing to help the crazee lady. And in this waiting there is a moment when for a second, the whole plan comes into focus - so sharply and acutely that it seems impossible. The 'if you really thought about it what are the chances crazee lady?' thoughts. And in those moments, I drown. I feel like there is not a single part of me left. No one iota of hope. Because I need a plan, I need hope. I need to radically change my life and that of my family - to make us work, to make me happy, to make me ME again.
This week Sproglette has been teething, and wailing and moaning and grumping. Sproglet has been an angel and at his school teacher consultations, his teacher clasped a hand to her chest and told me 'I am so proud of him, and all he has achieved' and I thought my heart might just jump right out of my chest and land on the table between us. She called him a 'lovely boy' and talked about him jumping up two reading groups and how much he had settled and grown since Christmas. He was young in his year and has now 'come into his own.' I left that meeting walking on air - so proud of my son, and his happy little face, delighted with his own work and progress. That is the good stuff. The stuff where you feel that all the reading practice and homework and spellings when you want to be watching the news, are in fact worth it. Likewise when Sproglet and I (as he calls it) huggle every evening after reading time. Or when he loves my home made chicken schnitzels and says I am a 'better cooker than Daddy.' (Which I may add, I am not).Or when Sproglette opens her electronic book and spies the cow that jumped over the moon and says 'Moo' loudly but it sounds more like 'Mow.' Or she giggles, or lays her fluffy head on my shoulder when she is tired. There are many many moments that make it rewarding and amazing and something that you know you were lucky enough to do. Lucky enough to have these little people in your life.
It is just an eternal struggle to find oneself amongst the poo horror stories, amongst the drudgery of running a home, of raising two with a Husband who does crazy hours. To rise up out of those waves, to climb up onto a rock. To breathe, take in the view and see that once the storm passes, there is calm, and there is peace.
PS To all you lovely lovely commenters, thanks so much for taking the time to just say hello, or what you think of the blog. It is appreciated more than you know. xxx
Friday, 16 March 2012
DVF for Gap kids - Yay!
So I am seriously coveting stuff from the new Diane Von Furstenberg collection for Gapkids.
Seriously how cute are these:
Whilst I have never afforded DVF for myself - I can so see Sproglette rockin' a funky dress this summer. The Diva, I am hoping, would approve of such stylish threads. I went online to per-chase one dress (credit card at the ready) only to find NO DVF. There it was on the American site in all it's colourful snazzy glory, but not a mention on the UK site. Which was odd as all over blogs, supplements and magazines there has been a huge PR drive with 'March 15th' everywhere.
Alas no. After phoning 3 Gaps and then complaining to their head office, I was told that in the UK it would launch on the 28th. Yes, I have too much time on my hands, obviously. But I couldn't believe that Gap - such a HUGE company - had gone to all the PR effort and then in the UK my phonecalls to Gap were greeted with 'What is DVF???' And odd that their website didn't even mention it's existence. Great work Gap on the whole web/PR/shop communication link up there!
Anyway, if you are in the States - go grab. The sneakers looks especially cool. I hate prissy girlish clothes - all fru fru and thunderously pink - so this flash of bright colours zinging up a wardrobe are right up my street.
If you are in the UK save your pennies, or in my case, your credit, until the 28th. Just maybe, I'll fit into something for myself.... *sigh*
Perky Mothers....urgghhhhhhhhhhhhh
Perky friggin' Mothers - dontcha just hate 'em?
I do. They are just so damn perky with their lot that I want to run over and pull their luscious pigtails out of their heads. Let me explain what they look like: they wear no make up, or at least look like they wear no make up BUT THEY STILL LOOK INCREDIBLE. Not a hint of tiredness, no circles so deep you grow potatoes in them, no weird sun spots, no stressed out vein threads, no lips torn apart through endless chewing. Nope, they are all milky skinned with a hint of rosebud cheeks, wide eyes framed by roadsweeper eyelashes and swooshy swishy hair 'just thrown up' into a perfect pony. They are tiny. I mean tiny. All eeny weeny waist and pert bum and clean sneakers and expensive jeans and a casual stripey top (I wear a lot of stripes but I don't do this look so well) - that looks like they 'just picked up this old thing' and they still look amazing. Gwynnie is their hero. All organic cooking and my kid likes sprouts (NO ONE LIKES SPROUTS, LEAST OF ALL KIDS) and everything so clean and wholesome that their kid's nappies only contain rose scented poo.
Now every thursday I go to a happy clappy class. Yes I do. Let's call it Clip Clop. The folk who run it are theatre types, whose careers maybe haven't panned out to plan and instead of a bit part on Casualty, they are childrens' entertainers. They are savvy enough to realise there is far more gold in the happy clappy class hills than there is pretending to have a stomach ulcer and then bleeding from the eyes for one episode. Anyway, I go there with a good friend who is a nanny and she pisses herself at the looks on my face as I cope with the 'singing' and all the perky fucking mothers.
I sing like a man. I sound like cat dying slowly. A cat with a man's voice. It aint good. Mercifully the singing bit only lasts about 3 minutes - feels like 30 - and then the actor folk to their bit and sing so we may all be spared. Of course the PMs - they keep on a singing! Oh yes, they join in. Sroglette and I don't - although yesterday she let go of my hand and wandered up to the front and got amongst the singing throng. I am sure she was just looking for the end of play obligatory biscuit that they serve, but still, she has started to enjoy it, even though she walked to the door three times and pointed to leaving. Like Mother, like daughter.
