The funny side to life as a working single Mum. My stories of embarrassing escapades, toddler tantrums and great expectations.
Sunday, 7 December 2014
Christmas, nostalgia and philosophy.
So, it's been a while since I've written anything here. It's 3 months exactly.
With Christmas looming, I can't help but wonder what it is about the season which drives me to melancholic nostalgia. Is it the end of this year and start of a new one? Is it the dark mornings and darker evenings? The colder climate with its promise of snow?
Christmas to me is often shrouded with ghosts, making me feel somewhat like the protagonist of Dickens' most famous Christmas story. Harking back, I find myself wondering about past lives I have led. Reflecting at my present, I feel blessed. Looking to my future, I see the unknown. Much of my past, which has led me to this point in my life, was unexpected and unplanned. With this in mind, I am unsure whether my meticulous planning is really worthwhile anymore.
Have I been wasting my real life while trying to create a life? At times I feel like I've spent so much time planning my life and trying to reach my goals that I have missed out on actually living. I have certainly achieved in life on paper and have had adventures along the way.
Recently, when studying poetry with my year 8 class, we got to discussing the idea of 'living in the present.' Now, what I am referring to is not 'the moment' because in my mind, every fragment of your life is not a moment; it can't be. The connotations of living in the moment also trouble me, for I am not suggesting that every fragment of life should be exciting or challenging. My suggestion to my class was that we should take time to look at what is happening right now and relish in it. Whether that is discussing poetry with a class, having a cup of tea or hugging my son; these are all equally as important fragments of time. They are mine and I should own them fully, giving them the respect they deserve.
The philosopher and sociologist Bruno Latour once said that 'philosophy is not in the business of explaining anything. Actual occasions explain what happened, not philosophy.' In this case, my analytical mind will not bring me answers; my fragmented occasions, however, may do.
Saturday, 6 September 2014
Domestic goddess?
Recently, a friend commented that she felt relieved to discover I am not the 'domestic goddess' she always thought I was.
I was shocked. I have always seen myself as more of a domestic villain rather than a goddess.
Then I started thinking about what I actually do in the domestic sphere. Here it is just for today:
Housework (all of it)
Made omelette for our lunch
Baked Nigella chocolate banana muffins
Prepared garlic vegetables to roast for dinner
Now, this is on a Saturday, while also entertaining my 2 year old and a full time job.
You know what? I am a total domestic deity.
Maybe we should all actually look at what we do every week, everyday and take note of our own minor achievements. Someone should, after all.
Monday, 1 September 2014
Boobs, bits and balls.
On a completely different note, my 2 year old son is able to identify 'boobs' and 'balls' by name. If he walks in on my dressing, I receive shouts of 'BOOOOOOOBS! ' followed by a mass of giggling. At nappy changes and bathtime, it's as though he has discovered his balls for the first time, every time, and is questioning them: 'balls?'
Should we continue this masquerade?
Some time ago I wrote about an article I'd read about women having to choose between being a homely mother and wife or wild social explorer. I've come to thinking about this again.
As women, what is expected of us and what happens when we don't meet these expectations?
This is most obvious when I have rare 'time off' from being a Mum and other parents are often shocked to hear me join in their conversations about children. I guess I just don't look like a Mum without the buggy. What is a Mum supposed to look like? I don't remember a uniform being included in my Bounty pack up on giving birth.
Much as I don't have a uniform for motherhood, I do find myself wearing a range of costumes. By day, I am a professional, desperately hoping to instill and inspire a love of English in our young people. Post 5pm I've changed into my tired but enthusiastic Mum of a toddler get up. Except on the week night my Son is wuth his Dad. Then I put on my 'single 30 year old woman' costume. It's best I keep that one to myself; it's scary. Which one is truth and which are simply a masquerade?
There are two more costumes I've yet to mention: 'date night' and 'the friend.' These costumes speak for themselves and I find self asking whether, with such an array of costumes, we lose ourselves?
I am unsure as to whether it is possible for my character to be so complex that it combines no less than five huge elements. Am I really that labyrinthine?
What about my friends? Those who have children; is it the same for them? Those without children; do they play the role of ever explaining as to why they don't have or want children? How tiring.
Speaking with a friend recently, we came to the idea of what we should have done or be doing. We SHOULD have children. We SHOULD raise them on a diet of blueberries, smiles and NO nasty TV. We SHOULD, SHOULD, SHOULD. Aside from children, we SHOULD want a big wedding. We SHOULD want the perfect little house. We SHOULD want the perfect husband and, if he isn't perfect, we SHOULD make him so. We have the ability to actually control the choices of others, don't you know?
