Monthly Archives: May 2012

My Fifteen Minutes

Just incase things weren’t random enough at the moment, I was in the local press today. This was thanks to you lovely lot nominating me for a MAD award.

Whilst this all feels very surreal, I want to thank everyone who is here after reading the article. If you want to say hi you can reach me here. If I know you then I love you. If I don’t then courtesy of the two degrees of separation that is only true in Norfolk,we probably have mutual friends. And I love you too.

If you have 30 seconds and want to vote for me to bring an award back to our fine city then I will love you even more. You can vote here and I promise you won’t be spammed with emails forever more.

If you want a nosey at some of my older posts then help yourself to my archive or looky here- an early post about postnatal depression, and another, a little about panic attacks, and another, something more positive, and to lighten the mood further – a wardrobe malfunction.

If you’re a regular reader, then you already know that I love you. And you’ve already voted for me right? Right?!

Voting closes next week and every single one really does count…Did I mention that I love you?!

Over Exposure

Because when you have a blog it’s suddenly normal to share your shame…

Jeeze it’s hot. Gloriously hot, baking hot, move half an inch and you’re pouring with sweat hot.

Just how I like it.

Unfortunately I am not blessed with a family who share my delight at bright sunshine and muscle relaxing, skin bronzing, spirit lifting warmth, oh no.

Beans compliant and easy going self melts into the hot ground and up from the pool of bubbles rises the most stroppy toddler in the whole world ever™. The husband, who is essentially a walking freckle even during the coldest of months, mumbles and frowns at the sun as he tries to scare it back behind the clouds.

I sweat, I get hot and bothered and my shoulders are tight and sore and red but I like summer. I like walking bare foot on the grass and eating ice cream all day because it’s too hot for anything else. I like the seaside and the long, balmy evenings and the smells of cut grass and BBQs and the summery summerness.

Trying to forge invent embrace a ‘new me’ * and drown out the whinges of my summer Scrooges, yesterday I did something I have not done for nearly two years. On our wedding day to be precise.

I wore a dress.

*gasp*

I live a life wrapped in skinny jeans and baggy tops because otherwise I look like a prepubescent boy from behind (and in front actually) or have to field comments about how ‘skinny’ I am.

My devotion to high heals, oh how I pine for them, had to die a death on two counts; a) the husband is the same height as me and being taller than him makes me feel huge in every way and b) I do not want to shatter every single bone in both my legs when Beans trips me up/makes a(nother) crazy bid for freedom/insists on dragging me over uneven terrain. So now I’m always in flats.

I’ve never really been a dress girl, preferring to stick to shorts as they promise to remain clung to my thighs in the face of any freak gusts of wind. Breezes that would lift an unsuspecting skirt up around my neck, probably just as a packed bus was driving past me too.

Plus, dresses have never really fitted me properly. My figures all weird you see; I have hips and a waist, although an admittedly thicker one since pregnancy stretched me out, but nothing spectacular, erm, upfront.

Curvy without the curves. So if a dress fits my teenage bosom then it cuts off the blood supply bellow my waist, if it fits beautifully from the waist down then it gapes at the front as if to say ‘why are you wearing a dress you flat chested boy?!’.

But, like I said, it’s hot, I’m embracing this new me. I think she would wear a dress and that means I have to as well. So yesterday morning I wrestled myself into a maxi dress. The maxi dress is a total cheat dress, it hangs rather than clings, disguising everything and you don’t even have to worry about finding the time to scrape at your shins with a razor because they’re cleverly hidden away under a fabulously flowing skirt. Awesome.

I make my way downstairs, feeling a bit self conscious and over dressed (my default setting when wearing anything other than jeans) but I only stumble twice before I think to grab hold of my skirt and lift it out from under my feet. This effectively saved my life.

The husband says I look beautiful. That’s nice. Then he gets that look in his eye so I throw a metaphorical bucket of water over him by asking for a lift to the supermarket. Ha.

I make it through the whole day as a real girl in my long, floaty dress and by the evening I’m actually pretty taken with it. It is comfortable, easy to run around in, keeps me cool on a scorching day and earns me plenty of attention from the (easily pleased) husband as well as doing a sterling job at hiding my bloated stomach after a huge dinner.