The biggest PM there is all bright scarves and singalong fun. She has a daughter called Olivia who has a permanent dummy in her mouth, but the most exquisite shoe collection a child could ever want. Or indeed an adult. Head PM looks like she has it all together, with her virgin white converse and her perfect highlights and yes, I admit, these folk make me feel so inadequate - as I never ever am as scrubbed and shiny and happy clappy as they are. Whilst surviving Clip Clop though I fake perky. I march with the grand old duke of York, I hunker down and shake my rattle for the band moments and I swing Sproglette around like a sack of spuds as we 'hunt for fishes' and sing the hokey kokey. It is the longest 45 minutes of my week. A smear test goes quicker. Come to think of it I'd rather have 45 minutes with a swab swishing around than have to deal with the swishy ponytail brigade, but hey, the kid seems to dig it so I have to keep going. Let's all clap along.... 'If you're happy and you know it, shout we are.... WE ARE!!!!'
I do. They are just so damn perky with their lot that I want to run over and pull their luscious pigtails out of their heads. Let me explain what they look like: they wear no make up, or at least look like they wear no make up BUT THEY STILL LOOK INCREDIBLE. Not a hint of tiredness, no circles so deep you grow potatoes in them, no weird sun spots, no stressed out vein threads, no lips torn apart through endless chewing. Nope, they are all milky skinned with a hint of rosebud cheeks, wide eyes framed by roadsweeper eyelashes and swooshy swishy hair 'just thrown up' into a perfect pony. They are tiny. I mean tiny. All eeny weeny waist and pert bum and clean sneakers and expensive jeans and a casual stripey top (I wear a lot of stripes but I don't do this look so well) - that looks like they 'just picked up this old thing' and they still look amazing. Gwynnie is their hero. All organic cooking and my kid likes sprouts (NO ONE LIKES SPROUTS, LEAST OF ALL KIDS) and everything so clean and wholesome that their kid's nappies only contain rose scented poo.
Now every thursday I go to a happy clappy class. Yes I do. Let's call it Clip Clop. The folk who run it are theatre types, whose careers maybe haven't panned out to plan and instead of a bit part on Casualty, they are childrens' entertainers. They are savvy enough to realise there is far more gold in the happy clappy class hills than there is pretending to have a stomach ulcer and then bleeding from the eyes for one episode. Anyway, I go there with a good friend who is a nanny and she pisses herself at the looks on my face as I cope with the 'singing' and all the perky fucking mothers.
I sing like a man. I sound like cat dying slowly. A cat with a man's voice. It aint good. Mercifully the singing bit only lasts about 3 minutes - feels like 30 - and then the actor folk to their bit and sing so we may all be spared. Of course the PMs - they keep on a singing! Oh yes, they join in. Sroglette and I don't - although yesterday she let go of my hand and wandered up to the front and got amongst the singing throng. I am sure she was just looking for the end of play obligatory biscuit that they serve, but still, she has started to enjoy it, even though she walked to the door three times and pointed to leaving. Like Mother, like daughter.
The biggest PM there is all bright scarves and singalong fun. She has a daughter called Olivia who has a permanent dummy in her mouth, but the most exquisite shoe collection a child could ever want. Or indeed an adult. Head PM looks like she has it all together, with her virgin white converse and her perfect highlights and yes, I admit, these folk make me feel so inadequate - as I never ever am as scrubbed and shiny and happy clappy as they are. Whilst surviving Clip Clop though I fake perky. I march with the grand old duke of York, I hunker down and shake my rattle for the band moments and I swing Sproglette around like a sack of spuds as we 'hunt for fishes' and sing the hokey kokey. It is the longest 45 minutes of my week. A smear test goes quicker. Come to think of it I'd rather have 45 minutes with a swab swishing around than have to deal with the swishy ponytail brigade, but hey, the kid seems to dig it so I have to keep going. Let's all clap along.... 'If you're happy and you know it, shout we are.... WE ARE!!!!'
Saturday, 10 March 2012
Three small stories
Story 1 Shit happens
Oh it sure does. Literally. So yesterday we went to swimming (Sproglet has a lesson). Now I endure this weekly event, rather than enjoy it. The changing rooms smell like an old lady's pants and when you get to the drop off point by the pool, you feel like the menopause has hit early, when you sweat out every last toxin you ever ingested, long before your kid yells 'bye Mum.' Anyway, we get to the weekly hell zone and Sproglet says he needs a wee - which he always leaves to the last minute. He runs off and I get Sproglette out of the buggy and do all the obligatory sorting of bags and kit and coats and stuff and I'm thinking 'He sure is taking forever...' and I go into the men's loos and there Sproglet is - crying with his pants down. First thought - is there anyone in here? No, thank god, he is alone. Second thought - ok, so he has peed before he got to the loo, fine, we can still go swimming even thought it will look mighty odd that my kid aint wearing pants when he dries off. Then I notice a tonne of poo hanging from his bum - and he points over to an area I can't yet see. I take two steps in front and there to greet me on the floor, like a steaming brown welcome mat, is a massive turd.