We don't though, do we? We are only human and I suspect that the idea of should comes from ourselves. From within and from other women. Not men. We pressure ourselves to be everything. Even my stay at home Mum friends feel they should (I'm tired of shouting at you) bake cakes, they should have a perfectly tidy house and they should be the perfect wife and mother. Do their husbands expect this? Possibly, in some cases but I think it runs much deeper than this.
For years, we have and still are, fighting for our equality and mutual respect. As such, we feel a need to justify our decisions: 'I stay at home because...' 'I work because...' 'I don't want/have children because...' and so on. It all comes back to the idea of should. Women feel they should have children because we can. They should be working Mums because their predecessors fought for these rights. Contrary to this, they should stay at home because their children need them. Somewhere within us, are all of the expectations of women of the past entrained on us? Confusing.
Should we really be using the word 'should' or could we ban it from our vocabulary? Just as we raid our costume cupboard, we could consider raising our lexicon for a more appropriate challenge.
*note: while writing this, my Son was eating blueberries, half smiling and watching TV.
Thursday, 21 August 2014
Poem: Taking liberties.
I've written this tonight, more as a performance poem/spoken word performance. Here it is anyway.
Taking liberties.
I want you to know that what you did was all worth it, what you said turned to concrete,
While I'm breaking, see me spit.
The movements I'm making, liberties that I'm taking, with a lexicon forming from the back of my throat.
If lust was our calling, we were more than appalling. From our insides to out, we're always pushing and peeling.
With a caustic container, always tried to contain ya. Number fifteen performer at the end of your year.
If love is the reason, darlin, you commit treason. Every day of your life, you're always spilling the poison.
In beauty we trust, obviously hope is a must. For every self respecting poet who is covered in rust.
You see, you can't believe in fate if you are gonna survive. You know you can't believe in God if you are gonna make my brain cry.
Cos everybody knows that reason is the way you can thrive, as Liza said "everybody loves a winner" so you'd better abide.
Remember, life is a cabaret, old chum and you are the only clown. You see the tears you cry are phony, it's time for you to get down.
If love is the reason, darling, your drug is pleasing. Everyday of your life, you're building my poison.
Wednesday, 20 August 2014
The truth of it.
A whole year has passed since my family changed and I've not really shared my experience as a single Mum so far.
It's hard. Really hard. Almost impossible to define.
On a practical level, it can be exhausting, especially balancing a challenging full time career with a demanding toddler. Lack of sleep and being expected to be on top form are tiring. More tiring than I could have imagined.
On a financial level, it's stretching, worrying and unfair, quite simply.
The practical and financial challenges are easier to deal with, however, than the emotional and social tests. The children's birthday parties, with happy Mums and Dads, so proud of their child are hard. No one is supposed to say that, of course, and generally we (single Mums) only say so to each other. While I am happy spending my life as a pair, it still doesn't stop the agony of watching the Daddy fetch the drinks, sing his child happy birthday or kiss his partner in a moment of thanks for the family they have built.
Now, whenever I say this, kind friends reply by saying that these couples are probably miserable anyway. This isn't the point though; I don't wish misery on anyone. I truly hope they are happy but it still causes temporary blindness and the heaviest, yet emptiest hole imaginable.
Then, come the sympathetic glances, questions of how I manage and overly caring gestures. I am not ungrateful, as this comes from a good place, but I can't help but feel a little abnormal.
Everyone around me has either found their happy ending or is just embarking upon it.
I am not asking for sympathy and I am not asking for praise. This is just the truth of it.
Sunday, 20 July 2014
Motherhood: primal or progress?
I want to be attractive. I want to feel attractive. Vain as it may be; it's important to me. I have come to a place where I am happy with my body and can always rely on my standard 'I look good considering I have a 2 year old...oh, and he was MASSIVE!' I make jokes. It's what I do.
Becoming single again and building a relationship post baby brings a whole new element to this. The father of your child kind of has to deal with your post baby body. It comes with the territory. A new man, however, is a totally different game. With a new relationship comes reflection upon your own body. On the one hand, a new found confidence and, on the other, a curious predicament.
Am I different to other women who haven't had children? How much so? Does it make a difference?
Following a passing comment I made about my stretch marks, the Mad Hatter* replied with something simply perfect. To him, my changed body makes me more attractive and sexy because I have undertaken the most primal experience possible.
With this in mind, I come to think how, as women, we are encouraged to cover or fix ourselves. This idea of our changing bodies being part of a primal transformation seems to me progress. In a society which shames our bodies through the pre and post birth stages, this return to primitive acceptance gives us all something to learn from.
I'm not saying the Mad Hatter is perfect but it certainly gave me something to consider.
