Well. Blow me.
This morning out of nowhere, the mancub decided to dig out the potty, sit on it and had a wee.
I was shocked. And bloody proud. I cried. Continue reading “Going Potty: An Update”
Well. Blow me.
This morning out of nowhere, the mancub decided to dig out the potty, sit on it and had a wee.
I was shocked. And bloody proud. I cried. Continue reading “Going Potty: An Update” →
I was having a bit of a blog stalking session last night; not as dodgy as it sounds, just decided to look at loads of different blogs about various things and get to know people I follow and who follow me a bit better. I love learning new things and I’ve found some beautifully written and downright amazing writers. I’ve also read some truly funny posts that have made wee come out. Continue reading “10 Things… about me” →
It has not been a great weekend.
Yesterday I worked all day; work was busy and rather stressful.
My aches and pain were awful last night and so I didn’t get much sleep.
I woke up with a slightly muzzy head and decided to clean my kitchen. Fascinating stuff I know.
It was looking like a hoarders paradise in there; my cheese grater has been MIA for a week and the contents of the stuffed-full shit drawer had spilled out on to the work surfaces. Every time I went out there I got the major hump, so it needed to be done.
I tided, scrubbed, threw away, sorted, and organised my shit.
My kitchen now looks banging. (Yep, that sounds big headed but I don’t care, I’m proud)
I have a major obsession with bleach. I love the stuff and I bleach everything. If I buy a toy from the charity shop the hubbo always jokes that he needs to hide the bleach as I have a tendency to put second hand things in the bath and bleach them.
This stems from when the mancub was small and I bought a jumperoo second hand online from possibly the scariest place I have ever been to. When I went to pick it up there were half-feral children playing in the street, fist-holes in the front door and an old lady was sat outside with a peg leg. I shit you not.
Anyways, I digress – this jumperoo was filthy. I cannot even explain how bad it was, the whole thing was a sticky smelly mess. A rainforest jumperoo should be bright green and red and lots of neon-bright colours. This one was brown and vile. It had shit stains in the seat. Bleurgh.
Hubbo said I should have just said no but I was very scared of Granny Pegleg so I just grabbed it, threw the cash at the scary lady and ran.
When we got home I took the whole thing apart, and put it in the bath. Anything remotely fabric-like went on a boil wash; everything else was soaked in bleach and hot water for an hour. Hubbo said I was crazy; I disagreed – it was either bleach it or set fire to it.
It came up like new and I ended up selling it for four times as much as I bought it for. (I’m not suggesting you bleach a jumperoo as you aren’t supposed to but my devotion to the bleach-hood paid off on this occasion)
Unfortunately I think I inhaled a little too much bleach this morning and my head is now pounding. I think my sinuses are blocked or I’m getting sick or something and my head feels like it’s been whacked repeatedly by a granny wielding a peg leg.
The mancub has been vile. I thought we had a break through and he’s been listening to us and behaving so much better.
Today he has been awful; by not listening and really playing up. All. Damn. Day.
He’s picked my carpet apart at the bottom of the stairs. He’s torn a book up. He hijacked my best pencil(yes I have a favourite pencil, I don’t get out much) and keeps climbing the back of the sofa.
And I’m ashamed to say I lost my shit.
I’d managed to stay calm and patient all day. But he was relentless and would not listen.
He had nicked aforementioned best pencil and was running around with it. I asked for my pencil. He said no.
I asked again, but this time in that I-AM-TALKING-SLOWLY-AND-ABOUT-TO-LOSE-MY-SHIT tone. Again, he said no.
My head was pounding and I grew desperate. I threatened and bribed. Biscuit? Postman Pat? Or do you want to go to bed(damn, I always said I’d never do that one – “bed will ALWAYS be a place of peace and calm and never a threat” – fuck you, pre-parent me).
“No mummy” he said.
He then started to stick my best pencil up his nose.
I half panicked he would poke himself in the brain and half got very cross.
I had no words, no more methods. I lost my shit.
I shouted. I waved my finger in his face. I told him to stop being naughty.
He then threw the pencil in my face. And laughed.
“That is IT. Go and sit on the FUCKING step NOW” I said.
He listened, and trotted off to the step. But straight away I was mortified. And upset.
I always vowed I would never lose my shit. And dropping an expletive in there makes it so much worse. That’s my nomination for Mum of the Year down the shitter. Or even more down the shitter than it already was.
I told the hubbo I needed a poo, so I could escape for five minutes.
I locked myself in the toilet and cried.
I did some of that sob-talking where I think I made no sense to any other human or animal; maybe dogs and dolphins could understand but that’s about it. I told myself what a terrible mother I was and a despicable human being.
I was half expecting social services to knock on the door within the hour. And for some snooty lady to tell me how bad a mother I am, how shouting is terrible and to then beaten to a pulp with a good parenting guide for swearing at my child.
I calmed down and went downstairs, he said sorry and I said sorry. We had a cuddle and a kiss and did the cute thing where we rub noses.
“Wuv you my mummy” he said.
“I love you moistest my baby” I said.
And we sat snuggled under our blanket watching Mr. Bean, and all was alright.
Apart from the guilt. The guilt is still there. Damn, five hours on and I still feel terrible.
Tomorrow is a new day… don’t hate me readers, I really hope I’m not alone.
It’s 6pm, I’m in bed.
