So I had my 20 week scan today and boy did I do some serious buttering up. The poor lady sonographer was powerless against my onslaught of chat and jokes and general banter. Somehow our wedding came up - oh yes, because the baby moved around so much it was impossible to get a good photo of it - I said it was like it's Father - who on our wedding day managed to be in a whole 4 pics of us together. This tickled her.
We checked the baby's brain and heart and legs and arms and face and hands and feet and bum and my eyes were peeled for a penis. I was sure it was a boy and I just wanted confirmation. At one point I was sure I saw a set of balls... The lady wasn't for telling - but right at the end, when she had done all her measuring I said, 'I know you can't tell us, but have you any idea,' and she replied 'I don't know for sure but i think it's a girl.'
Husband swore and then quickly countered this by saying 'oh no, another CM' - but he was grinning from ear to ear. He is a tad concerned how he is going to deal with female nappies as for him wee girls are meant to be all sugar and spice and no wind or poo or stuff. I just was in shock. I had so wanted a girl the first time round I wouldn't even consider the fact it was a boy - and when Sproglet was whipped out of me I lay in shock to know I had a boy. This time round I was so sure I was having another boy, and it really didn't matter as long as the wee one was healthy - but I am kind of bowled over that it is a girl. That I'll raise one of each. I hope to god I don't re-create my Mum and I all over again. Maybe this will help heal me. God, she'll be the apple of her Daddy's eye I just know it. I love Sproglet so much and he is so beautiful and big eyed and sweet and such a lovely kid that I cannot imagine something else being so amazing. But she will be. Wow - a she. I am delighted and a tad nervous and trying to imagine my life with a girl in it - as I am so in the boy zone these days. But most of all I am just grateful - that she is healthy and well and we are so blessed.
Now to deal with Sproglet who only wants a boy... and wants his brother badly. EEK!
Thursday, 22 July 2010
Monday, 19 July 2010
TAXI for Crummy Mummy - make it quick.
God I just can't go on like this. I'm not even hand to mouth, its stealing from Peter to pay Paul and then Pedro turns up hand outstretched too.
I weep as I type. Today the tears just keep a comin.
I feel so trapped and frustrated and I want a way out - christ I need a way out. Yet all of this is my own making. Where I am, here, right now, I brought it all upon myself.
Here I sit, 5 months pregnant and utterly broke. I have nothing. I can't even afford a coffee. Or a paper. Husband and I fight over money all the time. My day: get up, take Sproglet to school, write, hang out washes, Husband up late after bed at 4am- tired and grumpy - I tell him that X has had a baby and we need to get a gift and that Y's son was two yesterday and we need to get a gift and oh, the phonebill is in and I need maternity bras and then he gets all annoyed and angry and pissed off that he works so hard and we have nothing. Asking him for money is humiliating and upsetting and fucking hideous. Then I cry and he gets all soothing and kisses my cheek and tells me it will all be ok, but it isn't ok, it is far from ok.
Our tenants thankfully want to stay on for another year - or at least until April when they will get married. At the moment, their rent covers the mortgage there and my part of the mortgage in our house - just. To sell up now would be insane. Anyway, they'll probably move out May next year and the 8 year old carpets and marked walls (haven't had a proper paint since 2003) need replaced/painted in order to spruce it up to attract new tenants. The whole thing will cost about 2K. I remembered I get maternity pay come Dec - and realised if I saved all of it then it would cover this. I told Husband - pleased as punch that I have a solution. He thinks I am mad. He is like 'we are struggling to get by and you want to buy carpets?' But in my head it is a necessary purchase to keep the whole rental thing going. Anyway, how boring is this? Christ I'd rather watch paint dry in the flat than read the crap I'm writing...
I have thought of every way possible to cut back - I buy maternity clothes on ebay. I make cheap dishes and work out every meal every day so I never waste anything. I don't go out. I make do with products I have, cheap shampoo etc. Goodbye small luxuries. I need a fucking a job. But how the hell am I going to get that 5 months gone and with a child to pick up every day at 6pm at the latest? That means leaving London at 4:30pm. Do you Mr employer person want to employ the tired pregnant lady who can only get to work at 9:45am and has to leave at 4:30pm, or the hot 25 year old who can work for 10p and will stay until midnight, in these recession driven times when there are a million folk looking for work in telly?'
