Sticks and Stones and Dial Tones.

It's been an awful morning. Really awful. 

I'd had a string of confident days where I almost felt like I knew what I was doing, and in the bliss of those successes, I let loose my grip on the knowledge that they too must come to an end, there are always hard days on the horizon. 

I forgot to breathe in and out when DS refused to sit in the buggy on the way to nursery, even as he tripped over and over and complained of needing a rest every few feet. 

I did not count to ten as he fought, screamed and wrestled against me eventually putting him in the buggy mid journey.

I certainly neglected to recite a calming mantra as I watched him take off running into the lobby and down the hall of his nursery: squarely the opposite direction of where he was meant to be going. 

I was a gentle parent failure this morning. I forgot about how easy it is to feel failure and turn it into shame and frustration. 

This is why Mama Tribes are so important, and why being an immigrant thousands of miles from most of the people who have known you longer than three years is so taxing. Chances are, if you walk into a room post-bad morning, and you're in a bad mood, someone who doesn't know you that well will simply think you a miserable sort. They might brush you off. They don't know any better, it's not their fault. 

Of course, you could easily just be mirroring your own current state of self deprecation onto these silent participants. That's the other trouble. 

How nice it would be to walk into a room of history, one look at you and someone would know you needed a chat, a shoulder, an old funny story about that time you did that thing that was hilarious. 

Before motherhood, before the muddle of walking through life mostly hoping you're doing the right stuff, knowing you won't really see the full result until twenty or thirty years have gone by. 

On these awful mornings, most of all, I need to be reminded of the life that came before this one. Not because I crave it, but simply to remind me of the transient nature of it all. This too shall pass, et al. 

I am confident that I am doing the right stuff, I am. After this blog entry, I will breathe in and out again and it will have passed. Another string of good days and successful times are on the horizon; but so are times like this. You're a little gun shy, a little hard done by. You just need an origin story to cheer you up. 

That's the stuff you don't realise before you pick up all the sticks and move them well across the globe. 

Still, I'm quite glad of where they're currently planted. 

Of Alarm Clocks and Accusations.

We've overslept.

All three of us, somehow, have miraculously ignored our various body clocks as well as the gradual increase in daylight filtering through the cracks in our curtains.

I often wonder how many horrible days have begun with a missed alarm clock, a malfunctioning mobile, an unheeded call to arise from bed.

Today, I was sure would be one of those days for us.

Out of bed with only an hour before I should have been physically walking out of the house on the way to take DS to preschool. Only an hour in which to wash/clothe/feed/brush/preen and otherwise appropriate ourselves to social norms.This was not to be sufficient.

DH had to use the bedroom, door closed, off limits, for a Skype session with a client, while I hurriedly played the latest game in which I pretend to be nonchalant about this food I have made for my toddler, so that he doesn't twig on to the fact that I am actually very anxious for him to take an interest in his food. My whole world's happiness is tied up with how much gluten free pancake he consumes within our limited time allowance. He's the 'seagull' and I am the 'seaside tourist' enjoying my food while he attempts to 'swoop in' and 'steal it.' But, this is a lot of subtext for 8AM. I am not very method with my acting, and he doesn't appreciate that I don't take the game seriously.

While I make many great speeches on my new 'plan' to 'foil' the 'seagull' I am internally calculating just exactly how long I have until it is absolutely necessary to start getting the school outfit on, and then, while the 'seagull' 'steals' yet another gulp of 'my' breakfast, I am really wondering if I will have time for even a 60 second shower. I didn't take the bath last night when I could have. It's a rookie move, you hate to see it.

He can see I'm distracted, so he demands that I craft yet another 'plan' for the 'seagull' and his thievery.

I see an out and I bloody take it - 'Okay,' I begin cheerily, steeling myself for what happens once the other shoe, or rather the second half of my coming declaration will bring, 'one more plan then we have to dress seagull in his jumper!'

I wait with baited breath. I check the markers of each part of his little face as he processes what I've just said is to the next phase of our morning plan. A phase for which he was most assuredly not consulted.

'Okay!'  comes his reply. He must have been satisfied with my performance, as he accepts reality without any kind of protest.

I'm not sure how, but I am now aware that it is half past 8. I have managed to get all the breakfast in him, the school clothes on him, and the coffee and small breakfast in me. I feel like a champion, I really do. At least, for exactly as long as it takes for me to realise that while DS is out in the lounge, happily watching Peppa, fed, dressed and with a school bag at the ready - his shoes, my clothes, my shoes, our coats, are sealed in what may as well be outer space - The Bedroom Where Daddy is Working.