We went out today, I’ve walked about two miles which is nothing to me.
The pain in my legs and whole body is so bad I can’t even cry, that hurts too.
Doctor says my bloods are normal, so just get on with it.
How can I? I can barely stand, I had to crawl up the last few stairs.
I have a house to run, a job to keep and a son to look after. Why won’t anyone take me seriously?
After the dreaded consultant fat-shaming a few weeks back I’m scared to speak to anyone, because I just don’t get anywhere.
I will ring the doctor again in the morning. I’m dreading it already as they will just fob me off again I’m sure. But this has been going on for years and has been so bad since being pregnant.
When I asked if my thyroid being overactive was causing the tiredness and pain, all I got was “oh I don’t know”.
I’m made to feel like I’m putting it on.
I’m going to try and explain how I feel and what it’s like when I feel bad.
My legs are the worst; it’s like a deep ache through my bones and muscles and it’s so painful. Ache isn’t the best word but it’s like I’ve been hit repeatedly with hockey sticks.
The pain goes up into my lower back and across my c-section scar like someone is cutting me with a knife.
My shoulders, arms, wrists and hands have the same deep painful ache and just have no strength at all.
My head is fuzzy and sore; my face feels hot and my eyes go blurry. Sometimes my left eye goes so fuzzy I can’t hardly see a thing.
And I’m exhausted. I literally feel like I could be prodded with a feather and just collapse to the floor and never get up.
Yet when I feel good I can run, walk miles, and have no pain.
I hope I get some help soon, I can’t bear this pain.
My little person was two in November 2016 and we don’t get the free childcare until January 2018. I always though kids just went to preschool/playschool/nursery around the age of three and that was that.
My parents look after him two days a week and I’m so grateful and lucky to have them to do that. I don’t think we would be able to afford childcare if not and it enables me to work two days a week and it works out well for all.
But back at about the eighteen month-ish milestone, everyone kept asking me when I would be sending him to nursery. I choked on my tea(or probably wine if it was after midday) and laughed.
Nursery? But he’s only a baby; he’s not even two yet. I’m pretty sure he will turn eighteen and I will still say that…
So back in September I looked at a few nurseries, took the small one with me and we considered it.
My head had listened to all the people who told me he needed to go to nursery.
But my heart said no; he’s not ready. Even my instinct tells me that he’s not ready yet.
He’s away from me two days a week; he misses me and needs me. And selfishly I need him.
But at the same time I do see the point that he needs to interact with children and the nursery/learn through play environment is important
Back in January when he was two and a bit I bit the bullet and signed him up to my local preschool. I loved it and he seemed to enjoy it, but there was pressure. He can’t just come for one or two sessions, he needs to come for three sessions. I needed to start him potty training; but he’s not ready.
I walked home and had a little cry. Was I doing the right thing? Was I doing the wrong thing?
And then there was the cost. At £20 per three hour session, I could barely afford one session a week out of my weekly budget let alone two or three.
We seem to sit dead in the middle for any schemes available for help; we earn too much for childcare help yet we are deemed too poor for government help to buy schemes.
And I don’t want to have to rely on benefits and extra help, I really don’t. But we are getting desperate – the cost of living and renting privately is extortionate and we can’t keep our heads above water.
It’s catch 22 – if I work more hours, I will then start paying tax again and more national insurance, so will be no better off. Plus the price of then committing to paid childcare which swallows up 85% of my hourly wage, there is no point.
But if I give up work, or reduce my hours, we still get no help, because we are coping. An advisor told me that if we defaulted on our rent and our bills we would get help but we will never get help as long as we keep up paying.
How bad is that? Yes, we have a little debt, which we are managing and keeping under control. And we don’t want to put ourselves in the red by defaulting. What sort of lesson does that set to the small one?
I would probably say that eight out of ten mums I know that have children the same age as me have started them in preschool, and it’s working great for them.
But something in my head and heart is telling me he just isn’t ready. And I’m not sorry or selfish – I just want to do what is best for him. Isn’t that what every mother wants to do?
So I made a little informal plan, and decided that for now we will have fun, maybe do one or two parent and toddler groups a week. We will go out every day, as best as health allows. In the summertime we will see how things are and hopefully crack the potty training. And then come September, just before he is three, we will try nursery again.
Has anyone else found similar? Are you feeling the preschool pressure too? Please comment below or get in touch.
I’ve never been very good at keeping a diary; mainly because I get so tired I always fall asleep and miss a day and then get OCD that I have a blank page.
But I do really find that writing things down makes me feel better and helps untangle my mind, so I figured I would start a new series that I can post to as little or as much as I like.
My reasons for this?
One of my must-read books is “The Diary of a Young Girl” which was written by Anne Frank. I re-read it on a regular basis and I loved her writing style and her spirit. Her life was tragically cut short when she succumbed to Typhus in a concentration camp shortly before liberation, and she can’t have had an easy or pleasant life; growing up in increasing conflict and then being confined to a hiding place whilst becoming a woman and discovering the facts of life and questioning her own sexuality.
I have read quite a few different editions but I would recommend the definitive edition; which is the full version with no bits removed. Miep Gies, a family friend who had helped the family in hiding had recovered Anne’s diary and kept it for her return, but unfortunately this was not to be. Until fairly recently the book had large sections removed; which were things deemed to be too personal by Anne’s father Otto who had survived the holocaust and went on to publish her diaries. The sections included in the definitive edition are crucial to understanding more about Anne and her frustrations and they also give a true insight into her innermost thoughts and feelings.