He was weeing and 'it all fell out Mummy.' So I'm thinking, 'do I wipe his arse first? Or the floor?' Then I notice that in his 'clean up' mode the sink is also a fetching brown shade. Dear god, I am surrounded by poo. There is no paper in the cubicle, so I am running about trying to get loo roll and then I pick up the poo and it gets all over my hands... The sticky kind of poo that welds itself to you - determined to never leave. You could get tar off quicker. Then poo sticks to loo I am trying to disperse of it in, and I am then wiping a sink furiously, and the floor, and my hands, and my son's legs - but they are too covered so I am fighting a lost cause and then a man opens the door to let in a wailing toddler - my daughter - whom I have forgotten about in my poo hell. She walks in and stomps straight over into the remaining poo - so then poo is on her, and my hand and the swim bag and I am cleaning Sproglet and screaming and wanting to kill someone, anyone, preferably poo shaped. Just as I am realising we have to abort all attempts at going to swimming and just take Sproglet home for a bath, a man walks in and starts to get his penis out. I scream - 'hello, hello! Sorry, my son had a poo drama and I am here! I AM HERE. NO REALLY, I AM HERE.'
And he carries on pissing in a urinal. 'No worries love.'
So I drag Sproglet out, followed by a wailing Sproglette and everyone is crying except me, which is ironic as all I want to do is CRY, loudly. The folk at reception in the gym give me looks like I am crazy woman - why am I staking out the men's loos - and wondering what the fuck I am doing running around with wipes and shit on my hands??? I explain there has been a poo drama and they give me weirder looks. It only dawns on me later that they thought I had the poo drama. GIVE ME STRENGTH.
Anyway, post bath and homework and dinner I then give Sproglette her own bath. She plays and fluffs around with the foam and then she fixes me with a gaze that means business. Yes, of the no 2 sort. And for the first time ever she craps in the bath. Joy. I have to scoop tiny yellow nuggets into my hands and into the loo and I am thinking 'get me away from all this shit!!!!!!' Then, finally, she is all clean and dressed and snuggly and we come downstairs and Sproglet is eating an apple - so naturally Sproglette wants some. She eats and stuffs herself so much she toddles over to me, with an unhappy look on her face. She begins to spit apple into my hand and then she hacks, and for a split second I know what is coming - but it is too late - she vomits all over herself, me and the sofa. I have held her poo and now, I have her hot sick in my hand.
Next week is Mother's day. I want a naked Taylor Kitsch with a ten carat diamond between his teeth. Nothing less will do.
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Story 2 Good Samaritan
So I had another car prang on Thursday. Yep, my car just had to make love to a steel bollard on a pavement, as I was turning in a car park and trying to get away from a man in a Merc who was stressing the fu*K out of me. He told me to go back, so I went forward, and kind of up, and around and CRUNCH. Brilliant.
So I met my friend for coffee and then showed her the spoils of my pavement mounting. She said (adopting a worried tone) 'That isn't so bad.... really.' As she said this, a car drove past and an Irish guy shouted to me 'You're Fucked love!'
Bless him.
So I said 'Don't say that! My husband will murder me...' And then he got out of his car and took a closer look. He vowed to help, and then, well he kind of adopted me for the rest of the day. We visited 2 different mechanics, who quoted £650 and £600... and then he suggested going to a farm nearby where he had heard from his wife's stepfather's Dad that I could get it done for £130. I followed him and his family out to this farm, miles away, thinking 'am I going to be kidnapped and sold into a life of slavery?' or 'is this Texas chain saw massacre happening in deepest Hertfordshire???' The farm certainly looked 'odd.' But a Hick like man with about one tooth in his head, did proclaim that my car being fixed would in fact cost '£875'!!!! Not so hick when you think about it.
We drove away. So nice Irish man Rory, suggested we go to Halfords and buy some wax/polish stuff and then he set to work, polishing my car to make it look a tad better. He did a grand job - refusing to let me help, instead I minded Sproglette and his daughter - both of whom were intent on toddling off to play with the traffic, so actually polishing a car was the easier job - and an hour later when I drove home - with a demented Sproglette who was hungry/tired/cold/grumpy - my car looked a tad dented, but not as bad as it had done, with white scratches everywhere. Bless Rory, he and his wife had taken time out of their day - over 3 hours in fact, to help me. A good Samaritan indeed. It wasn't their fault I had crashed, but they cared. A rarity. I will be sending them something as a way of saying thanks... But you know, this whole paying it forward is underrated. He helped me, just because he could. Try it, it is amazing how great it feels. Rory looked at the newly polished car as if he had birthed it himself. 'Will you luuuke ah dat!' he said in his fetching Oirish accent. My own little leprechaun - who said they don't exist?
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Story 3 The Star.
So before Christmas I did a little bit of work for my old company and although funds are indeed tight, I decided to treat myself to a little xmas gift, especially as Husband and I agreed not to do them this year. I bought a little bracelet, from a Californian company called 'Dogeared.' Apparently you make a wish on the bracelet and every time you look at it you invest more in your wish... and when it breaks your wish comes true. I liked the sentiment, the embodiment of a wish. I knew exactly what I wanted - a wish that I have long harboured but rarely discussed. My bracelet was a thin turquoise string holding a little silver star, with the words 'joy' engraved on one corner. When it arrived, I said my wish, popped it on and let the universe do the rest.
Less than 6 weeks later it had fallen off. I had almost forgotten I was wearing it - so thin and tiny it was. I had a vague memory of some time in January feeling something break off my wrist and pulling up my coat to see and thinking 'but my watch is on my other wrist.' When I finally clocked that my wrist was bare because the bracelt had fallen off, I realised it could have dropped off anywhere, so there was no point in searching under the sofa, in the street, etc. I should have felt happy that my wish was on it's way to being fulfilled, but I felt a bit sad that the cute bracelet only lasted such a short time.