New calculations are flying through my brain.

Can we walk to preschool, if we leave the house by 9:10, and hurry really fast, and manage to get there in time?

Would it be quicker to bring the buggy, so I don't have the factor in the little leg variable? Then of course, I need to consider how much of the time we save by buggy will be burned on the first gentle attempt and subsequent knock down drag out fight to get DS strapped into the buggy. 

And well, it needs to be said Mummy, that none of this is going to matter if you can't fashion some kind of primitive yet fashionable footwear and clothing combination that comprises slightly more than the thin Lonsdale yoga pants and off the shoulder sweatshirt you're currently sporting.

If there were ever a time I wished I was a whiz at word problems, it was now.

Finally, I am resigned to the fact that I simply can't move until DH is done in the bedroom. And since his computer failed him for the first thirty minutes, he definitely won't be done until ten minutes after the absolute last possible time I could see leaving the house AND making it on time, even with forgoing the social niceties of personal hygiene.

I make DH lunch. I make him some pancakes that he can easily shove down his gullet, as he too, is now very late for work.

I think, yes, I am now zen.

But then something happens. The momentum which I had put away with my happy resignation was picked up again as the bedroom door was flown open. Somehow in the space of 30 seconds, I found myself dressed and with a coat and shoes and a new mission: GET TO PRESCHOOL ON TIME.

DS was naturally ignorant of the sequence of any of these events. He didn't know anything had gone wrong. He wasn't aware that his mother and father were presently running around like decapitated chickens, ruing the day they weren't made omniscient so they could ensure this sort of thing could never ever ever happen to them ever again SERIOUSLY.

All he knew, all he should have to know, is that he had a nice lie in, we had a nice game of breakfast, and he was kicking back, waiting for the next adventure to start.

We were so far away from each other, the three of us, in our respective headspaces, I should have known it was going to escalate.

I am dying to leave the house, dying to avoid declaring myself a time failure, I could make it, we could be there on time still, if only we could leave right now. He was so compliant with the food, the school jumper, the teeth brushing, he fooled me into thinking I need only sweetly gesture to him with his jacket before he came bounding up to me and enfolding himself inside it and then we would be skipping down the road to a better, more perfect day.

This did not happen.

But you knew that already, didn't you?

DS laid down on the hall floor, picked at some dried mud that had fallen off my impatient boots and bemoaned -

"I'm tired."

"But we have to go now. We're going to be late. Come on sweetie."

"I'm tired and I don't want to get up. What's this?"

"That's just mud from my shoes, don't touch it. Don't touch it. Don't touch it. Come on, we have to GO."

The last word was a bit forceful, but I had, as yet, to lose it.

"No. I don't want to."

And that was it. I shouted at him, I said okay, bye I am going then, I went halfway down the stairs and he started to sniffle.

"No. Mummy. Don't be angry Mummy."

And suddenly, I was back.

Feeling horrible and guilty and ashamed of shouting at my three year old son because of things that were entirely nothing to do with him. I gave myself approximately 5 seconds to blink, shed exactly one tear, and then I apologised.

I told him I was sorry, that it wasn't his fault, that I wasn't angry, I was frustrated that we might be late for school. I asked if he forgave me. He smiled simply, threw his arms around me, held my face close to his face and said. "Yes."

Then it was over for him, he wasn't holding any grudges. All that he knew was right again, and he was ready to leave now, and so we did, and we got there on time.

I was left thinking about it as I walked away from dropping him off. There were times I would have terrorised myself for weeks at how failed a mother I was. Or worse yet, I would refuse to acknowledge that shouting at him was wrong, that "kids need to learn" and that "I was in charge."

Here is the thing though. He wasn't questioning my authority. I remain 'in charge' whether I shout at him to hurry up or not. More to the point, he wasn't telling me I was a rubbish mother who was ruining his life. He was asking me not to be angry, because he didn't want me to be, because he loves me.

I was questioning my authority. I was telling myself I was not in charge. I was shouting at myself, as loudly as I was shouting at him, that I was a rubbish mother. I was 'doing it wrong'. And as so often is the case with uncomfortable truths, rather than looking inwards, we explode outwards.

In every moment of frustration, of anger, of self accusation that I face as a mother - I am presented with a choice; to turn inwards, to breathe, to address it with myself, the adult and to keep it from himself, the child or, to explode, to demand unquestioning obedience without explanation, to be irrationally annoyed that a human who has been on Earth for 3 years doesn't know how to behave as I have learned in my 26.

I chose wrong this morning. I allowed a moment to berate myself for failing to be Perfect Mum, yet again. I moved on. He moved on, almost instantaneously.