Baby no 2 comes in Dec. I know that when I had Sproglet I only had 3 months money saved and so had to lose weight, find an on-screen job and conquer motherhood in 12 weeks. Which I add, I did. I did screen tests wearing maternity pads and pregnancy jeans. So it can be done. But at least in those days there were crap quiz channels to present on. Now there aint - and frankly the TV execs aren't going to be crying out for post partum ladies over 35 to grace the screen that puts 10 pounds on you anyway.
I never knew it would be so so hard. Every day brings something new we need - Sproglet shoes, whatever - and in the past I just bought it. I was working - not for a great wage - but at least I had one. Now I feel the fear in my stomach, the embarrassment that for all my hard work, my glam tv career, what do I have to show for it now? While all my friends are comfortable (some have wealthy parents footing their school fee bills, or paying for them to go on hols etc - my parents haven't two notes to rub together) here I am scratching around my bag for coppers. I HATE THIS SO MUCH.
What scares me more is that I don't know how to get out of it. Here I am again, post presenting career, now in post script ed career thinking - why do I pick these fucking creative jobs that are impossible to sustain???? Why didn't I love numbers and become a fucking accountant? Come Jan, with now 2 kids in tow, how am I going to get a job that makes it worth leaving them and covers child care?
Last week I felt I could climb mountains, this week I feel a weepy fucking failure. I'm bright, I'm a good person, I'm not materialistic, I am a team player, I work hard - why am I here? I blame myself. My stupid dreams and the reality of working motherhood. I've got to stop typing before I embarrass myself further. Anyway, my tissue is all soggy and my nose looks like Rudolph. I look around me and wonder how everyone else does it? How can I start again at 37, plus a 37 year old Mother at that. Normally I'm full of fire in my belly and hope in my heart and now... I just want to give up.
I weep as I type. Today the tears just keep a comin.
I feel so trapped and frustrated and I want a way out - christ I need a way out. Yet all of this is my own making. Where I am, here, right now, I brought it all upon myself.
Here I sit, 5 months pregnant and utterly broke. I have nothing. I can't even afford a coffee. Or a paper. Husband and I fight over money all the time. My day: get up, take Sproglet to school, write, hang out washes, Husband up late after bed at 4am- tired and grumpy - I tell him that X has had a baby and we need to get a gift and that Y's son was two yesterday and we need to get a gift and oh, the phonebill is in and I need maternity bras and then he gets all annoyed and angry and pissed off that he works so hard and we have nothing. Asking him for money is humiliating and upsetting and fucking hideous. Then I cry and he gets all soothing and kisses my cheek and tells me it will all be ok, but it isn't ok, it is far from ok.
Our tenants thankfully want to stay on for another year - or at least until April when they will get married. At the moment, their rent covers the mortgage there and my part of the mortgage in our house - just. To sell up now would be insane. Anyway, they'll probably move out May next year and the 8 year old carpets and marked walls (haven't had a proper paint since 2003) need replaced/painted in order to spruce it up to attract new tenants. The whole thing will cost about 2K. I remembered I get maternity pay come Dec - and realised if I saved all of it then it would cover this. I told Husband - pleased as punch that I have a solution. He thinks I am mad. He is like 'we are struggling to get by and you want to buy carpets?' But in my head it is a necessary purchase to keep the whole rental thing going. Anyway, how boring is this? Christ I'd rather watch paint dry in the flat than read the crap I'm writing...
I have thought of every way possible to cut back - I buy maternity clothes on ebay. I make cheap dishes and work out every meal every day so I never waste anything. I don't go out. I make do with products I have, cheap shampoo etc. Goodbye small luxuries. I need a fucking a job. But how the hell am I going to get that 5 months gone and with a child to pick up every day at 6pm at the latest? That means leaving London at 4:30pm. Do you Mr employer person want to employ the tired pregnant lady who can only get to work at 9:45am and has to leave at 4:30pm, or the hot 25 year old who can work for 10p and will stay until midnight, in these recession driven times when there are a million folk looking for work in telly?'
Baby no 2 comes in Dec. I know that when I had Sproglet I only had 3 months money saved and so had to lose weight, find an on-screen job and conquer motherhood in 12 weeks. Which I add, I did. I did screen tests wearing maternity pads and pregnancy jeans. So it can be done. But at least in those days there were crap quiz channels to present on. Now there aint - and frankly the TV execs aren't going to be crying out for post partum ladies over 35 to grace the screen that puts 10 pounds on you anyway.