I can totally rock a dress I think, and all buoyed up by my new me plan success I offer to walk to the shop for treats. Off I go down the hill, all look at me wearing a dress and I never wear dresses but it’s actually ok and I quite like it and it’s nice to feel a bit pretty sometimes

I got too cocky.

Somehow my right foot hooked itself onto the hem of said dress and in trying to stop myself from kissing the pavement with some manic arm flailing (the patented method) my skirt got dragged under my foot and I righted myself to find the top half pulled down from the struggle. It took me a second to move, I must have been embracing being stood in the street with my (functional not pretty) bra on display after a particularly ungainly almost fall. Who wouldn’t want to drink that beautiful moment in?!

I yanked my dress back up and scuttled home as fast as I could with my eyes firmly on the floor and my cheeks burning while followed by the echoes of the excited giggles of ‘boobies!’ from the small group of ten year old boys who had front row seats to the idiot parade.

Unless anyone can convince me this kind of stuff could happen to anyone it may be another two years before I wear a dress again.

* My newest and frankly mildly unhealthy way of dealing with the return of anxiety and bad days is simply to have a bit of an image overhaul. The odd thing that wouldn’t usually be ‘me’ has found its way onto my floor into my wardrobe in the hope that if I look a little different I might just feel it too. Hmm.

Mix-Tape Monday – Summer Summer Summertime

Long, hot, sweaty days spent never a foot away from the paddling pool are followed by balmy, light evenings. Sunglasses still on, a cold Kopparberg next to you as you lay back on the grass and turn this up…

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Saturday is Caption Day

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Got a caption for this shot of summery fun? Stick it in the comments section and click the badge for more caption fun from Mamasaurus over on her bootiful new look blog.


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Squeal, woah and eeeeeeeee! We’ve been nominated in two categories and would love, love, love if you voted for us. Thank you x

Home Notes #6

Grey skys and upset saw in the week and we both found ourselves out of sorts. Two days were spent quietly holding each other while we got over whatever it was that had knocked us down.

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Flowers arrived on the doorstep and almost as surprisingly, the sky suddenly dripped with golden sunshine.

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Open spaces and warmth and laughter and hot cheeks brought us out of the house and out of our malaise. We made new games and played old ones with the sun on our backs, warming away our tensions and bringing us back to ourselves.

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We paddled and splashed and ran and chased. We enjoyed our first ever ice lolly, our first paddling pool (puddle) and our first picnic.

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We remembered that we’re best friends and that actually life is pretty ok sometimes.

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Dinner (with the husband)

For you *smiles* *flutters eye lashes*

Thanks…What is it?

Gammon.

Not that…this *jabs at food with fork*

Salad? *sips wine*

*jabs more forcefully at salad with raised eyebrows*

Chives?

What are they?

A herb. Tastes like very, very mild onion.

*pained look*

You’ve had it before.

*pained look*

You liked it *guzzles wine*

Where’s the ketchup?

*gives up*

Breakfast (with a toddler)

Mmmm, toast. Yum yum. Eat your toast.

Yumyum. Yeah.

Good girl. *necks back mug of tea*

Bath?

No sweetheart, toast.

Down? Bath?

Finish your toast. Yum yum.

MUM! BATH! DOWN!

*rolls eyes*

All gone mama *scrunches toast into fist and hides behind back*

Stop being silly, eat up please.

Jooooooooooose?

*necks second mug of tea* *passes milk*

*throws sippy cup on the floor* ALL GONE. BATH. DOWN. BATH. GONE. *shakes head and tuts*

*gives up*

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Fifty Shades

You know sometimes after you’ve heard people talk over and over about something your curiosity twitches restlessly and you just have to jump on the bandwagon too? You know when that bandwagon turns out to be filthy dirty and full of mysterious men with a penchant for fucking, not making love, much to the heartache of a whimpering, naive heroine?

Fifty Shades of Grey is the book that everyone has been taking about. Even the husband somehow knew it was one of those books when my nosyness got the better of me half way around Sainsburys and it found its way into the trolly, nestled between two pints of milk and a packet of baby wipes.

Fifty Shades is a whole lot of smexy rambling and very little plot so there’s actually not much I can say about it.

Instead, here is a bona fide list of fifty shades of grey. I made it especially for you. You don’t have to thank me.