And I know there are plenty of people who make different decisions, who have different styles, different belief systems about how they parent. That's cool, that's fine, it is okay. I am only one woman and my son is the only one of his kind that will ever be, and you're never going to be his parent, vice versa, etc, the end. But I know that it matters that I apologised to him, and I will tell you why.

I will share with you what I have left of what once was something that happened to me when I was little, a hazy fragment of half-memory, which has somehow clung onto life within the recesses of my brain and serves me with the knowledge that I serve others with. I have no idea how old I was when this happened, I don't remember what day it was, season, year, no details remain, except the way the sun came through the glazing on our front door, and the way the terrycloth of my mother's robe seemed just as tattered and tired and soft as she always did. She'd loved too much, she'd seen too much, and she ached to love and see so much more. I understood this from infancy, even if there wasn't any reasonable way I ought to.

On this day I was playing with my younger brother. We were being loud. My mother was downstairs. My brain tells me she had a migraine. We were meant to be quiet. We weren't. She had really had enough. She came upstairs. It wasn't me who had made the particular noise which signalled Enough, it was my little brother. The blame was assigned to me, she shouted at me. I don't remember if I received a spanking. I remember the absolute terrible feeling of childhood injustice though. The heartbreak you feel when you feel rejected by your parent. Back when you're naive enough to believe that the world must be fair, to be on the receiving end of direct proof to the contrary is a cold and sobering experience, indeed. The image flickers a bit. Then I am in my room. My mother enters a time later. She tells me that she is sorry, because she knows it wasn't me who made the noise. She is sorry.

Whatever silly animosity I had felt, whatever sick sense of malice was beginning to develop, that apology snuffed it right out. I loved her and she loved me, and she was just a human, same as I was. Her terrycloth robe and the way it smelled of love and hope when she wrapped her arms around me, and put her face to my face, that was all there was in the world, and all of it was right again.

This is how I know these moments are defining. They have defined me, and I will use them to guide me away from the self destructive guilt that comes so easily with raising your own little person.

I will use them to guide me home.

Mommy adjacent topic.

Another month or so goes by, and I start to get the nagging feeling that I ought to update my blog. Since the last time I posted, DS has started at nursery three mornings a week, just for three hours a time. It's been lovely, and he hasn't once had a tantrum or caused a scene or really minded being dropped off in any way. I wasn't especially worried, seeing as he is securely attached and all, but you always wonder if it's going to be struggle to begin a phase of parenthood that you've never encountered before.

The only problem is, that I find myself little to write about on the subject. I suppose I will count myself fortunate for that, and move along.

All I've been able to think of lately is how much I used to love writing and how little of it I actually do now. I was rather prolific in my teen years, and I used to attribute that to the old adage of pain being a great muse. Now, I think better of that conclusion. Now, I tend to think that it was because, while I was almost certainly in the throws of the deepest and most unbridled depression of my life, I was more to the point absolutely unafraid. When one has little to nothing to lose, one simply emotes in the general direction of anyone willing to listen; even/especially if that someone is a blank diary and/or LiveJournal account. You don't trouble yourself over what the impression of the reader might be, how many grammatical mistakes you might make, how completely bonkers you come across. None of that matters, all that matters are the words, and that while they remain inside of you, unexpressed, they twitch and twist and burn and blister through every pore, every particle. Once they're out, they're more like companions to weather the storm with than oppressors bringing on the sting of an endless rain.

I don't know when I got this fear. Sometime around the part where I fell in love and moved house ten million times and became a mother and an expat, I also became someone who no longer understood her own voice. I could not translate the verses inside any more, and this was simply due to the fact that I had taught myself to fear the many possibilities of what they might tell me, or rather, what they might tell others about me. As if somehow, without realising it, I could somehow be the complete and utter undoing of my carefully constructed happiness; the patchwork of a million mistakes salvaged and sewn into such a remarkable robe, I could hardly believe my own eyes each time I slipped it on.

I don't want to have this fear anymore. I no longer buy into the myth which my formative years have served to spin around my ribs. I have shed this for good and for proper this time.

With that resolved, I hope to be writing more and maybe sharing some as well. Because, to be honest, I know my value as a person, and nothing inside of me could tarnish that, not anymore.

It's a Cruel, Cruel Summer.

Do not be misled by the title of my blog post. It was not, in fact, a cruel summer. We were certainly braced for another 12 months of non stop rain and The Endless Grey. We had to be, to hope for anything more would be decidedly UN British. And foolish, given the past couple of years. But we had a heatwave! It was like being in Florida! It was great!