I never knew it would be so so hard. Every day brings something new we need - Sproglet shoes, whatever - and in the past I just bought it. I was working - not for a great wage - but at least I had one. Now I feel the fear in my stomach, the embarrassment that for all my hard work, my glam tv career, what do I have to show for it now? While all my friends are comfortable (some have wealthy parents footing their school fee bills, or paying for them to go on hols etc - my parents haven't two notes to rub together) here I am scratching around my bag for coppers. I HATE THIS SO MUCH.
What scares me more is that I don't know how to get out of it. Here I am again, post presenting career, now in post script ed career thinking - why do I pick these fucking creative jobs that are impossible to sustain???? Why didn't I love numbers and become a fucking accountant? Come Jan, with now 2 kids in tow, how am I going to get a job that makes it worth leaving them and covers child care?
Last week I felt I could climb mountains, this week I feel a weepy fucking failure. I'm bright, I'm a good person, I'm not materialistic, I am a team player, I work hard - why am I here? I blame myself. My stupid dreams and the reality of working motherhood. I've got to stop typing before I embarrass myself further. Anyway, my tissue is all soggy and my nose looks like Rudolph. I look around me and wonder how everyone else does it? How can I start again at 37, plus a 37 year old Mother at that. Normally I'm full of fire in my belly and hope in my heart and now... I just want to give up.
Monday, 12 July 2010
Lucky
Lately with all my pregnancy hormones raging around my body (and let's face it, having a good old Irish temper in my bones) I've become a bit of a grouch. But today, I just had a word with my myself.
You see I took Sproglet to the dentist for the first time. I hadn't been in quite a while and managed to secure a NHS dentist in the neighbouring town for us both - a bonus because under the NHS I don't pay, being preggers and Sproglet doesn't pay cos he is under 18. I always find driving somewhere new a tad stressful, what with my driving skills being well... in saying that they aint the best is being kind. Where to park? Do you have to pay? What if I don't have change? Blah blah...
I had to stop a total of 4 people to find A. Where the dentist was, B. Where to park, C. How to get in to said carpark and D. Whether or not you needed a ticket/had to pay. Awful complicated stuff when the clock is a ticking - appoitment being at 4pm on the dot. Sproglet seemed excited about the whole adventure - why would someone want to see his pearly whites he asked? They just look at your teeth, yes, but why?? The dentist was pretty and petite and chatty and super lovely. I told her I always relaxed more at smear tests when the nurse was full of chat and she took it well that I was comparing her to gynaecological experiences. I was a bit nervous: how to mind Sproglet whilst I was getting my mouth peered into and a bright light shone in my face? What if he refused to open his little gob?
Turns out I needed a filling - but not a big enough one to warrant a blissful feel nothing injection - 'you might feel a twinge' she warned. I did. Feel more than twinge. A nerve practically danced on the ceiling. Anyway, Sproglet was AMAZING. He sat like an angel on a blue stool while I was prodded and then jumped up on the dentist's chair as if it was a fun ride. When it went back he beamed. He opened his wee mouth as wide as he could and lay completely still as the dentist counted and checked his wee teeth. 'Perfect' she declared and he grinned from ear to ear. She complimented his brushing skills (and mine) and he hopped off the chair in under 2 mins. Then bless him, he held my hand as the nasty drill drilled away my decay and I squeezed it as hard as I could without scaring the child.
We left with springs in our steps. Just in time as the meter ran out on our one-hour-free ticket. I could have smothered him in kisses I was that proud of him. I felt completely blessed to have such a happy, good kid. I realised that so often on this blog I'm moaning about this and that, the angst and guilt of Motherhood, the stress, the relentlessness etc. But I'm just so lucky. I'm so lucky to have him in my life, making me appreciate the small stuff. I'm so lucky to be having another baby and for being so blessed by getting pregnant so quickly both times. I am truly lucky. In my book I've got a character who has unexplained infertility and whilst researching this I interviewed a few people and their stories really moved me - in their passion, courage and hope - against the odds. It just seemed so unfair why some folk have problems and others not. The life lottery...
Today reminded me it is a great gift to Mother this little boy - to watch him absorb the world, see new things, experience firsts all the time. I need to remember this when he won't eat his greens, or he wakes at 6:30 am or he has a meltdown because it isn't time for sweet treats at breakfast. I need to remember this when I have my meltdowns, when I feel lonely or bored or frustrated. I found a necklace at the bottom of my mirrored jewellery box at the weekend. A cheapie fake gold thing from Accessorize. It says in swirled loopy writing : Lucky. I've been wearing it every day since, because I am.