Yesterday, I was trying and failing, to put a new lampshade on the bare bulb that has hung from our bedroom ceiling for... oh... almost four years. Sproglette was toddling around being busy, grabbing stuff and creating her usual carnage. I heard a crash - and she had spilled out a small little box that I have, that I fill with coins so I always have a spare £1 handy if I get a chocolate craving or have to donate to some charity on the doorstep, or need a quick coffee at the Kings Arms (coffees £1 all day!!!) etc. I hunkered down to gather up all the small coins before she shoved them in her mouth and choked - and as I scooped them up - there, winking at me from the floor, was the little star. At first I didn't realise what it was, but then I remembered. I feel like it came back to me. I never put it in that box; I have taken coins out and put them in that wee box many times in the last few weeks, but I have never spied it; and there was no sign of the string it was once on. But there it was, out of nowhere.
All spells a good omen methinks. Hopefully no more crashes, no more crap and a bold wish coming true.
Oh it sure does. Literally. So yesterday we went to swimming (Sproglet has a lesson). Now I endure this weekly event, rather than enjoy it. The changing rooms smell like an old lady's pants and when you get to the drop off point by the pool, you feel like the menopause has hit early, when you sweat out every last toxin you ever ingested, long before your kid yells 'bye Mum.' Anyway, we get to the weekly hell zone and Sproglet says he needs a wee - which he always leaves to the last minute. He runs off and I get Sproglette out of the buggy and do all the obligatory sorting of bags and kit and coats and stuff and I'm thinking 'He sure is taking forever...' and I go into the men's loos and there Sproglet is - crying with his pants down. First thought - is there anyone in here? No, thank god, he is alone. Second thought - ok, so he has peed before he got to the loo, fine, we can still go swimming even thought it will look mighty odd that my kid aint wearing pants when he dries off. Then I notice a tonne of poo hanging from his bum - and he points over to an area I can't yet see. I take two steps in front and there to greet me on the floor, like a steaming brown welcome mat, is a massive turd.
He was weeing and 'it all fell out Mummy.' So I'm thinking, 'do I wipe his arse first? Or the floor?' Then I notice that in his 'clean up' mode the sink is also a fetching brown shade. Dear god, I am surrounded by poo. There is no paper in the cubicle, so I am running about trying to get loo roll and then I pick up the poo and it gets all over my hands... The sticky kind of poo that welds itself to you - determined to never leave. You could get tar off quicker. Then poo sticks to loo I am trying to disperse of it in, and I am then wiping a sink furiously, and the floor, and my hands, and my son's legs - but they are too covered so I am fighting a lost cause and then a man opens the door to let in a wailing toddler - my daughter - whom I have forgotten about in my poo hell. She walks in and stomps straight over into the remaining poo - so then poo is on her, and my hand and the swim bag and I am cleaning Sproglet and screaming and wanting to kill someone, anyone, preferably poo shaped. Just as I am realising we have to abort all attempts at going to swimming and just take Sproglet home for a bath, a man walks in and starts to get his penis out. I scream - 'hello, hello! Sorry, my son had a poo drama and I am here! I AM HERE. NO REALLY, I AM HERE.'
And he carries on pissing in a urinal. 'No worries love.'
So I drag Sproglet out, followed by a wailing Sproglette and everyone is crying except me, which is ironic as all I want to do is CRY, loudly. The folk at reception in the gym give me looks like I am crazy woman - why am I staking out the men's loos - and wondering what the fuck I am doing running around with wipes and shit on my hands??? I explain there has been a poo drama and they give me weirder looks. It only dawns on me later that they thought I had the poo drama. GIVE ME STRENGTH.
Anyway, post bath and homework and dinner I then give Sproglette her own bath. She plays and fluffs around with the foam and then she fixes me with a gaze that means business. Yes, of the no 2 sort. And for the first time ever she craps in the bath. Joy. I have to scoop tiny yellow nuggets into my hands and into the loo and I am thinking 'get me away from all this shit!!!!!!' Then, finally, she is all clean and dressed and snuggly and we come downstairs and Sproglet is eating an apple - so naturally Sproglette wants some. She eats and stuffs herself so much she toddles over to me, with an unhappy look on her face. She begins to spit apple into my hand and then she hacks, and for a split second I know what is coming - but it is too late - she vomits all over herself, me and the sofa. I have held her poo and now, I have her hot sick in my hand.
Next week is Mother's day. I want a naked Taylor Kitsch with a ten carat diamond between his teeth. Nothing less will do.
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Story 2 Good Samaritan
So I had another car prang on Thursday. Yep, my car just had to make love to a steel bollard on a pavement, as I was turning in a car park and trying to get away from a man in a Merc who was stressing the fu*K out of me. He told me to go back, so I went forward, and kind of up, and around and CRUNCH. Brilliant.
So I met my friend for coffee and then showed her the spoils of my pavement mounting. She said (adopting a worried tone) 'That isn't so bad.... really.' As she said this, a car drove past and an Irish guy shouted to me 'You're Fucked love!'
Bless him.
So I said 'Don't say that! My husband will murder me...' And then he got out of his car and took a closer look. He vowed to help, and then, well he kind of adopted me for the rest of the day. We visited 2 different mechanics, who quoted £650 and £600... and then he suggested going to a farm nearby where he had heard from his wife's stepfather's Dad that I could get it done for £130. I followed him and his family out to this farm, miles away, thinking 'am I going to be kidnapped and sold into a life of slavery?' or 'is this Texas chain saw massacre happening in deepest Hertfordshire???' The farm certainly looked 'odd.' But a Hick like man with about one tooth in his head, did proclaim that my car being fixed would in fact cost '£875'!!!! Not so hick when you think about it.