Anne wrote her diary as a series of letters to a friend she called “Kitty”. Every entry was started with “Dear Kitty” and her words seem to flow as she told Kitty all her daily events, feelings and secrets.
So, my darling blog, you have become my outlet and therefore, my diary…
It’s a cold, miserable February day; I’m tired, I ache like hell and I’m hungry.
The small one was up at 6am, its now 1pm and he’s vile. He can’t decide if he wants to go to sleep or not but is exhausted. A small part of me hopes he drops off so I can collapse on the sofa and sleep for a while. Make that a large part of me actually.
I had big plans for today – we were going to go for a walk; maybe go to the shops; and get out in the fresh air.
And then I woke up silly early(thanks William) and from that first step I knew we were indoors for the day.
Every part of me HURTS. Lifting my arms up to scrape my hair back hurts like mad, let alone walking up the stairs.
Ok, never mind. Lets stay in today.
I feel proper lonely. Work was rubbish yesterday and I’m a depressed-anxious-run down-hormonal combo. Days like today I don’t want to adult; I don’t want to do anything.
I just want to sleep all day.
I’m still off the painkillers. It’s been about five days now. I’ve used a little deep heat cream but nothing oral(*snigger*).
Tomorrow will be better. I will sleep better tonight, we will go out tomorrow.
Maybe I just need the damn painkillers…
Thank you for listening Diary, I think we will become the best of friends.
I’m proud of my kitchen, and I love organising it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not tidy but I love it when it’s all tidy and I have an ingredients shelf, a tin shelf, and so on.
But shoved in one corner is my arch nemesis. Many times I have tried to conquer it.
Many times I have failed.
This fetid pit of unconquered despair is called The Shit Drawer.
We never intended on having it; it just sort of happened. When we moved in, we had a spare drawer and so it became the place to put takeaway menus.
We had a new oven installed; where would we put the instructions? Not important enough to go in our important paperwork box but needed to be kept.
“Stick it in that drawer” I told the hubbo.
Next it was keys. And then hair bands.
Then it was batteries. And then constipation relief tablets.
Notepads, cellotape. Cat wormer, boot polish.
And one day, its identity changed forever.
“Where shall I put the nappy bags?” said hubby.
“I guess they had better go in The Shit Drawer” I said.
And its been known by that name ever since. It’s the go-to place if you can’t find anything.
Lost a key? Or an earring? Severed limb?
Always in The Shit Drawer.
I’ve tried to organise it, I really have.
I can only liken it to a room of one hundred unruly toddlers and trying to organise them.
We are not alone I know; I have seen Shit Cupboards, Shit Sheds and even Shit Rooms.
There is no greater feeling than having somewhere to store all the shit that has no place. Once the door/drawer is shut, your mind is clear.
Until you then need to find something. That’s stress on a whole new level…
I love posts like this…
I have been nominated by the lovely Jo from Pickle & Poppet to write about my bedtime routine, I love linking to other blogs and reading, and I loved the honesty of this one and could totally relate, have a read! Although the terrible twos are bad enough, I’m dreading having a three-nager…
I love comfy leggings and a long top.
A book from the Nightingales’ saga, about nurses in the second world war written by Donna Douglas.
A little flower lamp, phone charger, a pair of tweezers(damn PCOS) and a glass of water.
Fresh air and lavender, I always have to have a window open, I can’t stand it being stuffy. Did I mention I live with smelly boys…
Bedtime is around 10pm and wakeup is usually 6am. My son usually sleeps in to around 7am but I still wake silly early.
A glass of warm milk, my pillow and a duvet. What else do I need…
Kind of on my front/side, half and half.
Just myself and dreams of Tom Hardy. Actual Tom Hardy would be great though. No? Okay, my husband…
Looking at my phone before bed. And then I can’t sleep.
So that’s me… I nominate Emma at Emma & Family to share her bedtime routine.
With Valentines Day tomorrow, I’ll admit I’m a complete grump and I really begrudge the whole commercial side of it. I always tell the hubbo I’d rather he get me flowers when they are a quarter of the price than spend stupid money on roses and tacky shit.
My miserable and slightly controversial view is that you shouldn’t need a certain day to tell someone how much you love them and you shouldn’t have to buy them stuff either.
Going back a few years, when I was old enough to read our local newspaper I noticed an advert in the announcements section.
It was hand written, and a lot of effort had clearly gone into it.
It was August, and the message was from a gentleman named Dick and addressed to his wife Carol.
“To my darling Carol, on our 56th Wedding Anniversary, I am yours forever and always my sweetheart. All my love and kisses, your Dick”
There were hand drawn kisses and a heart and it stood out as such a beautiful thing.
In October, another one appeared, it looked much the same.
“To my darling Carol, I cannot believe you have been gone three years, my life is nothing without you. I love you forever and always will, until we meet again. All my love and kisses, your Dick”
I cried. Pure tears and loud sobs. I think I was about twelve at the time and I felt so sad. Carol had obviously died three years ago and the love and devotion from Dick’s simple words moved me so much.
The week before Christmas, Dick wished Carol a merry Christmas by placing an announcement as he had done for their anniversary and so on.