You see I took Sproglet to the dentist for the first time. I hadn't been in quite a while and managed to secure a NHS dentist in the neighbouring town for us both - a bonus because under the NHS I don't pay, being preggers and Sproglet doesn't pay cos he is under 18. I always find driving somewhere new a tad stressful, what with my driving skills being well... in saying that they aint the best is being kind. Where to park? Do you have to pay? What if I don't have change? Blah blah...
I had to stop a total of 4 people to find A. Where the dentist was, B. Where to park, C. How to get in to said carpark and D. Whether or not you needed a ticket/had to pay. Awful complicated stuff when the clock is a ticking - appoitment being at 4pm on the dot. Sproglet seemed excited about the whole adventure - why would someone want to see his pearly whites he asked? They just look at your teeth, yes, but why?? The dentist was pretty and petite and chatty and super lovely. I told her I always relaxed more at smear tests when the nurse was full of chat and she took it well that I was comparing her to gynaecological experiences. I was a bit nervous: how to mind Sproglet whilst I was getting my mouth peered into and a bright light shone in my face? What if he refused to open his little gob?
Turns out I needed a filling - but not a big enough one to warrant a blissful feel nothing injection - 'you might feel a twinge' she warned. I did. Feel more than twinge. A nerve practically danced on the ceiling. Anyway, Sproglet was AMAZING. He sat like an angel on a blue stool while I was prodded and then jumped up on the dentist's chair as if it was a fun ride. When it went back he beamed. He opened his wee mouth as wide as he could and lay completely still as the dentist counted and checked his wee teeth. 'Perfect' she declared and he grinned from ear to ear. She complimented his brushing skills (and mine) and he hopped off the chair in under 2 mins. Then bless him, he held my hand as the nasty drill drilled away my decay and I squeezed it as hard as I could without scaring the child.
We left with springs in our steps. Just in time as the meter ran out on our one-hour-free ticket. I could have smothered him in kisses I was that proud of him. I felt completely blessed to have such a happy, good kid. I realised that so often on this blog I'm moaning about this and that, the angst and guilt of Motherhood, the stress, the relentlessness etc. But I'm just so lucky. I'm so lucky to have him in my life, making me appreciate the small stuff. I'm so lucky to be having another baby and for being so blessed by getting pregnant so quickly both times. I am truly lucky. In my book I've got a character who has unexplained infertility and whilst researching this I interviewed a few people and their stories really moved me - in their passion, courage and hope - against the odds. It just seemed so unfair why some folk have problems and others not. The life lottery...
Today reminded me it is a great gift to Mother this little boy - to watch him absorb the world, see new things, experience firsts all the time. I need to remember this when he won't eat his greens, or he wakes at 6:30 am or he has a meltdown because it isn't time for sweet treats at breakfast. I need to remember this when I have my meltdowns, when I feel lonely or bored or frustrated. I found a necklace at the bottom of my mirrored jewellery box at the weekend. A cheapie fake gold thing from Accessorize. It says in swirled loopy writing : Lucky. I've been wearing it every day since, because I am.
Friday, 9 July 2010
To find out or not to find out?
Two posts in one day... I know.
Thing is, I've myself a quandary on my mind. And you know me, a quandary shared is a quandary halved... So... On July 22nd I have my second scan. The 20+ weeks check that all is cooking nicely with the wee one. When I had this scan with Sproglet I chose not to find out what sex the baby was. Husband however did decide to find out - so he knew and I didn't. Weird, but that's us. We're a bit contrary.
Husband kept screwing up with both sexes - saying 'for him' or 'she'll love it' so I never knew the real one. For my part, I convinced myself it was a girl and so I didn't want to know anything different. Girls you see, I get. I am one. Boys were a whole different world: arcs of wee, football, dirt, rough and tumble. A strange land of one thought, one action and an ability to eat like locusts and remain stick thin. I got a friend's Husband who was in the police to grill Husband and he returned with the verdict: girl. My breast pain - not unlike being soldered by a blacksmith's iron I warrant - coupled with raging heartburn meant my acupuncturist thought 'girl' too. But my straight out bump, lack of sickness and glossy thick hair were all telling the true story...
As I lay on the slab mid section - I was stunned to hear that I had a brand new baby boy. It honestly took the rest of the day for it to sink in that I had a boy, and that yes, I could cope. Now I have embraced the wonders of boys and am truly in the boy-zone. My son amazes and inspires me daily. He is just so damn cute. I want another one of him if I'm honest.