  1. Old dish water wallowing in the sink
  2. The sky
  3. Those knickers that I really should throw out
  4. The white towels that the husband put in with coloureds
  5. The white clothes that the husband put in with coloureds
  6. A hangover
  7. Life
  8. The universe
  9. Everything
  10. Tom Jones
  11. That stain on the carpet
  12. The sea
  13. Hertfordshire
  14. Manhole covers
  15. The flu
  16. Sushi
  17. Space themed Lego
  18. Chewed pasta
  19. Damp newspaper
  20. Porridge
  21. Ghostly reflections
  22. Tarnished silver
  23. The car
  24. The conservative party
  25. Mother and toddler groups
  26. Hoovering
  27. Monday morning
  28. An ash tray
  29. Sunday night
  30. Old man teeth
  31. The bath
  32. Mist
  33. Pigeons
  34. The dust under the sofa
  35. Cement
  36. 3am
  37. Trackie pants
  38. Sadness
  39. Every cat in the dark
  40. The brain
  41. Morality
  42. Rain
  43. The tuft of hairs right at the front of my head
  44. Tin foil
  45. Cold pizza
  46. Mushrooms
  47. Doctors waiting rooms
  48. Old man beards
  49. Old lady beards
  50. A packed commuter carriage on a slow train

Squeal, woah and eeeeeeeee! We’ve been nominated in two categories and would love, love, love if you voted for us. Thank you x

Violent

Urges. The fuckers build and build and build until you want to scream and shout and pull at your hair. Uncomfortable in your own skin, frustrated by being stuck there unable to run away.

An itch you can’t scratch but boy, do you want to go at that thing hard and fast with fingers bent and nails scraping at skin to relieve the annoying sensation. And it feels so good when you do.

That packet of biscuits that you know you shouldn’t eat. You promised you wouldn’t. But they’re calling you from the cupboard, all crumby and sweet and delicious with biscuityness. You can’t sit still knowing that they’re there. All you can think about is the crisp rustle of the packet and the crumbs on your lips. If only you could open them. Just one won’t hurt…

Harmless, innocent things that really you can get away with. Only yourself and your lapsed conscience to do battle with.

Sod it, let’s have some biscuits.

I smoke. Smoking is bad. I hate that I started again after giving up when I was pregnant. I hate that I am addicted to something so expensive and time consuming and frankly, gross. I hate that I can’t do it where ever I like and I hate that although it ravages my skin I still get asked for ID when buying tobacco from a sales assistant at least 10 years younger than I am. When I wake up, hair matted and face pebble dashed with last night’s biscuit crumbs I need that cigarette (and a cup of tea, if you’re making) before I function. It’s a craving.

Not so harmless. But, you know, sane.

When life gets on top of you and you have the day from hell and all is bleak and no one is listening what happens when you get bad urges, harmful ones? When people are hearing but not listening, speaking but not answering, talking at you about thoughts and ideas and situations that are merely a projected, made up version loosely based on your own. What can you do?

Please. I can’t do this now. I can’t talk, I can’t explain, I can’t think.

Please.

Let me have some space. I need to calm down, to breathe. Stop.

But they carry on. It’s not their fault but they carry on. And on. And onandonandon.

Everything hurts and thoughts hurt and it just has to stop.

No you haven’t been here, you never will. But that’s good. Please don’t tell me that my thoughts and my feelings are wrong. Maybe they are. But they’re mine.

Stop. Please.

Hot tears and desperate urges for release. Cool release on hot skin. An outlet.

Frustration builds and builds as I walk from room to room but still am followed with a conversation that I really don’t want to have right now.

I’m not shirking responsibility or being selfish, it’s self-preservation. Please understand.

Please.

Urges fog my mind and it’s all I want to do. Like a reflex I want to throw my head against something hard or my skin against something sharp.

I’m ill. This is because I’m ill. This is how it is. Please. Stop.

I get angry. I break a mug and shower the room in lukewarm tea as it propels from the shattered china spinning through the air.

Silence.

I weep. I weep like my heart is breaking because my heart is breaking. And it hurts.

Squeal, woah and eeeeeeeee! We’ve been nominated in two categories and would love, love, love if you voted for us. Thank you x

Genius…Or Not

It’s 3am and quiet, dark in the bedroom when his eyes open wide and a wry smile plays at his lips. Woken with a start from a delicious dream by such an insightful and breathtakingly intelligent notion, yet again. He pushes his hair off his forehead and eagerly scrambles for the notepad and pen that he keeps by the side of his bed for such occasions. This one is gold dust, he just knows it. What a clever idea, and so well thought out too. Even though it’s taken him years to get to where he is he knew it would happen eventually, after all he is what everyone needs isn’t he? He is the beacon of light and inspiration that keeps everyone going.