Valentines Day, he posted a message as if they were still giddy teenagers in the first tender throes of courtship.
In May, he wished Carol a happy birthday. She would have been around eighty, and it was as always a tender message.
In July, he announced a new great-grandchild had come into the world and how proud she would have been if she could see their beautiful children and what incredible adults they had grown into.
In August, he wished her a happy 57th anniversary.
And then he carried on commemorating every single significant event for years.
He always wrote the most beautiful tender things, and you could clearly see he had worshipped Carol. What an honest and incredible man he was, to not give a toss what anyone thought and to publish his innermost thoughts and feelings out in the open for the world to see.
Every time I read the paper for many years I would look for Dick’s messages in the announcements section; I always hoped and wished I would find someone who loved me as Dick loved Carol.
I think it was maybe five or six years after that first message I had read, I turned the page and was greeted with the following:
“It is with great sadness that we announce that Dick has sadly passed away, after a short illness. We felt we needed to let all our readers know on a more personal level; as Dick always shared his innermost thoughts and feelings for Carol. Sleep well Dick, and we hope you and Carol are reunited, together forever in Heaven.”
I’m typing through tears at this very moment, as this still moves my miserable soul to this very day. I never knew Dick, but his regular declarations of love for Carol proved to me that true love does exist and what a truly beautiful soul he was.
So does anyone need a diamond ring and an overpriced bunch of roses to know they are loved?
I won’t lie, of course material things are nice but I’d much rather have a kiss and a cuddle and know that I am loved.
One day you are all alone with a jumping jellybean in your belly eating copious amounts of chocolate and the next thing you know that same delicate little jellybean is ceremoniously ejected from your belly via the Canal de Vajojo or the sunroof.
Or if your little person was adopted or came by other means, you also go through a major life change and a huge shock.
However your little one came into your world your life has changed forever. You are now a mummy.
You carry a changing bag, full of nappies/calpol/wipes/dummies and all sorts of things you think you need but you never do. And even when you do go out and feel like your former self again with an ACTUAL handbag, a renegade nappy or dummy will find its way in.
Going out with a pushchair or pram always starts so well; you have your changing bag attached to the back, any compartments/pockets/baskets on your pushchair is tidy and ready for a shopping trip. By the time you have done half your shopping you wonder how you will every get home. There are bags hanging off the handles; the basket is overflowing; its like a very real game of Buckaroo. And what’s worse is its filled with shit you didn’t even need. I once walked three miles home balancing a huge bag of compost under the buggy. I could qualify for Worlds’ Strongest (wo)Man after that.
I had never used a baby wipe before I had a baby. I used to spend obscene amounts of money on make-up remover wipes; floor cleaning wipes; bathroom cleaning wipes; and the list goes on. Now I think I use them for literally everything. I clean my house with them. I clean the cat with them. Blow my nose with them(so soft). Clean my face with them. Every time a member of your friends or family asks how to clean something – you suggest a baby wipe. World changing stuff. I’m aware they aren’t great for the environment, you can make your own or buy reusable ones and they smell lush. Unused obviously. There is also that true sign of the sisterhood when you are out and about and your kid has a poonarmi and you realise your have no wipes. There will always be a fellow mum nearby armed with wipes. Preach.
From the word go you find yourself wearing every variety of your child’s bodily fluids, and you learn the many different colours poo, sick, wee and snot comes in. My son was about three months old when I decided to nip to the shop in a white long sleeve t-shirt. It wasn’t until eight hours later when the hubbo came home I realised I had korma-esque baby shit up my arm. I asked him if anyone would of noticed. He patted me on the back and told me it was ok, maybe I should do have a shower. Fuuuuck.
Baby poo is a curious thing. It comes out initially like sticky black tar, and then goes through so many different stages. It can be green, brown, yellow, black, white, you name it. It can vary in consistency from pure liquid to solid as a rock. You can even smell when your child is constipated(“His poo smells dry babe give him some water”). Me and hubbo still have the same conversation over dinner every night: “He had an awful poo today” or “he hasn’t had a poo yet today”. It also becomes normal to pick a small human up and sniff their arse. What have our lives become.
I remember before I had my son people would laugh and tell me how your dignity goes out the door when you give birth. I used to get all cocky and think how cool I was with that as I’d had smear tests and coils and I’d done all that getting my vajojo out. How wrong was I. There is something about being stark-bollock naked in a room full of people and then having a midwife announce that she is going to shave you and put a catheter in that changes how you feel about your private bits. And then having to ask your hubbo and anyone who is available to help you change your ginormous maxi pad. Once you’ve been there, your body no longer feels like a taboo subject, and this makes it okay to sit in a coffee shop with hoards of other mummy friends and talk totally normally(and loudly) about how you pissed yourself in Ikea last week and how dry your vajojo is these days.
Firstly, you realise that pregnancy actually lasts for 40-42 weeks and that equates to ten months,, not nine. An extra month makes all the difference when you can’t walk, sleep, move or wipe your own arse due to a massive baby bump. Secondly, you realise that its not at all like people say it is. It hurts; you get lots of strange pains. Your boobs hurt, really, REALLY bad. You are scared the whole time, hoping that your little jellybean is healthy and doing ok, and you panic when they don’t move for five minutes. Your vajojo leaks strange things. Your shit gets stuck and you get arse grapes. And the glow doesn’t exist. The pregnancy glow is as real as the tooth fairy. I realise not everyone reading this has experienced pregnancy for one reason or another; you may have gone through years of hell to adopt a child, or you may be a husband/wife/partner and have had to watch your significant other go through pregnancy; you have had just as rough a ride, waiting for your child to arrive into your world(just minus the arse grapes).