We drove away. So nice Irish man Rory, suggested we go to Halfords and buy some wax/polish stuff and then he set to work, polishing my car to make it look a tad better. He did a grand job - refusing to let me help, instead I minded Sproglette and his daughter - both of whom were intent on toddling off to play with the traffic, so actually polishing a car was the easier job - and an hour later when I drove home - with a demented Sproglette who was hungry/tired/cold/grumpy - my car looked a tad dented, but not as bad as it had done, with white scratches everywhere. Bless Rory, he and his wife had taken time out of their day - over 3 hours in fact, to help me. A good Samaritan indeed. It wasn't their fault I had crashed, but they cared. A rarity. I will be sending them something as a way of saying thanks... But you know, this whole paying it forward is underrated. He helped me, just because he could. Try it, it is amazing how great it feels. Rory looked at the newly polished car as if he had birthed it himself. 'Will you luuuke ah dat!' he said in his fetching Oirish accent. My own little leprechaun - who said they don't exist?
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Story 3 The Star.
So before Christmas I did a little bit of work for my old company and although funds are indeed tight, I decided to treat myself to a little xmas gift, especially as Husband and I agreed not to do them this year. I bought a little bracelet, from a Californian company called 'Dogeared.' Apparently you make a wish on the bracelet and every time you look at it you invest more in your wish... and when it breaks your wish comes true. I liked the sentiment, the embodiment of a wish. I knew exactly what I wanted - a wish that I have long harboured but rarely discussed. My bracelet was a thin turquoise string holding a little silver star, with the words 'joy' engraved on one corner. When it arrived, I said my wish, popped it on and let the universe do the rest.
Less than 6 weeks later it had fallen off. I had almost forgotten I was wearing it - so thin and tiny it was. I had a vague memory of some time in January feeling something break off my wrist and pulling up my coat to see and thinking 'but my watch is on my other wrist.' When I finally clocked that my wrist was bare because the bracelt had fallen off, I realised it could have dropped off anywhere, so there was no point in searching under the sofa, in the street, etc. I should have felt happy that my wish was on it's way to being fulfilled, but I felt a bit sad that the cute bracelet only lasted such a short time.
Yesterday, I was trying and failing, to put a new lampshade on the bare bulb that has hung from our bedroom ceiling for... oh... almost four years. Sproglette was toddling around being busy, grabbing stuff and creating her usual carnage. I heard a crash - and she had spilled out a small little box that I have, that I fill with coins so I always have a spare £1 handy if I get a chocolate craving or have to donate to some charity on the doorstep, or need a quick coffee at the Kings Arms (coffees £1 all day!!!) etc. I hunkered down to gather up all the small coins before she shoved them in her mouth and choked - and as I scooped them up - there, winking at me from the floor, was the little star. At first I didn't realise what it was, but then I remembered. I feel like it came back to me. I never put it in that box; I have taken coins out and put them in that wee box many times in the last few weeks, but I have never spied it; and there was no sign of the string it was once on. But there it was, out of nowhere.
All spells a good omen methinks. Hopefully no more crashes, no more crap and a bold wish coming true.
Monday, 27 February 2012
Who nose??
So, there has been something troubling me of late. Not you know, keeping me up all night or even causing me to frown - but just simmering with a quiet 'is it just me, or does anyone else think XYZ has had a nose job???' Folk have popped up here and there with their perfect schnozzles and then I've seen a pic of them several years back and I'm like - 'they look a tad different, what could it be....?' Hmmmmm.
So let's just take a wee lookie.
Posh before:
Posh after:
And just incase this doesn't convince how - how about:
And Dannii Minogue - well we all remember her as Emma on 'Home and Away' with her thick thighs and huge honk - but now... well it is much more purdey:
Now for the record, I like a good nose. I also don't mind a thick thigh, or a flat chest. If a woman feels good, then rock on her. What I can't stand is those who lie - who pretend that they never had surgery, or they never would. I mean, why not be honest? It would make us all feel a helluva lot better about ourselves knowing that most slebs have had knives hacking at them in order to look so fabulous. NOT that any of the celebs on this page have definitely had surgery on their faces, or indeed bodies. I am merely wondering....
Let us continue with an A lister:
And now:
Perhaps without the nose work she wouldn't have been so 'get a load of me' at the Oscar's last night. Man that was nauseating. Having been a fan, I just could not believe a woman stood there posing so much and for so long - no wonder she was as wooden as stick reading that autocue. Jaysus, as we say in Belfast, 'if she had been a chocolate bar she'd a' had herself ate!' Hun, you get to shag Brad - you don't need to cock a leg like a dog needing a piss, and do the whole sexy come hither voice thing, replete with pout - you already won the golden ticket!! Thank god for the Descendants writer Jim Rash (unfortunate name...) who took the piss out of her when he collected his Oscar.
Moving on:
I knew that Blake Lively was different - but now I know how:
Even one plastic surgeon has gone on record to say he believes Gwynnie got in on the action early in her career:
And it aint just the ladeez:
On the web there are pics of Avril Lavigne, Halle Berry, Ashlee Simpson, J-Lo and many others all with before and after shots and docs explaining how the (alleged) surgery they had was good - because 'they did not take a standard, boilerplate nose and stick in on her/his face. They worked with what she/he had originally and what resulted was a refined, natural-looking nose that fits her/his face.'
Maybe these folk were advised by agents and producers to have the work done - if indeed they even have had work done (gotta cover myself I know). If that is ever the case - it is a sad old world were folk feel they need to go under the knife just to get record deals or secure film roles etc.
Now I'm off to study my own honk in the mirror - have I been going wrong all these years???