.......and it kept being hot! And no one has air conditioning! Forget the Tube or the bus! It was some kind of face melting wonderful on board public transit! Seriously, can we be England again?!

DS, my mother in law and myself spent the morning at Ruislip Lido. We had a picnic, there's something that everyone has decided to call a 'beach' even though you're to steer clear of the 'water' at the 'beach, a brand new cafe has started up which does pretty good coffee, and there's even a water park and little train station. Oh, yeah, and HORDES OF WASPS. EVERYWHERE. BEING REALLY AGGRESSIVE. HUNTING YOU DOWN FOR YOU SWEET SWEET HUMAN FOOD.

That's when I realised that enough was enough. I am ready for Autumn. I want to bust out the cinnamon scented candles, the huge knit jumpers, the tartan scarves and matching gloves, and I want it to be socially acceptable to load up a new pin board for Christmas, dammit.

We've done pretty well this year, we've all got tans and are busy scrubbing months of accumulated sun cream out of our pores. Sure, the odd rainstorm or two has served to remind us of our place in the worldwide weather lottery, but I think we should just quit while we're ahead and embrace the Gloom, will it to come even! I'm currently working on a rain/grey dance routine, and am happily accepting any volunteers into my troupe.

But, I digress. I really wanted to start this entry to express how caught up I get sometimes in being stressed, that I forget to live in the Now. I think most people alive today don't live in the Now. It's far too easy to be looking ahead, planning the next big life event, work project, home project, or counting down to when Sherlock is going to be back on the telly, already. Thankfully, I have this great little In The Now alarm system. It's called a near three year old. His whole day is the Now. He's the mayor of Nowtown. He reminds me when I'm caught out worrying about what time I should be preparing the evening's dinner so that I can finish that load of laundry in enough time to hang it out to dry so I don't have to clog up my kitchen with the clothes horse, and if that's there then I won't be able to hoover or mop it either - MUMMY - COME SEE - THERE'S A KITTY CAT OUTSIDE - MUMMMMMMMMMMMY!

Oh man. It's only 8 am, what the heck am I doing, oh yeah, righteous, cat. Sweet, thanks son.

Nothing in my list of things I was obsessing over could possibly  be as important to me as seeing that kitty cat is to him. Not only seeing the kitty cat, but sharing the moment with me. 

There we are folks.

That is the Now.

I was in the Now today at the Lido as I watched him prance around the water park, surprised and amazed each and every single time the water spouts popped up in a new place (of about 6 possible places that they pop up at in a loop). He squealed with delight, his skin shone in the mid afternoon sun, slick with cream, water and that special childhood glow; a mix of exuberance and absolute unchecked joy.

He doesn't care how he looks when he slips, half skidding into a crouch to break his fall, he doesn't mind who might see his trunks ride up, or if he skins a knee, or two. There is water! There are other kids! There is Mummy! All is right with his world (and mine), as he knows it.

We had a cracking day, you know. Often, as is my custom when I have cracking days, I think about the life I very easily could have led, back in my homeland, slaving away at a job that I hated, settling for someone who wasn't my soul mate, not seeing Paris, London, Finland or the other amazing experiences I have had and will get to have now that I am amongst this beautiful life, with beautiful people who I adore.

Very bloody fortunate is how I feel. A little girl from Appleton am I no longer.

These truly are the best years, as hard and complex and agonizing as it may be to raise a tiny human into a responsible adult, as much as you think you are screwing it up (you probably aren't, but I have yet to meet a mother of a small child(ren) who doesn't think she is more or less just stumbling around blindfolded in the woods during a hurricane, trying to thread many needles), as many seconds-minutes-nights-days pass without restful sleep, it is being in the Now with your child, with your loved ones, that you realise, it will never be better than this.

I know this down to my bones.

I will summon this knowledge on the less than cracking days; after the third change of pants in as many minutes, the second missed bus in the pouring rain, the first heartbreak, the innumerable amounts of questions that I will struggle to both understand and answer during my lifetime tenure as Mum.

So next time you find yourself cursing under your breath, shaking with fright, rage, or sadness. Think of something like this day, or your best version of it. Then take a deep breath, breathing is good.

And release.

X



 

Mommy had a birthday and her head popped off.

Well, no, my actual head did not actually pop off. It certainly felt like a milestone though. I turned twenty six years of age on the nineteenth day in the seventh month of the two thousand and thirteenth year of our Lord.

See, it sounds so hallowed and important in old timey speak!