Which brings me to to the 22nd. Now the hospital I will be going to, doesn't reveal the sex, so my quandary may well cease to exist. But thing is, we could go privately and find out. But do I want to know? In my heart I think it is a boy. Keeping me in my boy zone. Not that girl wouldn't be amazing too. This time I round, I genuinely don't care, I just feel blessed to be having a baby. Do I just wait and see? Do I find out but not tell anyone I (we including Husband obv) know - or even that I have been to find out in the first place, because people then just hound you to know...
What to do?
Thing is, I've myself a quandary on my mind. And you know me, a quandary shared is a quandary halved... So... On July 22nd I have my second scan. The 20+ weeks check that all is cooking nicely with the wee one. When I had this scan with Sproglet I chose not to find out what sex the baby was. Husband however did decide to find out - so he knew and I didn't. Weird, but that's us. We're a bit contrary.
Husband kept screwing up with both sexes - saying 'for him' or 'she'll love it' so I never knew the real one. For my part, I convinced myself it was a girl and so I didn't want to know anything different. Girls you see, I get. I am one. Boys were a whole different world: arcs of wee, football, dirt, rough and tumble. A strange land of one thought, one action and an ability to eat like locusts and remain stick thin. I got a friend's Husband who was in the police to grill Husband and he returned with the verdict: girl. My breast pain - not unlike being soldered by a blacksmith's iron I warrant - coupled with raging heartburn meant my acupuncturist thought 'girl' too. But my straight out bump, lack of sickness and glossy thick hair were all telling the true story...
As I lay on the slab mid section - I was stunned to hear that I had a brand new baby boy. It honestly took the rest of the day for it to sink in that I had a boy, and that yes, I could cope. Now I have embraced the wonders of boys and am truly in the boy-zone. My son amazes and inspires me daily. He is just so damn cute. I want another one of him if I'm honest.
Which brings me to to the 22nd. Now the hospital I will be going to, doesn't reveal the sex, so my quandary may well cease to exist. But thing is, we could go privately and find out. But do I want to know? In my heart I think it is a boy. Keeping me in my boy zone. Not that girl wouldn't be amazing too. This time I round, I genuinely don't care, I just feel blessed to be having a baby. Do I just wait and see? Do I find out but not tell anyone I (we including Husband obv) know - or even that I have been to find out in the first place, because people then just hound you to know...
What to do?
ARGGGGHHH GRRRRRRRRRR
GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.
Woe betide anyone who crosses my path at the moment - I'm just a ball of pulsating rage. What is this? PMT in pregnancy, does it even exist?? A friend told me this week (yes, I got out and met someone for dinner, it was fabulous. She looked amazing - all fashiony London and I looked like a middle aged heffer in a sweaty black T with maternity jeans that kept falling down. Classy. But we had great sushi and for a moment it felt like I was back in my hay day, except while she necked champers I necked... water. Oh how times change...) that she got a huge burst of testosterone during pregnancy - due to the fact she was having a boy - or something like that.
I must be gestating an Alpha fecking male because I feel on the verge of my temper exploding 24/7. It is 9:11am and already I feel annoyed about 4 different things: the cleaner using masses of kitchen towel instead of cloths to clean everything - works out pretty expensive; a very late email reply from a good friend who seems completely self absorbed in a way they never were before - maybe I am just being uncharitable; my Husband, well for breathing and doing not much else but bemoan the fact all I do is ask for money (mate it aint no picnic being the asker I assure you - I would rather die than be a 'kept wife' - I am used to having my own cash and to not have it is humiliating); neighbour - because I seem to have collected the kids more times this week than it should be... (I am petty, yes, I never said I wasn't. You want to make something of it eh? EH??); and the one that threatens to tip me over the edge: a shop I bought maternity trousers in yesterday charged me £14:99 when in fact they were in the sale for £7 and now I have to drag my ass back there for the refund, for THEIR mistake. ARGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
Nothing major as you can see. Nothing worthy of such red mist. Mildly irritating at best. For a NORMAL person. Yet, man, I could go to war for this stuff. Live or die by it. I mean what is that about? I swung by my old agent yesterday - great to see him. I was kinda hoping he was going to magic work out of the sky for me, so as I could get out of this scraping the bottom of my bag to buy a pint of milk life that seems to have enveloped me. But there is nothing I am needed for at present. The teaching work appears to have dried up and oh my god I need it to get wet again... How did I not realise that not working and our household losing a salary would have such a profound effect?? I must have been mad.