So let's just take a wee lookie.
Posh before:
Posh after:
And just incase this doesn't convince how - how about:
And Dannii Minogue - well we all remember her as Emma on 'Home and Away' with her thick thighs and huge honk - but now... well it is much more purdey:
Now for the record, I like a good nose. I also don't mind a thick thigh, or a flat chest. If a woman feels good, then rock on her. What I can't stand is those who lie - who pretend that they never had surgery, or they never would. I mean, why not be honest? It would make us all feel a helluva lot better about ourselves knowing that most slebs have had knives hacking at them in order to look so fabulous. NOT that any of the celebs on this page have definitely had surgery on their faces, or indeed bodies. I am merely wondering....
Let us continue with an A lister:
And now:
Perhaps without the nose work she wouldn't have been so 'get a load of me' at the Oscar's last night. Man that was nauseating. Having been a fan, I just could not believe a woman stood there posing so much and for so long - no wonder she was as wooden as stick reading that autocue. Jaysus, as we say in Belfast, 'if she had been a chocolate bar she'd a' had herself ate!' Hun, you get to shag Brad - you don't need to cock a leg like a dog needing a piss, and do the whole sexy come hither voice thing, replete with pout - you already won the golden ticket!! Thank god for the Descendants writer Jim Rash (unfortunate name...) who took the piss out of her when he collected his Oscar.
Moving on:
I knew that Blake Lively was different - but now I know how:
Even one plastic surgeon has gone on record to say he believes Gwynnie got in on the action early in her career:
And it aint just the ladeez:
On the web there are pics of Avril Lavigne, Halle Berry, Ashlee Simpson, J-Lo and many others all with before and after shots and docs explaining how the (alleged) surgery they had was good - because 'they did not take a standard, boilerplate nose and stick in on her/his face. They worked with what she/he had originally and what resulted was a refined, natural-looking nose that fits her/his face.'
Maybe these folk were advised by agents and producers to have the work done - if indeed they even have had work done (gotta cover myself I know). If that is ever the case - it is a sad old world were folk feel they need to go under the knife just to get record deals or secure film roles etc.
Now I'm off to study my own honk in the mirror - have I been going wrong all these years???
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
Chase away the greys
Oh I've been wanting to blog about so many things.... a programme on Social Workers that has haunted me, I often lie awake at night thinking about all the wee babies featured in it; a conversation with my oldest friend about seeing the difference in life between those who have been there through difficulties - and those false friends who pitch in at the last minute, in a weak attempt to ingratiate themselves, but who actually couldn't give a rat's ass about you; about the sheer joy of watching FNL on television now that it has finally made it to our shores; about how addictive Malteser bunnies are etc. etc. etc. but never seeming to get the time.
There was the week from hell that I last blogged about and then I flew to Ireland with my family for a week. It was hectic, fun, embracing, excluding, happy, sad, entertaining and all too quick. I saw dear old friends, shared rum and banter, then when the clock passed midnight we shared all the things that bring us right back to where we've always been. To unite us in our histories while we all still march forward in our different lives, in different countries, with different people.
I met up with a good friend - an old boss - a woman I admire and value, and found myself telling her all my hopes, all the plans I have been putting in place - the things I am too afraid to admit sometimes to myself, let alone others - and it was a relief. And wonderful to have someone cheer me on. I miss the craic (as wee say) in Belfast. The warmth and friendliness of the people. The amazing house I could have there if I swapped the one I am in. But my is it grey. The weather is relentless. Every day a speck of sunshine - a brief flutter across your face - and then THE GREY descends. Rain optional. There was a moment when my son was at an art class with my favourite artist, and Husband was holding The Diva Sproglette, and I was shoving coffee cake down my gullet and I felt peace. Pure joy. Cake, coffee and friendly folk. The artist's husband who runs cafe handed me one of her prints, and the moment was complete. It was still grey outside the steamed up window.
So now I am home, and the routine begins again. The order and the chaos, the mundane and the sublime. Through this sea there are days when I struggle to keep afloat. When the GREY descends, even a sunny day. But these days are less and less. They usually happen when The Diva is being beyond clingy and I have to wee with her on my lap and I dream of having some personal space - even being able to drink tea without her trying to stuff her hand into the cup. Yes, she likes tea.
Through this all, In fact through my whole life, I have always believed that one can have anything in life they desire. To quote my favourite book The Alchemist 'if you want something with all your heart, the whole universe conspires for you to achieve it.' I almost got that tattooed on me once, I believe it so strongly - but it has a lot of letters and I'm a wimp. So I'm going after that. I am asking the universe. I hope that it is listening. I'm sure I have shocked the hell out of it with some of my requests over the years. But on the whole it has conspired and I have received, with a lot of hard work and determination. You just have to believe. So in between I'm raising two kids, and staying afloat with no income. I'm eating cake and drinking wine and promising to start running soon. I'm finding a single grey hair and convincing myself it is really bleach or something, I'm feeling grateful every day for all that I have, and I'm collapsing in a heap most evenings while the bairns sleep. I'm keeping my GREY at bay. Yay.
There was the week from hell that I last blogged about and then I flew to Ireland with my family for a week. It was hectic, fun, embracing, excluding, happy, sad, entertaining and all too quick. I saw dear old friends, shared rum and banter, then when the clock passed midnight we shared all the things that bring us right back to where we've always been. To unite us in our histories while we all still march forward in our different lives, in different countries, with different people.