Seriously, though. It was a great time. Birthdays have carried a certain amount of pressure for me since I was allowed to celebrate them, due to the lack of celebrations in my formative years, which I'm sure is something all my nearest and dearest are terribly sick of hearing about. In fact, right now, I reckon they're all in a corner gagging themselves with spoons. However, be that as it may, every birthday gets built up in my head to impossible ivory tower standards, which, if you follow, means every birthday induces some level of self deprecating disappointment.

Hurray! Who is ready for cake? A cake that you will squirrel away into the dark corner of a bathroom somewhere and fork rabidly into your mouth while you sob all over your sparkly glitter based make up, cheered only by the discovery that your salty tears are a really nice balance to the chocolate ganache.

I am happy to report that this year was not anything like the scene above. The day before me and my best girlfriends went out on the town  IN HEELS AND DRESSES and ate our weight in all-you-can-(not should, CAN)-eat sushi, had an inappropriately surreal experience at a local restaurant in which a waiter seemed to materialise from nowhere, only to become a stripper of the absolute worst level of aptitude. And to think we had only ventured there to devour dessert and coffee(and eventually a dessert wine which I suspect was actually just children's cough syrup from the local Boots), NOT BE SEXUALLY HARASSED OKAY. Oh patriarchy, you so crazy. Of course a table full of attractive women who are enjoying each other's company are CLEARLY in want of a man to sort them out, right?

That aside, I had a great time, and my actual birthday brought more wondrous things, like a surprise manicure (my girlfriend took time out of her busy schedule of setting up HER SISTER IN LAW'S WEDDING THAT WAS THE NEXT DAY and oh the small thing of having three kids and generally being always everything everywhere to treat me, and that was truly touching.) a romantic dinner with my husband that evening with the most gorgeous food I've ever seen, and a cheeky pint at a pub we'd never tried before.

It was really the best, and DS got a kick out of my balloons, and on most mornings since has woken up with a resounding, "Happy Bersssday Mummy!!!"

Who has got 2 thumbs and amazing friends and family? This gal.

X

Caffeine is required.

Okay.

So...........I know originally I said I was going to keep this blog light and positive and funny, AND I am happy to do this, when I am feeling these things. But, I also feel it's important to make it a fair reflection of The Motherhood.

Today, I am struggling. DS is a high energy, very bright and exhausting child. This morning he was up at 5:45. DH got up with him initially, I took over at 6:30. He's the kind of child who is 0-60MPH from the second his eyes open, to the second they close at night. (Which is sometimes a two hour plus ordeal, but that's an entry for another day.)

I can deal with it. I love him. It's putting me through my paces, and I am fairly confident he will mellow in the next couple of years and we can all look back at how frantic it all was and laugh, tossing our heads triumphantly into the sun of a bright afternoon while we sip lattes and turn appreciative looks of pity unto the young frantic mothers who pass us by, so much like our former selves it endears stranger to stranger.

But right now, today, when I look around all I see is how DS is nothing like the other children in his football class. He is the only one to display such unbridled enthusiasm and zero attention on the activity. He is simultaneously enraptured and torn away from attentiveness, resulting in a flux of in/out/in/out levels of comprehension. Worse still, he has a mean streak, and when he works himself up into a frenzy, he lashes out. Not often, mind you, but any time at all is enough to make me feel like bursting into tears, putting my hand up and declaring that it is I, the young rubbish mum, who brought forth into the world the feral child who just smacked yours. Please accept my apologies. Pass your judgement. Go on, etc.

Of course, I take a deep breath, I catch myself from falling into the pit of despair and I remind myself that he is at a difficult age, all children have different personalities, he will mature, he is kind hearted, and mainly the people around me offer gentle looks of commiseration and support. They toss their shoulders up and shake their heads, smiles creeping across their faces as they do so, as if to say. "Been there."

It is true. We've most of us Been There. When you are there it is quite easy to listen only to the harsh whispers of an ignorant few; those that have never had a small human, or have simply allowed the years to dull memories of the sheer terror of the Been There days. Far too easy to superimpose angry mob faces onto harmless strangers; fellow parents, nobodies, everybodies.

I am going to keep breathing, keep reassuring myself that I am not Rubbish Mum Ruining The Child, and maybe tomorrow we won't be here.

It's getting easier, even as I write.

X

Would I Were Beside Her.

You know what's a funny old thing? Anxiety. More specifically, social anxiety. When I was younger, I had the uncanny ability to take an innocuous question, sentence, or glance in my direction and turn it into a veritable dissertation on Why The Source of Said Thing Hates Me. I read between lines that probably didn't even exist. I would question even the most solid and long lasting of friendships and connections. I had faith in nothing.