Before baby arrives you read books, magazines, articles online and buy hoards of stuff that you “must” have. You beg your other half to buy you the latest gadget because you must have it, it’s essential. And by the time your child has been around a few weeks you realise that you really didn’t need the nappy bin, the pretty expensive cot mobile, the baby shoes(try getting a newborn into shoes and you’ll see what I mean) and a lot of other things you didn’t need. I also insisted on everything being brand new and its so expensive, if I were to ever have another the poor thing would likely have a few vests, sleepsuits and bottles and that would be it. The only thing that everyone said I wouldn’t need and I did need was a baby bath. If anyone ever tells you that you will be fine bathing your child in a standard bath post C-section, kick them in the genitals.
Pre parenthood I was that person who would ask for a cup of tea and be all particular about how it was made. I liked it milky, weak, sweet and always the milk in last. If it wasn’t perfect, I wouldn’t drink it. There’s something about two weeks of hospital drinks-machine tea that resets your brain and the fact that I didn’t drink my tea hot for months means I am now reformed in how I have my tea. Now, when someone asks me how do I take my tea, my answer is “wet”. It could be laced with arsenic and be stone cold and I’ll still bloody drink it.
I didn’t get that first rush of love when my son was born; I was poorly and it took time. My point is, whenever that rush of love comes, its the most beautiful and amazing feeling ever. Every time your child does something that makes you laugh, cry, happy, sad… you get an overwhelming rush of love where you think you might die, choke or shit yourself because you love them so much. You can have the worst day ever and put them to bed cursing them and raving about how naughty they are. And then you peer in their room ten minute after putting them to bed and gush over how much you love them and how you can’t wait for them to wake up again. When you know that they love you more than anyone or anything else in the world and that love is unconditional, it makes all the piles, loss of dignity and bad tea worth it.
Well as you can tell from my last desperately named post it was a terrible night last night; my muscles and joints are so painful and I think I went to sleep about 3am in the end. Ouch.
The mancub was awake about 7am.
Luckily the hubbo let me go back to bed and I managed to rest up and sleep for another few hours, And I have been painkiller free since 3pm yesterday. My tummy has settled, the nausea has eased and apart from making noises reminiscent of drum ‘n’ bass fingers crossed its on the mend.
I’m dehydrated to shit and feeling rough but rest seems to be doing the job – I can function and I’m awake and not overcome with pain, moving around makes it come on a little but I’m thinking that by having a rest day it may give my body a chance to recuperate and is what it needs.
So i’m being kind to myself. But it’s hard, so hard.
I want to do my chores, run around the park with my mancub, study, and so much more – I’m always on the go normally but I’m starting to realise that I have to accept that when whatever this illness is flares up I have to take things a little easier and it’s ok to do that.
My stupid head tries telling me that I’m fat and lazy and obesity is my only illness but deep down I know it’s not that. Yes, being overweight is putting more strain on my body but it’s not the root cause.
In an attempt to be kind to myself I’m not going out, I’m going to take it easy and hopefully feel better. As we speak my parents are ill and unable to have my small one tomorrow so I’m not sure if I will be going to work, but I’m trying not to stress, I’m going to read, sleep, watch movies and relax.
Saying that I’ve just got up to go and empty the washing machine. Must try harder…
The title isn’t nice; I apologise.
But I’m having a terrible time at the moment. My chronic pain is awful; my legs, arms and pretty much everything else hurts.
The only thing that takes away the pain is Diclofenac or Naproxen, both NSAIDs and they do the job perfectly. Ibuprofen comes close but I have to take the maximum dose and it doesn’t work as well.
The downside to these awesome anti-inflammatory drugs is that they are destroying my stomach.
I have Omeprazole but it’s doing naff all. Today I’ve spent long periods of the day camped out in the toilet clutching my belly and crying into my Kindle.
Even the mancub trotted in at one point; sniffed; said “yuk mummy” and ran off.
Cheers son. I’ll remember that the next time you have a horrific nappy. Even worse I’ll remind you of it when you bring your first girlfriend home.
So I’m going back to basics and going drug free, I need to let my tummy settle and learn to digest again as I think everything I eat or drink is just going straight back out. A bit like a water filter jug, except some idiot forgot the put the filter in. My poor insides are sans filter.
Only problem is my pain is awful at the moment; my legs and arms and back are crippling me and I can’t brush my hair let alone walk more than 200 yards. Makes me sad, I like to be active and like to go for long walks; at present I can barely stand.
The only things I can think of that may help is rest and heat.
Rest is great but I can’t sleep due to the pain. Heat feels lush but I haven’t found a method of heat that lasts more then an hour and isn’t a fire hazard.
So, it’s half past midnight, I’m camped on the sofa and it’s going to be a long night.
I had blood tests done yesterday and as much as I hope nothing shows up, I’m hoping something does that may give me some answers as to why I feel like this.
I just want to be normal again.