Which brings me back to being mad - angry mad that is. If you see a looks-7-months-but-is-infact-4 months pregnant blonde woman in fetching new maternity leggings and a stripy top (that perhaps isn't the best design considering her current shape) storming down a street in a leafy village outside London, cross the road for the love of god. Please tell me I am not alone, that there are some days you could just cheerfully go medieval and feel utterly absolved of guilt? No, well you are much better person than me then.
I am deep breathing.... And so begins my count to ten: 1....2....3....4....5.... Think it is time for some acupuncture...
Woe betide anyone who crosses my path at the moment - I'm just a ball of pulsating rage. What is this? PMT in pregnancy, does it even exist?? A friend told me this week (yes, I got out and met someone for dinner, it was fabulous. She looked amazing - all fashiony London and I looked like a middle aged heffer in a sweaty black T with maternity jeans that kept falling down. Classy. But we had great sushi and for a moment it felt like I was back in my hay day, except while she necked champers I necked... water. Oh how times change...) that she got a huge burst of testosterone during pregnancy - due to the fact she was having a boy - or something like that.
I must be gestating an Alpha fecking male because I feel on the verge of my temper exploding 24/7. It is 9:11am and already I feel annoyed about 4 different things: the cleaner using masses of kitchen towel instead of cloths to clean everything - works out pretty expensive; a very late email reply from a good friend who seems completely self absorbed in a way they never were before - maybe I am just being uncharitable; my Husband, well for breathing and doing not much else but bemoan the fact all I do is ask for money (mate it aint no picnic being the asker I assure you - I would rather die than be a 'kept wife' - I am used to having my own cash and to not have it is humiliating); neighbour - because I seem to have collected the kids more times this week than it should be... (I am petty, yes, I never said I wasn't. You want to make something of it eh? EH??); and the one that threatens to tip me over the edge: a shop I bought maternity trousers in yesterday charged me £14:99 when in fact they were in the sale for £7 and now I have to drag my ass back there for the refund, for THEIR mistake. ARGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
Nothing major as you can see. Nothing worthy of such red mist. Mildly irritating at best. For a NORMAL person. Yet, man, I could go to war for this stuff. Live or die by it. I mean what is that about? I swung by my old agent yesterday - great to see him. I was kinda hoping he was going to magic work out of the sky for me, so as I could get out of this scraping the bottom of my bag to buy a pint of milk life that seems to have enveloped me. But there is nothing I am needed for at present. The teaching work appears to have dried up and oh my god I need it to get wet again... How did I not realise that not working and our household losing a salary would have such a profound effect?? I must have been mad.
Which brings me back to being mad - angry mad that is. If you see a looks-7-months-but-is-infact-4 months pregnant blonde woman in fetching new maternity leggings and a stripy top (that perhaps isn't the best design considering her current shape) storming down a street in a leafy village outside London, cross the road for the love of god. Please tell me I am not alone, that there are some days you could just cheerfully go medieval and feel utterly absolved of guilt? No, well you are much better person than me then.
I am deep breathing.... And so begins my count to ten: 1....2....3....4....5.... Think it is time for some acupuncture...
Monday, 5 July 2010
De-cluttering part 2.
It only took 2 minutes. 2 whole minutes to skim through my facebook list of 'friends' and debate 'do I ever want to see this person again?' No? Ok - delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. Easy peasy. 100 gone in 2 mins. Try it - it is amazing how many folk you don't care about, even if they were lovely to you back in 1986 at a festival.
But somehow it wasn't enough. I still felt the political pull of 'can I really delete my Husband's cousin even though we have never met and are never likely to meet? What about my cousin's cousins? If I see them at a wedding in 5 years will they remember I de-friended them and ignore me as the bride and groom cut the cake??' Plus, I'd had to log on to cull and that brought me to my home page filled with endless baby pics and people showing off how fabulous their lives are. A bit of sick crawled into my mouth and I thought - enough. So I de-activated my account. It felt liberating.
Meanwhile one of my recent posts about said cull brought a few folk out of the woodwork - the 'we must meet' texters who never follow through. One emailed me - someone I haven't seen in over 6 years or in fact been proper buddies with since 1996. I was kinda surprised, even though this person had asked to be my facebook mate (everyone does though so it kind of means nothing) and had traded a few facebook messages here and there.