He reaches over to flick on the bedside light. His wife groans and buries herself further under the duvet. He rolls his eyes and smiles at his reflection caught in the mirror as he pulls himself to sit against the luxuriously padded headboard. Not bad he thinks, smoothing his hair back once again. Not bad at all.

He flicks through the notebook fervently hunting for a blank page. This little gem deserves a page of its own he thinks, as he smiles at late night doodles and half-finished games of noughts and crosses left over from yesterday’s lunch meeting.

Prising the lid of his biro with a satisfying pop he rubs the page before carefully writing a heading and underlining it with a sure hand.

Family.

He pauses, drawing a little smiley face next to the word, buying time while he allows such a wonderful idea to wash over him. Why has no one thought of this before? These links, these analogies, they could only spring from a mind as inspired as his.

His wife rolls over and sighs, pulling him out of his reverie. Back to work.

Cars. He draws a star to act as a bullet point. Computers. He draws another.

Tomorrow he will put this plan into action, he can hardly wait. If only he could slip out of his pyjamas now – his favourite cookie monster ones, achingly clever and with a wicked sense of humour too, what a man! – and into tomorrow’s clothes, neatly laid out on the chair by the window waiting for him. But no, the office can wait. He sinks back into his pillows, relaxed and smiling to himself. You’ve done it again he thinks. This one is a good ‘un.

At 6am the room reverberates with the shrill beeps of the alarm clock. He stretches and his feet find his slippers, left by the side of the bed last night. Slowly, quietly, he opens the bedroom door and heads down the hall, tapping his notebook tenderly as it swings by his hip in the pocket of his dressing gown. No sound coming from the kids rooms yet, thank Christ. That’s the last thing he needs, thank goodness for the nannies! His excitement does not need distracting by children needing things from him.

As his descends the stairs he fires off a quick text, eager to share his idea:

WAIT TILL U HEAR THIS 1 M8, IT’S A BLINDER. LOL X

He chuckles to himself as he imagines the phone beeping with his message before his closest colleague is once again made to feel inferior by his words– he never has any ideas.

***

That’s exactly how it happened, isn’t it Dave?

Mr Cameron, you are a bellend. Your out of touch and generally rubbish ideas leave an awful lot to be desired. You’re right though, as they go, this little one is a gem.

“It’s ludicrous that we should expect people to train for hours to drive a car or use a computer, but when it comes to looking after a baby we tell people to just get on with it.”

Ah, but David, the thing with computers and cars is that they react in exactly the same predictable manner no matter who is using them and which button they push. The problem with using that as an analogy for dealing with actual real life human children is that, well, they don’t. They are an individual, as are their parents/carers and their environment andandand. To put it really simply; what works for one may not for the other. Geddit?

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Another thing to have a little think about is this – is parenting really a taught skill or is it leaned through practice and experience and knowing your child? My antenatal classes were fully booked, no one taught me how to breathe during labour, how to cradle a new born with its floppy head and teeny tiny fragileness. No one showed me how to change a nappy or bath her, all red and angry and wet and slippery and seemingly determined to dunk her smooshy new little face under the dangerous water. But I managed, I learned because I did it and we are all ok. In a few years from now she will be ready to start school; will a video I watch in a room full of other parents help me prepare her for this step? Will this advice be tailored to my child, her development and needs and personality? Didn’t think so.

Families, that’s parents and children, do need more support than they currently receive. Maybe, just maybe, it would be better to invest money into community centres or something – remember all of those Sure Start centres that had to be closed because of lack of funding? Like those.

Perhaps parents and their little darlings alike would learn more from a place that was open several times a week, free to attend and that provided fun for children and support for their frazzled parents. An informal and relaxed place where we can take our children, giving us the lifeline of contact with other parents and their offspring allowing us to discuss worries and hopes and fears and nappy contents (because we do) with other people who are going through exactly the same thing. If you’re feeling generous you could even staff these places with someone trained in child health or childcare or simply qualified to answer questions that may crop up.

Wouldn’t that be better?

Squeal, woah and eeeeeeeee! We’ve been nominated in two categories and would love, love, love if you voted for us. Thank you x