I was nominated by the lovely The Baby Boat Diaries to answer ten questions about me, and its a pleasure to have the chance to participate.
Its basically a chance for you to learn more about me and in turn I get to learn more about other bloggers, I answer ten questions and then I ask others to answer ten questions, and so on and so forth.
Off we go then…. tally ho.
My mummy in law lives on the Isle of Wight and every time we go I dream about it months in advance. She lives in a small town between Sandown and Shanklin. As you walk towards the sea front along the cliff road there is a little opening in the hedge. There is a bench and to your right down a deep step is a steep slope down the cliff face to the esplanade; known as Lake Revetment. Every time I turn that corner, take a deep breath and take in the view, I feel totally calm, happy and at peace. If I feel low or poorly I try and close my eyes and take myself there. Lush.
I didn’t want to find out but hubbo did, as it turns out we had no choice because the first view we had on our 20 week scan was a little bottom and massive willy and testicles. I can’t wait to show his first girlfriend that picture(evil laugh).
Bear with, there has been a few…
7 fish, 3 hamsters, 4 gerbils, 2(and then about 30 oops) rats, a dog, 4 cats, a bunny rabbit and a hedgehog in my garden called Boris. We currently have a huge black fur baby called Mr Pierre, he was a rescue cat and was a stray. He loves eating and sleeping and is otherwise miserable.
Bride & Prejudice. I’ve been obsessed with it since I saw it at the cinema; I love the vibrant colours, culture and the Bollywood-style songs. I fell in love with the way that Bollywood uses visual effects and scenery to tell a tale; for example instead of showing passionate kisses and sex scenes they show an embracing couple staring out to sea, crashing waves and beautiful music. Stunning.
Parenting has taught me it may be easier to dress an octopus covered in olive oil than it is to dress my toddler. On a more serious note it’s taught me how to love and nurture a human being on a whole new level.
It’s a form of therapy for me; it feels so good to write down how I feel and even better when someone reaches out and says they feel the same or my words have helped them in some way.
Long hot summers… playing in the garden, pretending to be a princess and dressing the dog up as my trusty steed in a stripy picnic blanket.
I wanted to be a princess. I used to draw myself with a pointy princess hat with ribbon coming out of it!
I loved Biology, I studied it in Science as well as Rural Science as we had a school farm. Dental Nursing let me study it further and I still love it to this day. I find human anatomy fascinating and the human body has always amazed me, especially pregnancy and how we have the ability to grow humans in our bellies. I would love to retrain and do something to do with something like that.
Love love LOVE marmite… so much so my kitchen is Marmite themed, its a running joke that everyone buys me Marmite things for Christmas, I have coasters, a tea tray, mugs, all of it. I especially love the old vintage style signage. But I do prefer Bovril these days…
My questions are as follows:
I needed to go out today; and I looked ROUGH.
Marilyn Monroe famously stated “Give a girl the right shoes, and she can conquer the world”.
I disagree; I’m not really a shoe person. I live in a pair of Primarni boots and my Puma Suede’s and I can’t even remember the last time I wore heels.
I’m only five foot two and should really wear heels but I hate wearing them, so Mazza’s quote doesn’t fit me at all.
When I am needing to face the world, most of the time I just dash out in my scruffy clothes, head down, not wanting to be seen.
Today I wanted to feel like I could face the world; feel like me and not be shit scared that someone may notice I have half an eyebrow missing and stare. And more to the point, who cares what anyone else thinks, as long as I feel good that’s the main thing. And if a little makeup helps, what’s the harm? I was only going for a blood test but its the small things that make a different and all that jazz.
So I plaited my hair(see here) and put some slap on.
Boom. Life changing right?
I have a scar through my left eyebrow meaning no hair grows on one half of it, and I have been searching for years to find ways to fill it in. I currently have a fringe that covers it but I hate living in fear that the wind may blow and my baldy brow may be revealed(think Phantom of the Opera when the mask comes off).
I’m currently using an eyebrow pen, which goes on like a dry felt tip and seems to fill the bald bit perfectly without rubbing off. The one I’m using is a Stargazer one in brown, and it lasts all day and into the next, unfortunately it does get a slight green tinge as the day goes on. I’m still searching for something that will stay all day and not go green…
Eyeliner wise I used to wear a gorgeous bright blue Urban Decay pencil, and I still do on the rare occasion I go out; however; I don’t feel I can get away with it for daily use, so I like to use black eyeliner nowadays.
I can’t use a pencil for shit. It smudges, catches on my fatty eyelids and I end up looking like Gene Simmons the morning after a heavy session.
I used to use a semi liquid eyeliner in a pot with a brush, but that seems to be better for more dramatic eyes, and perfect for sixties style flicks and cats eyes.
At the moment my weapon of choice is my old faithful Natural Collection liquid eyeliner. It’s easy to apply, goes on cleanly, gives a simple and clean line and stays put all day. It’s also all natural and doesn’t irritate my sometimes sensitive skin at all. I also use a dab of Natural Collection mascara just to make it look like I have a few eyelashes.
Base wise I only use a BB cream now; since my acne has settled right down I only use this or tinted moisturiser for day to day, it moisturises, has SPF in it, disguises redness and stays put all day.
And Voila – I’m ready to go, all in five minutes. That leaves me twenty minutes to bribe the small one into getting dressed with a biscuit and wrestle him into a nappy.