Anyway, the email was nice and I can never not reply, so I did. They emailed again and then suggested that we meet up. Which was kinda odd. Why now? We lost touch a long time ago, amidst some weirdness involving a love triangle (I wasn't one of the corners) between friends and the last time we had a proper conversation at a TV wrap party this person had waltzed off during what I considered to be a meaningful discussion where old grievances were being buried. So why trawl over old ground? I remember once that a sour Comedian I once dated told me that at a party his mate said 'there is this great mate of mine, you have to meet him' and Comedian replied 'thanks but I've got enough friends. If one dies I'll get back to you.' I thought at the time - what a cock, but now I kind of get it. You get to a stage in life where you have your buddies of old and friendship is such an investment of time, it really takes someone amazing for you to welcome them into your life. Comedian was a cock by the way - a misogynist one to boot.
Anyway, I digress. This email person has a good heart and was always a laid back affable sort, and feeling like it would look really bad to say 'no, let's not meet' I said ok - even thought it is hard for me to ever get the hell out with Husband's job and Sproglet.
They never replied!!
Which is fine - but why ask to meet up in the first place? Possibly they were under the influence and had a small moment of whiskey flavoured nostalgia or maybe they just wondered if I would jump at the bait. Who knows. But people are strange aren't they? Christ, am I - the social animal, the talk a glass eye to sleep, the share my life story with checkout girl, becoming a fucking hermit?
I think with all my house de-junking that it was only a matter of time before I started life-dejunking. I cannot recommend it highly enough. Forget the politics - cull I say, cull and watch your life feel infinitely richer as a result.
But somehow it wasn't enough. I still felt the political pull of 'can I really delete my Husband's cousin even though we have never met and are never likely to meet? What about my cousin's cousins? If I see them at a wedding in 5 years will they remember I de-friended them and ignore me as the bride and groom cut the cake??' Plus, I'd had to log on to cull and that brought me to my home page filled with endless baby pics and people showing off how fabulous their lives are. A bit of sick crawled into my mouth and I thought - enough. So I de-activated my account. It felt liberating.
Meanwhile one of my recent posts about said cull brought a few folk out of the woodwork - the 'we must meet' texters who never follow through. One emailed me - someone I haven't seen in over 6 years or in fact been proper buddies with since 1996. I was kinda surprised, even though this person had asked to be my facebook mate (everyone does though so it kind of means nothing) and had traded a few facebook messages here and there.
Anyway, the email was nice and I can never not reply, so I did. They emailed again and then suggested that we meet up. Which was kinda odd. Why now? We lost touch a long time ago, amidst some weirdness involving a love triangle (I wasn't one of the corners) between friends and the last time we had a proper conversation at a TV wrap party this person had waltzed off during what I considered to be a meaningful discussion where old grievances were being buried. So why trawl over old ground? I remember once that a sour Comedian I once dated told me that at a party his mate said 'there is this great mate of mine, you have to meet him' and Comedian replied 'thanks but I've got enough friends. If one dies I'll get back to you.' I thought at the time - what a cock, but now I kind of get it. You get to a stage in life where you have your buddies of old and friendship is such an investment of time, it really takes someone amazing for you to welcome them into your life. Comedian was a cock by the way - a misogynist one to boot.
Anyway, I digress. This email person has a good heart and was always a laid back affable sort, and feeling like it would look really bad to say 'no, let's not meet' I said ok - even thought it is hard for me to ever get the hell out with Husband's job and Sproglet.
They never replied!!
Which is fine - but why ask to meet up in the first place? Possibly they were under the influence and had a small moment of whiskey flavoured nostalgia or maybe they just wondered if I would jump at the bait. Who knows. But people are strange aren't they? Christ, am I - the social animal, the talk a glass eye to sleep, the share my life story with checkout girl, becoming a fucking hermit?
I think with all my house de-junking that it was only a matter of time before I started life-dejunking. I cannot recommend it highly enough. Forget the politics - cull I say, cull and watch your life feel infinitely richer as a result.
Friday, 2 July 2010
It's getting weird....
When I started to blog I did it for two reasons: 1. I need to vent. I've written diaries my whole life (god they are beyond embarrassing, but I kinda like that - it's good to remind myself that at some point in my life all I cared about was getting my period for the first time and if I made a boy's 'top 10' list). 2. Because I thought it would be good to reach out to like minded souls and say - 'Hey, I'm having a tough/fun/cool/hideous/abnormal time - how 'bout you?' I wanted to debunk the heinous myth about Motherhood - that we should all have lives like a White Company advert and find people who related to this. I found Motherhood so overwhelming and tough - I still do, which is why I started blogging after my kid was born. Plus I was inspired by THE GIRL WHO, and her amazing, honest, smart, likable blog (check her out: www.thegirlwho.net) - I can't do that jazzy thing of adding the link so you just click it and you're there. Wish I was better at technology, I really do.