I met up with a good friend - an old boss - a woman I admire and value, and found myself telling her all my hopes, all the plans I have been putting in place - the things I am too afraid to admit sometimes to myself, let alone others - and it was a relief. And wonderful to have someone cheer me on. I miss the craic (as wee say) in Belfast. The warmth and friendliness of the people. The amazing house I could have there if I swapped the one I am in. But my is it grey. The weather is relentless. Every day a speck of sunshine - a brief flutter across your face - and then THE GREY descends. Rain optional. There was a moment when my son was at an art class with my favourite artist, and Husband was holding The Diva Sproglette, and I was shoving coffee cake down my gullet and I felt peace. Pure joy. Cake, coffee and friendly folk. The artist's husband who runs cafe handed me one of her prints, and the moment was complete. It was still grey outside the steamed up window.
So now I am home, and the routine begins again. The order and the chaos, the mundane and the sublime. Through this sea there are days when I struggle to keep afloat. When the GREY descends, even a sunny day. But these days are less and less. They usually happen when The Diva is being beyond clingy and I have to wee with her on my lap and I dream of having some personal space - even being able to drink tea without her trying to stuff her hand into the cup. Yes, she likes tea.
Through this all, In fact through my whole life, I have always believed that one can have anything in life they desire. To quote my favourite book The Alchemist 'if you want something with all your heart, the whole universe conspires for you to achieve it.' I almost got that tattooed on me once, I believe it so strongly - but it has a lot of letters and I'm a wimp. So I'm going after that. I am asking the universe. I hope that it is listening. I'm sure I have shocked the hell out of it with some of my requests over the years. But on the whole it has conspired and I have received, with a lot of hard work and determination. You just have to believe. So in between I'm raising two kids, and staying afloat with no income. I'm eating cake and drinking wine and promising to start running soon. I'm finding a single grey hair and convincing myself it is really bleach or something, I'm feeling grateful every day for all that I have, and I'm collapsing in a heap most evenings while the bairns sleep. I'm keeping my GREY at bay. Yay.
Tuesday, 7 February 2012
I blame the snow
The snow comes and things always get a bit worse. Along with the feverish little flakes of hell came a gastric flu that ravaged my body and caused me to spend more time close to a toilet than I have done since a vicious bout of gastroenteritis when I was 15. That also includes a trip to India. Grim didn't even cover it. I have a feeling I picked the bug up from a kid infested place that we visited on Saturday morning. It had a drop slide, bumpy slides, dodgem cars and more soft play areas that you could see. On the plus side it had comfy sink-into chairs and great coffee. If you have to be anywhere kid related on a Saturday morning at 10:30 then there are far worse places to be.
That night a friend kindly picked me up - driving an hour to get me, an hour back to his house and then the same trip the next day. I had refused to drive in snow as we all remember the great car write off in Feb '09 (shortly followed by the almost marriage write off...). I drank too much wine, ate too much and felt mighty queasy when I went to bed. But the next day I felt AWFUL. After vomiting several times, I kept thinking that 'boy, I'm getting old the hangovers are KILLING me' but when every muscle in my body ached and even my eyeballs hurt - well maybe not my eyeballs but you get the picture - I curled up in a bath and then bed. Husband was understanding. Kind of. 'You just had a night away... your turn to do bath time.'
Next day he got up with the kids - which was great as I felt worse. Head like cotton wool. Body aching. Stomach heaving. Husband left, Sproglet went to school and I took Sproglette to her first happy clappy class. It will be her last. Only three other Mothers made it through the snow - so I couldn't hide away from singing letting all others drown me out. No in the chilly hall every voice counted so I had to growl my way through songs and clap and cheer and run around with floaty scarves and catch bubbles, the whole time thinking 'I am going to shit my pants.' Not with joy. But literally.
Sproglette was a bit 'meh' about the whole thing. She wanted to eat the drumsticks rather than bang them. She wanted run around rather than sit nicely in a circle as we patted our knees and most of all she clapped at every inappropriate time. Good on her. We made it home by walking on the street - pavements impossible with all the sludge snow - and then I became best friends with the toilet. I'll spare you the details - but I think I 'detoxed' for sure.
Sproglette, not to be outdone on the toilet front produced three horrific nappies that suggested she too was sharing my bug. She slept for 2 and a half hours whilst I lay on the sofa realising that every TV movie on in an afternoon contains Steve Carell - often being not that funny. Only by about 6pm did my stomach cease it's purging. We had long gone past the 'purge even when there is nothing left there to purge' stage. I had a bath with Sproglette. Sproglet meanwhile was so engrossed in the Simpsons that he weed his pants. I was livid as he knows where the bathroom is. I threatened to write a note in his school diary to his teacher about such pant wetting - maybe he needs nappies? (as we have been here before - the kid waits until his bladder is about to explode to move his skinny ass towards porcelain). He went nuts. He said he would rip out the page so the teacher would never know and hide it. Then he declared, 'I am going to run away!' O.M.G. I remember doing exactly the same but I think I was about 8 or 9. The kid is 5 and 3/4 and he is thinking of doing a bunk.
So I did what my Mother did to me. I offered to pack his bag. I set about putting toys in his back pack and he strode downstairs and put his wellies on. Demaded his coat, swung backpack over his shoulder and marched out the front door hell bent on escape and running to... god knows where.
I let him get as far as the gate which is basically about five steps. Then I made him come back. He announced next time he would run away "in real life!" Then I snuggled him and told him I loved him and that of course we didn't want him to run away. Then I put him to bed and kissed him goodnight.