I love makeup but find it so hard on a restricted budget, I’m always on the lookout for new things and I will let you know what I find!
I don’t even think poorlier is a word but I’m going with it.
I know I’m full of doom and gloom of late but I’m feeling worse and worse by the day and I guess talking about it makes me feel better. I’d also love to chat to people who possibly feel the same or know of anything that may help.
Last night I struggled to get up the stairs, my hips, knees, ankles and toes hurt so bad, so it was a large painkiller kind of night.
I woke up feeling drunk, groggy, and stiff. Grrrr.
I said to hubbo this morning I think enough is enough and I need to ring the doctor again. The pain is getting worse and it’s not going away like it was; it used to happen maybe every other month and last a week or so and now it’s almost constant.
My doctor was great and I’ve had a lot of bloods done today. I just hope I can get answers; and it’s not the same as every other month.
Usually I see a doctor, they take bloods, and then say they need blood a month later to compare.
By the time they take the second lot of blood I feel much better and there’s no issue.
They have thrown all sorts of words around; fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue, arthritis, hashimotos thyroiditus, ME, but no diagnosis has been made.
It’s 6pm and I’ve been in bed since five. I felt so tired and achey I couldn’t face cooking dinner.
Warmth seems to help but not greatly. The only painkillers that work knock me out for 12+ hours.
I’m a useless wife; I can’t lift a basket of washing, can’t cook a dinner, can’t pick a hoover up.
I’m an even more useless Mum; I can’t change a nappy and I can’t lift my own son.
I need answers and I need help now, I’m 31 and I feel 97.
I can’t even drink, it’s more I’ll pass on the Prosecco please at the moment.
Fuck my life. But I’ll try and sleep it off, and have a happier day tomorrow.
I had some interesting comments about my previous post about my ‘Lazy Mum’ hair.
It has take my lazy clueless uncool self two years to come up with and step away from everyday Mum-bun or “mun” as it is known. I’m not knocking a mun, I just tend to look like a man in drag with my hair scraped back and my baby hair sticks out like billy-o.
Hashtag hedgehog hair
don’t do care.
I wanted to explain further about how I’ve got this two-day hair thing down and show that anyone can do it.
(Hairdressers and stylist peoples, I’m not professing to knowing anything at all, this is just what I do) 👍
So, I’ll take you through my work days which is Monday and Tuesday and explain how I cut corners and attempt to look half decent while also controlling my mass of hair. I used to shower every morning and spend ages on it and now I just don’t get time. And truth be told I can’t be bothered. I work on a busy reception desk and need to be presentable yet I barely have time to draw my eyebrow on, brush my hair and squeeze in(or should that be out) a quick pre-work poo.
I’m not a morning person and I’m not one of those people that can get up at 5am and look immaculate. In fact immaculate is a word that can/will/should never be used to describe me. Pffffft.
It is nice though to feel nice, have nice hair and it not move all day. Nothing like pushing a screaming child through town on a windy day with hair like Worzel Gummidge plugged into the mains.
I have a bath and wash my hair with baby shampoo, not for any reason apart from it smells nice, it’s within my reach and doesn’t seem to irritate my scalp at all. I don’t condition very often, it’s when I remember. Yes bad I know but clean and it conditioned is better than nothing.
Once out of the bath I towel dry my hair, and then comb it into two parts. I am a side sleeper so I plait them back and down the back of my header so I don’t lay on them.
Once combed I then french braid each side and leave it like that overnight. I don’t put any products on it or blow dry it, I don’t use any heat at all. Again that’s not technique I just never get time, and I’ve not been able to find my hairdryer in forever.
Wake up, sort the hubbo and mancub out and then have about five minutes to get ready.
All I do is untie the plaits, comb through with my fingers, wet down any bits that are a little over excited and then re-plait my hair into two pigtails. Once plaited I tuck the ends under one another and pin it in place. That’s it. No spray, no product, nothing. You will notice my parting is wonky… I don’t care, it kind of works to be honest. If you don’t want to pin it you can wind it into a bun, tie a pony, anything really. Sometimes a sort of chignon is nice when you twist the two pigtails into and under themselves.
Take pins/bun/chignon/pony out and go to bed with pigtail braids again.
Repeat same as Monday morning. Wash fringe in sink quickly if needed and leave to air dry. It’s wavy at this point so it can be worn down or tied back, depending on how you feel. It feels so smooth having been plaited that a quick ponytail that’s slightly messy can actually work quite well and can save more time.
Because my hair stays in place like this it doesn’t seem to split too bad, also it’s not dry as I don’t use any heat. It also keeps greasy chip fat hair to a minimum as it’s tied securely back and doesn’t have a chance to get greasy. In the last six months I’ve come right away from heat styling and it’s improved the condition of my hair so much.
I also find this way I can just about scrape Wednesday by repeating the evening braids but that’s literally a run to the shop or something where no one will look too carefully at my slightly greebo hair. Even better if its raining or cold, rain or a woolly hat hides greasy hair. Lazy but simple.
I’m always looking for new ways to do my hair, I especially love vintage 30s/40s/50s hair so watch this space for more.
Unless they are epic fails, then I will just get a pixie crop and this post will be null and void.
Some weeks we go out every day; I’m super motivated and we go for long walks, feed the ducks, visit people, go to soft play and we are never home.