Of course, now I know that was due to a number of factors including insecure attachment, repressed emotions and general childhood rubbishness, but at the time I was absolutely certain of one thing: my position as an Untouchable. Unworthy, Undesirable. All the Uns, basically. The Uns are not a good set of adjectives to wrap yourself in. Much as they seem like a comforting blanket of misery, because misery is comfortable when you're used to it, and quite predictable. They are decidedly not a sustainable way of keeping warm.

The reason I am blogging about this now and not some adorable anecdote, is I think that there are days when it still happens for me (and it is important to accept those days). A conversation is cut short, a topic is glossed over, a nicety seems a touch less..nice than it ought to have. But this will last approximately as much time as it takes me to draw in a breath and remind myself of who I am, of what I am certain and of what makes me ME. I know all these things now, and I didn't when I was young, and I didn't exactly feel like anyone was reminding me when I needed to be reminded that I wasn't worthless.

I will endeavour every day to remind DS, in case he is likely to forget (which he probably won't, if you've ever met him, you know this) that he is beautiful, special, clever, wanted, love, and most of all, he is him. There isn't anyone else like him, and as long as he keeps his heart pure and his intentions good, if someone does truly ostracise him or hate him, it's a statement about themselves, not him. I want to be his strength and his shelter, and everything else that I know now as an adult that I was in so dire a need of as a child.

As a mother to a son who will be a person in this world amongst so many other people, I have bitten the bullet and taken a stand to say, I believe in love, I believe in good, and my various anxieties don't enter into it.

Still, it's funny how conditioning works, and in spite of 5 years of retraining myself, I haven't quite rid it all from my bones. But I am working on it.

I am happy to be working on it.

X

I'm kinda b-b-busy.

So, what has been going on in my universe lately? The usual. Cleaning, cooking, wiping, fretting, sweating and procrastinating.

I don't have any particular topic to whinge about, so I feel a bit useless at the blog. Though, I do like writing and I should really force myself to get back into the habit. I used to obsessively track every thought or feeling I had in one of many diaries, thinking that failure to do so would sabotage my own personal growth or identity. Maybe it was the other way round, though.

Anywhoooo.

Maybe I will just wait until something hilarious happens.

X

Everything Has Changed.

I have been seriously remiss in updating, you guys.

I will be working on updating for real very soon, hopefully before the weekend is out.

For now, I leave you with this:

Because it makes me laugh so hard.

X

Dinner, Interrupted.

My least favourite times of the day are meal times and sleep times.

So, you can imagine my delight when one went up in flames completely, swiftly followed by the other, careening my entire evening well and truly out of control.

Of course, it was the usual over tired tyrannical toddler thing that happened. Up at 6AM, playing at home, then running around the park with his friends, then swimming on top of it, and zero nap time. I should have seen it coming, really. But he had me fooled. He seems so jovial and put together one second, and then before the plate of food was even fully in front of him it was all, "MOMMY! JUICE! JUIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICE."

I hand him his juice. 

"NO JUIIIIIIICE!! NO NO NO!!!" 

How could I have been so foolish? The last thing you do is hand them the juice. They don't really want the juice. If anything, the request for the juice is a just a vehicle for their anger. 

I bang my head repeatedly on the dinner table until the warm dark descends upon me. 

Not really that last part.

More screaming and throwing turkey stir fry and kicking and unsuccessful bargaining later - we are hurriedly throwing on pah jay jays and brushing teeth and going to sleep.

At 6:20, I emerged from DS' bedroom triumphant. He was out.

I was safe from his demands, which are as militant as they are nonsensical and contradictory, for now.

X



.

Poorly.

A plague seems to have descended upon my house. Seriously, I am about to go all Old Testament up in this piece and paint our door post with the blood of a lamb.

4 weeks ago, DS came down with a very mild case of Chicken Pox. I say mild because he didn't really scratch them or seem to notice they were there, and was happily running around like a coked up hummingbird inside during his mandatory 1 week quarantine. Joy of joys, ya'll. JOY OF JOYS.

3 weeks ago, I caught the Norovirus after an upsetting incident in a town square involving me being too close to a man very casually and very violently vomiting everywhere, in a very helpful zig zag pattern.You know, to cover as much of the surface area as possible. As one does. This resulted in two days in bed feeling like I was actually dying. Oh, and in case you were wondering if the relentless feelings of guilt and inadequacy of The Motherhood go away when you're very seriously ill and physically cannot care for your child - They Do Not. They increase. Exponentially. With every passing delirious minute.

2 weeks ago, DS, DH and myself all began to fight off various colds and seasonal afflictions, and our house is currently a battlefield of congestion, replete with balled up tissues and strepsil packets.