Today I awoke to the sound of the bathroom bin being shut. I immediately knew what had happened. I opened it to reveal a ripped out page of his diary. I was so angry I didn't even realise that I hadn't had to visit the bathroom all night - and therefore must be on the mend. I didn't know what to do - so I made Husband deal with it. I hadn't written to the teacher at all - he had ripped out a note I had written about wanting to see his schoolwork as I missed the child shows parent day. Bless him, full marks for calculated planning. He must have sat on his wee mission all night. I realised he was just frightened about his buddies discovering his pant wetting event so his punishment will be fair but not as harsh as initially I had suggested. His suggestion to solve this all 'build a toilet in the hall.' Our hall is an arm length wide and about 7 foot long. Not big at all. Tiny in fact.
In the midst of all this toilet trauma I have been having email discussions with a friend who is getting back with her idiot ex-boyfriend. I did a lot of home truth telling and maybe that wasn't the way to go... It is just crap to watch friends make the same mistake over and over again - should you always support them in all that they do, even though you know that what they are doing, is downright wrong???
The snow came and with it more drama than I have had in months. Thank god those icy little particles are melting away into nothingness. Soon it will be like it never happened at all.
UPDATE: Now my daughter has managed to lose a shoe - from her only pair of shoes (on Dad's watch I add) and the boiler has packed in. Can't be fixed until Friday. No heating - JOY!!!!
That night a friend kindly picked me up - driving an hour to get me, an hour back to his house and then the same trip the next day. I had refused to drive in snow as we all remember the great car write off in Feb '09 (shortly followed by the almost marriage write off...). I drank too much wine, ate too much and felt mighty queasy when I went to bed. But the next day I felt AWFUL. After vomiting several times, I kept thinking that 'boy, I'm getting old the hangovers are KILLING me' but when every muscle in my body ached and even my eyeballs hurt - well maybe not my eyeballs but you get the picture - I curled up in a bath and then bed. Husband was understanding. Kind of. 'You just had a night away... your turn to do bath time.'
Next day he got up with the kids - which was great as I felt worse. Head like cotton wool. Body aching. Stomach heaving. Husband left, Sproglet went to school and I took Sproglette to her first happy clappy class. It will be her last. Only three other Mothers made it through the snow - so I couldn't hide away from singing letting all others drown me out. No in the chilly hall every voice counted so I had to growl my way through songs and clap and cheer and run around with floaty scarves and catch bubbles, the whole time thinking 'I am going to shit my pants.' Not with joy. But literally.
Sproglette was a bit 'meh' about the whole thing. She wanted to eat the drumsticks rather than bang them. She wanted run around rather than sit nicely in a circle as we patted our knees and most of all she clapped at every inappropriate time. Good on her. We made it home by walking on the street - pavements impossible with all the sludge snow - and then I became best friends with the toilet. I'll spare you the details - but I think I 'detoxed' for sure.
Sproglette, not to be outdone on the toilet front produced three horrific nappies that suggested she too was sharing my bug. She slept for 2 and a half hours whilst I lay on the sofa realising that every TV movie on in an afternoon contains Steve Carell - often being not that funny. Only by about 6pm did my stomach cease it's purging. We had long gone past the 'purge even when there is nothing left there to purge' stage. I had a bath with Sproglette. Sproglet meanwhile was so engrossed in the Simpsons that he weed his pants. I was livid as he knows where the bathroom is. I threatened to write a note in his school diary to his teacher about such pant wetting - maybe he needs nappies? (as we have been here before - the kid waits until his bladder is about to explode to move his skinny ass towards porcelain). He went nuts. He said he would rip out the page so the teacher would never know and hide it. Then he declared, 'I am going to run away!' O.M.G. I remember doing exactly the same but I think I was about 8 or 9. The kid is 5 and 3/4 and he is thinking of doing a bunk.
So I did what my Mother did to me. I offered to pack his bag. I set about putting toys in his back pack and he strode downstairs and put his wellies on. Demaded his coat, swung backpack over his shoulder and marched out the front door hell bent on escape and running to... god knows where.
I let him get as far as the gate which is basically about five steps. Then I made him come back. He announced next time he would run away "in real life!" Then I snuggled him and told him I loved him and that of course we didn't want him to run away. Then I put him to bed and kissed him goodnight.
Today I awoke to the sound of the bathroom bin being shut. I immediately knew what had happened. I opened it to reveal a ripped out page of his diary. I was so angry I didn't even realise that I hadn't had to visit the bathroom all night - and therefore must be on the mend. I didn't know what to do - so I made Husband deal with it. I hadn't written to the teacher at all - he had ripped out a note I had written about wanting to see his schoolwork as I missed the child shows parent day. Bless him, full marks for calculated planning. He must have sat on his wee mission all night. I realised he was just frightened about his buddies discovering his pant wetting event so his punishment will be fair but not as harsh as initially I had suggested. His suggestion to solve this all 'build a toilet in the hall.' Our hall is an arm length wide and about 7 foot long. Not big at all. Tiny in fact.
In the midst of all this toilet trauma I have been having email discussions with a friend who is getting back with her idiot ex-boyfriend. I did a lot of home truth telling and maybe that wasn't the way to go... It is just crap to watch friends make the same mistake over and over again - should you always support them in all that they do, even though you know that what they are doing, is downright wrong???
The snow came and with it more drama than I have had in months. Thank god those icy little particles are melting away into nothingness. Soon it will be like it never happened at all.
UPDATE: Now my daughter has managed to lose a shoe - from her only pair of shoes (on Dad's watch I add) and the boiler has packed in. Can't be fixed until Friday. No heating - JOY!!!!
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