AndAnd then weeks like this week happen.
I’m exhausted and I can’t bring myself to go out.
Yesterday we went food shopping and that was a huge effort. Today we just have been really lazy.
Its 14:40 and we are both still in our pyjamas. But we are both happy and the mancub is loving it. I just can’t bring myself to go out today, I can’t explain why.
Well, its easy really, every single joint and muscle in my body aches, I have no idea if its my thyroid or the Fibromyalgia/Arthritis/Chronic Fatigue/ME that I am on the cusp of being diagnosed with.
All I do know is I hate feeling this way. I’m dizzy and one of my eyes is blurry. I’m cold, so cold I can’t warm myself up. I’m anxious about everything. I feel on edge and almost like I have the jitters. I don’t understand why I feel this way.
My doctor just says I should take painkillers four times a day to control the pain. That’s great but they upset my tummy constantly and I am thirty one years old, I don’t want to be eating painkillers like I can a tub of Elizabeth Shaw mints.
As I sit here now I know I have to do some washing, I need to tidy the kitchen, need to do my chores. I know I will have to give in and take some tablets and ease the pain enough to do what I need to do. And even if the pain goes away or at least reduces nothing is easing the fatigue.
I’ve completely cut caffeine and drastically reduced my sugar intake, I’m eating as naturally and unprocessed as life allows. But still I feel so awful.
I need to make a doctors appointment but I just can’t face it!
And the guilt, so much guilt. I want to be able to take the little person out and keep him stimulated. I feel like the worst mum ever on days like today.
Years ago a counsellor gave me a technique called The Five Minute Rule.
When you feel ill or poorly or down, you set a timer for five minutes.
So for example, getting washed and dressed when you don’t feel like it.
Set a timer for five minutes. Get washed, dressed, or do anything that you need to do.
Once the timer dings, your five minutes is up.
Want to carry on? Of you go then – set another five minute timer if you like.
Tired and had enough? Doesn’t matter, well done. Be proud – you did your five minutes.
I apply this in every day life, because Big D and feeling poorly stops me wanting to do things ALL.THE.FRIGGING.TIME.
So, I’m off to get dressed. It may be 15:00 but who cares. This five minutes will make me feel a little happier and that’s all good.
The potty is sending me potty.
The mancub was two in November and all I have heard since he was 18 months old is how I should be potty training him.
May I take this opportunity to remind my lovely readers that I am a first time mummy and I’ve never potty trained a child before. I trained my rabbit Harry to do wee-wees and poos in a litter tray when he was indoors and he picked it up well so this should be a doddle right?
Wrong. So wrong.
I’ve tried everything I can think of.
“Let him run around with no clothes on and he will get the hang of it”
Nope. He just gets proud that he has pissed on my carpet and daily dirty protests are now a part of life.
“Make him wear pants, if he wets it won’t feel nice and he will want to get clean”
Firstly; “get clean” – he’s a toddler and not a drug addict. Secondly; not my child. He would spend all day in his soiled Mike the Knight pants and not bat an eyelid. Fail.
“Skip the potty and just get him to use the toilet”
He has a seat to stop him falling in the toilet, and a step so he can reach it. He still refuses.
So where does this leave me?
Last night I decided to pound Google and find research and different approaches whilst downing copious amounts of wine.
There is so much conflicting advice out there, and some of it is so forceful.
This brings me back to my whole mindset on trusting my maternal instinct and doing what I think is best as he is my baby, and I know him best.
While I cried into my Prosecco it dawned on me what a very wise friend had once said. She told me her son was three and a half when he potty trained and it was the best thing she ever did.
She told me to chill out; let him lead me; and not to force him.
She told me that they can tell you when they need the toilet quite young but that doesn’t necessarily mean they are ready to come away from nappies.
She reminded me that typical preschool age is three and a half to four and its not a given that they HAVE to be clean(hate that phrase) by the time they start preschool.
She reminded me that I should just ignore milestones and what other children are doing.
And this is the most important thing – I have always been very proud that I have trusted my own instinct, listened to his needs and not tried to conform to milestones and other children.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not arrogant or ignorant; if I have any concerns about his development or I’m not sure my instinct is right, I will always ask for advice, and adapt as needed.
But the strength of the maternal instinct is so underestimated, and it really makes my shit itch.
I have known other mums to know there is something wrong with their child, and trust in a method or advice from a professional and completely ignore their own gut feelings.
I’m not saying don’t trust advice or anything anyone says, its always important to gain a different perspective on things and learn new ways to parent, but your maternal(and paternal for you amazing daddies) instinct is the most powerful thing you have, use it and trusr it, never doubt it.
Despite everything in the world, no one can ever doubt your love for your child and your parental instinct is a true indicator of such a powerful force that is motherly(and fatherly) love.
So what next in The Potty Saga?
Jack shit, that’s what.
He is clearly not ready and I don’t want to force him. We are in no rush, we are enjoying learning new things and I’m trusting my gut.
Haters can shove the potty up their hating judgemental arseholes.
I’m trusting my maternal instinct and leaving the potty in the corner of the room so it’s there but there is no obligation or pressure.
I’m also off to hire a Rug Doctor, my poor carpets are suffering from puddles of wee and man cub logs.
I’m always interested to hear your experiences and views, please feel free to leave me a comment or contact me.
Much love as always,