1 week ago, DS contracted some kind of viral throat infection. I was no longer amused.

Basically, I call bull on these shenanigans, and they will stop.

Oh yes, they will.

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Serenity Now!

I always  knew exactly the kind of mother I was going to be. I knew all the things I was going to do, how to handle every delicate situation and, it has to be said, was very certain how to handle even the dreaded Terrible Twos. I would do it all with grace and composure and I would make it look easy. Then, I would sit down for a brief repose, clutch my pearls, smooth my dress, and perhaps do a spot of light baking to revel in my triumph of the Maternal and Domestic realms.

Then I had a child, and that stuff all hit the fan.

I am not sure there is a way that one can convey to a person who has never had children, or had to look after children, or perhaps (I am told there are even some who) have never met a child the absolute chaotic mess of feelings the little beasts can create in you. However, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of a small child must be in want of a holiday.

I am that woman today. I have abandoned all my high ideals of discussing feelings, and explaining action and consequence and I am just a bundle of nerves which had been tread upon almost to breaking.

But.

It's okay.

That is allowed.

If you're going to try to raise a human being, you need to realize that you are not perfect, you have little more than instinct and personal judgement to guide you, and you will mess up. The best we can hope for is to have a well intentioned syllabus of sorts, and love. Your child will always know they are loved. Similarly, they will certainly know when they are not. Even when you're red in the face from snapping at them, surveying the disaster area that was once your home, and wondering WHY DID I DO THIS TO MYSELF I COULD LITERALLY BE ANYWHERE ELSE RIGHT NOW, they will look at you with their little eyes and communicate something entirely without words.

You are mine. I am yours. I love you forever, okay?

For better or worse, this is the deal that we have struck.

So when I find myself as that big bundle of nerves, I take a couple of deep breaths and I let it wash over and under and away from me, and I continue on. So very little of DS' life is going to revolve around me, I shouldn't resent that all of it does right now. Thus goes my mantra.

Though, I do wish he would heel a little better on his leash...

I was never going to be a mother with a child on a leash, but I never counted on being the mother of a six month old who became adept at scaling the sides of his cot and lunging outwardly, in lieu of sleeping. As he got older, he got bolder, and seemingly less able to appreciate mortal danger. Coincidentally, I became more able to appreciate that much of my motherly role was to keep DS from killing himself.

And that's about the long and short of every day in the Terrible Twos. He's like your drunk friend at the end of the party. You know he should leave, you're tired, he's tired, and he's off his face - so you need to get him home, stop him from insulting people or getting in their way, and hope all the while that he doesn't puke over your new sweater. You just got this sweater, and if he does puke on it, you're just going to kick yourself and think, 'Obviously, Self, this is why we can't have nice things.'

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Catch the Sun?

The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and we are nearly out of the Embers and the Arys. Or, as I like to refer to them, The Awful Months of Hopeless Dark Which Rend Any Sense Of Happiness and Bunnies/Unicorns From Your Bones And Replace It With Most Unpleasant Tidings Indeed.

November, December, January, February.

Rubbish, aren't they?

It's been dark and rain and snow - break for fun snow days - then the snow gets grubby and it melts but then ices over, so it's even more treacherous and doesn't hold any entertainment value or fun factor, unless you count the fun that DS and DH have watching me fall on my behind and it's like COME ON ENGLAND. You don't need to fulfil absolutely every facet of every terrible weather stereotype that's ever been, do you?

Well, I suppose you do, if you're also going to keep the whinging stereotype going as well.

(I myself have become a champion of said sport, less than two years after my arrival here.)

 But, I digress.

It is the Second of February, so in my head that means it's nearly March, which means it's nearly spring and HO-MUH-GAWD, can I wait for spring? I submit that I cannot.

There is nothing I would like better than to have a leisurely stroll in my beloved Pinner Memorial Park, observing newly hatched water fowl offspring, being cute and fluffy and squeezable-looking, stopping for a cold beverage at Daisy's in the Park, and basking in the glow of the ever elusive English sunshine. That would be a thing to behold. And behold it we shall, once all this absolute-never-ending-grey-please-just-let-me-see-a-patch-of-sky-or-something-i'll-be-your-best-friend-seriously-just-a-patch is over.


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A little less procrastination, a little more whinging.

It is a quiet afternoon at Chez Mommy today.

DH (Dear Husband) has taken DS to see his grandpa, and Mommy has been left with instructions to study her Life in the UK Test booklet, so as to allow myself to stay in this divine country that I am proud to call my home. (No seriously, it's like a real deal and everything.)