Anyhow, I picked a pseudonym because my reckoning was - those I admitted to that the blog was mine, are my mates and I would tell them this stuff anyway. Those that read it not knowing who I am, well, they are strangers, so what does it matter. It never really occurred to me that folk who know but don't like me would get their mitts on it.
That is until two things happened:
1. Someone left an anonymous comment saying that they enjoyed the blog, knew who I really was and now liked me better because of it. Implying that they hadn't liked me much beforehand. Which is cool - as I can't be everyone's favourite flavour and hey, there are plenty of folk I aint keen on myself. But it felt a tad weird if I'm honest - someone knows all about my life, someone I haven't chosen to let in on my life in the flesh, someone who didn't fess up to who they were either....
2. I spoke to a good friend on the phone on Sunday night and she told me about someone I really don't like, who apparently loves my blog. Which is flattering - and hey, the whole purpose I did this in the first place (for people to enjoy it and relate to it) - but all of a sudden it felt as if it had fallen into 'the wrong hands' if you know what I mean. Will this person rub their hands in glee at my misfortunes? Enjoy my struggles and heartbreaks? Then I thought - maybe I won't write about that stuff anymore, maybe I'll just sing along like I have the best freakin' life in the world... But I can't do that. And I won't. Because my blog is for me most of all - to unload, to feel relieved, to try and make sense myself of all the things that hurt and confuse me along the bumpy way.
I stewed over this a fair bit and I've come to the conclusion that by writing this blog in the first place things like this were bound to happen. And my life - no matter how shared out to the masses - is still only what I want to share. And so what if folk from my past know that life aint exactly perfect at times for me - is their life so perfect? I like the freedom of wearing my heart on my sleeve - I do this in the flesh as well as online. It means what you see is what you get and I don't have pretend to be anything - which is liberating. Most of the time it draws folk to me - and that is such a bonus (especially for me, the freak who hates to be alone).
So welcome to all of you who know what I look like, or don't, those who have hated me since first form or Uni or some shit job I had in telly in 1997, or those who have loved (tolerated) me since I was 7 and we first met at school. To all those that read it, I thank you, for taking the time out to enjoy my journey along the way. Long may it last.
Anyhow, I picked a pseudonym because my reckoning was - those I admitted to that the blog was mine, are my mates and I would tell them this stuff anyway. Those that read it not knowing who I am, well, they are strangers, so what does it matter. It never really occurred to me that folk who know but don't like me would get their mitts on it.
That is until two things happened:
1. Someone left an anonymous comment saying that they enjoyed the blog, knew who I really was and now liked me better because of it. Implying that they hadn't liked me much beforehand. Which is cool - as I can't be everyone's favourite flavour and hey, there are plenty of folk I aint keen on myself. But it felt a tad weird if I'm honest - someone knows all about my life, someone I haven't chosen to let in on my life in the flesh, someone who didn't fess up to who they were either....
2. I spoke to a good friend on the phone on Sunday night and she told me about someone I really don't like, who apparently loves my blog. Which is flattering - and hey, the whole purpose I did this in the first place (for people to enjoy it and relate to it) - but all of a sudden it felt as if it had fallen into 'the wrong hands' if you know what I mean. Will this person rub their hands in glee at my misfortunes? Enjoy my struggles and heartbreaks? Then I thought - maybe I won't write about that stuff anymore, maybe I'll just sing along like I have the best freakin' life in the world... But I can't do that. And I won't. Because my blog is for me most of all - to unload, to feel relieved, to try and make sense myself of all the things that hurt and confuse me along the bumpy way.
I stewed over this a fair bit and I've come to the conclusion that by writing this blog in the first place things like this were bound to happen. And my life - no matter how shared out to the masses - is still only what I want to share. And so what if folk from my past know that life aint exactly perfect at times for me - is their life so perfect? I like the freedom of wearing my heart on my sleeve - I do this in the flesh as well as online. It means what you see is what you get and I don't have pretend to be anything - which is liberating. Most of the time it draws folk to me - and that is such a bonus (especially for me, the freak who hates to be alone).
So welcome to all of you who know what I look like, or don't, those who have hated me since first form or Uni or some shit job I had in telly in 1997, or those who have loved (tolerated) me since I was 7 and we first met at school. To all those that read it, I thank you, for taking the time out to enjoy my journey along the way. Long may it last.
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