I find this test a bit silly on a couple of different levels. That is not to say that I find the UK immigration process silly. Having been through the US side of things for DH's green card (which we subsequently abandoned when it dawned on us that we were surrounded by gun toting, reality denying, head in the sand burying crazies and we had the task of bringing up a child a midst them) - I can attest to the fact that UK immigration is much more "user friendly". Things are written in plain lay terms, sentences make actual sense, and it's rather easy to do without having to employ an immigration attorney at the low low cost of thousands of pounds, on top of the cost of the applications, of course. Naturally.

Getting my spousal visa was pretty straightforward, and now all that stands between me and utter expatriate glory is this dang test. Which, as I was saying before, is silly.

You know why?

Because where I am from is the fifty nifty United States and indeed, one of the 13 original colonies. Most of my ancestry is from Lancashire, UK and or Scotland / Ireland. Basically, until about three centuries ago, I was English (at least most of the dominant and recessive genes of my double helix were), and a lot of the culture and background I come from is very much Anglican. But because it's not the Commonwealth or the EU - I have to take a test to prove I am ready and able to assimilate into English society and know how things work.

Like everyone else here does.

I'll give you a minute to stop laughing before I continue.

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It's a trip, isn't it?

Oh well. My test is scheduled for two weeks time and I will hit the books today and cram the day before and I will pass the test and then I will mail out the forms with a check for like a grand, and THEN I will be done and dusted and ready to put the whole immigration business behind me.

Until I have to pay another grand to get a British passport.

Then I'll be done and I will give no more cash to the UKBA.

Promise.

It's a small price to pay to feel at home, though folks. Strangely enough, I never felt quite right growing up. Now, that is for a lot of different reasons, but mostly I think it was a case of being born in the wrong place.

 I used to think it was especially being born in the wrong time period - and sometimes I'll watch/read an Austen/Bronte novel and I think, "Oh look at how fun it was to live in that Country House and look at how dashing all the men were!" and I'm like I WANT TO GO TO THERE.

But then I have a little think, and I realize not being property and having rights is like, way cooler than having to stuff myself into a whalebone corset and dying in childbirth. That would really cramp my style.

And of course, I couldn't write a blog.

Which would be a great loss to society.

No, the world.

Right?

I'll aim to have something obnoxious to say at least once a week - so until the next little tidbit gets stuck in my ever widening craw - tata.

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Dun dun dun.

When I was a teenager, I used to spend hours drawing and painting and making collages from cut out bits of Rolling Stone and thought it was oh so important to be fulfilling my artistic needs. It is in that spirit that I say:

Let me paint you a picture! 

My dining room table is piled high with clothes (but they are neatly folded), my sink is piled with last night's dishes (but I went round my mother in law's and did all hers), and I am piled all into my office chair, sitting in the dark, in my own room, ruining my eyes with the light of my laptop because if I turn on the actual lights, then it might wake the dragon (AKA my two year old son).

He is sleeping comfortably in our large bed, as is his custom, and I respect that. I mean, he's a person and he likes to be amongst other people. I have a really hard time sleeping on my own, and I'm (nearly) an adult. So I leave him there, and I live around him, because it's the only time in his life he's going to want me this much.

So it's cool. Right?

Yes. It is. I am sure of it.

There are a lot of things I should be getting on with. There are always things to be getting on with. My laundry hamper possesses a fertility unknown to mankind - I mean, I certainly don't change my food stained, torn, stretched from the incessant toddler manhandling, and very much comfort-over-style wardrobe more than once a day, and yet - the hamper -  it waits there in the corner, always full, always beckoning, always mocking me in my attempts at making it EMPTY.


Mainly, I suppose I would start by folding away the buggy, but not before emptying it of the shopping. I would have done that straight away, but I thought about it, and there wasn't anything for the freezer in there, so, after checking with me, I was okay with just leaving it in the hallway.

Then, I guess I could wash the dishes, but it's 8:34 PM on the night of the day where DS (Dear Son, as I will refer to him hence forwards) did NOT nap, in spite of my thrilling miles long walking tour of our village. I guess he just doesn't appreciate the significance of a high street that's so well preserved and loaded with listed properties, yet.

 It's funny, really, how I started it to make him knacker out and sleep, so I might like, sit, still, without whimpering - and what really happened was he stayed awake and I wore out my back and didn't get to sit still, and there was so much whimpering. From me. On second thought, that's not terribly funny.

What I really wanted to say in this whole entry was WELCOME! I will be entertaining you with my tales of love and woe and WHOA what does that scale say, and so much other yay.

I hope you enjoy reading.

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