Carroll's Alice said 'I cannot go back to yesterday because I was a different person then.' How very true this is.
*For the purposes of this blog, my partner is called the Mad Hatter purely because of our mutual love of Alice in Wonderland.
A dull update.
It's been a while since I've posted anything. I won't bore you with my life over the past couple of months but here's the lowdown:
Ethan is almost 2 and has been going to a new nursery. His tantrums are mental but his personality and our relationship is wonderful.
I have a man in my life. The details are too special to share.
I am teaching at a new school. I love it.
A year after my life was shattered, things are good. I'm good. It isn't even about having a bloke or my job. I am just good. Obviously, there are down days and tough times but they soon brighten up.
Monday, 21 April 2014
Matters of survival.
Firstly, it is ok to feel angry or upset. Most of all, it is ok to cry. Normal in fact. More than this, it is ok to cry in front of others and more than ok to talk about it. This is not a sign of weakness.
Secondly, others can help. I don't have to do everything on my own and others are actually happy to help. This is not a sign of weakness.
Finally, that dreams are still possible. It isn't all over for me and it is ok to believe this. This also is not a sign of weakness.
Parental responsibility and parental guilt.
I carry this concept of 'more' with me in everything I do; most of all in parenting. Should I be doing more as a Mother? Does my son need more? Does he want more? Can I give him more? How can I provide more? More time. More of a home. More of a future.
This is not to say that our life is in any way lacking. We are incredibly lucky to have a home, my income and each other. However, I cannot help but think on a daily basis that I should own a home for Ethan, have savings ready for his future and just provide more for him. Perhaps this is the price we pay for modern existence. We want for more when our lives already hold so much. Or maybe this is something of a personal nature. Something far less political; far less of a social study.
I have been thinking about where this idea comes from and have come to several conclusions. The first is that I have always pushed myself. Whether this be in my career or personal life, I have always expected a lot of myself. I was an 'average' student who achieved highly, I was the unpopular girl who became the centre of attention, I was the goth who settled down to have a family. I always worked hard at whatever my focus was and this still stands today in my rather unusual life.
As a Mother it is impossible for me to reach the heights I aspire to, for what I yearn for is my child to want for nothing and always be happy. Impossible. As parents we want this from the second we are aware of the existence of our child, but it literally isn't possible. Children will be unhappy, as babies, teenagers and adults. As parents I guess all we can do is be there to make the unhappiness slightly less unbearable. What a horrible job that is in reality.
Underneath all of this, at the root of this feeling is a fear of failure. I fear I have suffered failure as a writer, as a singer and as a wife. Now, these things may may not necessarily seem as though they link to a fear of failure as a parent, but one ultimately makes me feel as though I have already failed my son. I wanted my child to grow up with both his parents together as a unit. Maybe I am old fashioned, maybe I was dreaming, maybe it was all a joke.
Jokes aside, I know that my son still has both of his parents and that I am here for him in every way. I do my best for him and he will hopefully grow up understanding that. However much I know this, it doesn't stop my from thinking otherwise. Maybe this is the curse of parenting, or the curse of an analytically inclined mind.
I am not sure exactly.
Perhaps I should just be.
Sunday, 20 April 2014
Rebel parent?
Now, I don't consider myself a rebel parent in any way. My son has a strict 7pm bedtime, I use the naughty step and he lives, by all accounts, a 'normal' day to day existence.
However, according to this article I am a total rebel. Go me. Here is a rundown of my rebellious parenting according to those on the list I am 'guilty' of:
1. Giving your toddler undiluted fruit juice.
Shit the bed, I am mental. Ethan sometimes has undiluted orange juice and, worse still, a fruit shoot!
2. You gave your toddler a chocolate biscuit.
Yesterday, Ethan found an Easter egg, put it into his cup to fashion his own brand of chocolate dispenser and ate most of it. Go figure.
3. You give your toddler screen time.
We have watched Monsters Inc. or Monsters University at least once every single day of the Easter break. It makes me want to set fire to Sully and Mike. If I was a rebel I would throw my TV out of the window in order to not watch this film again.
4. You spend time doing absolutely nothing.
PJ days are some of our best days, after a long week of work and nursery. Hardly Courtney Love.
5. Sometimes you ignore the bath, teeth, bed routine.
Yep. Still in bed at 7pm but sometimes, with a grumpy toddler, that bath just isn't worth it.
6. You let your toddler make his own friends.
Well, yes. This isn't a dictatorship.
7. You don't follow gender rules.
Ethan has dinosaurs and superheroes alongside his kitchen and baby doll in her pink buggy. Even writing this reinforces gender stereotypes. I'm not a rebel; I just live in the present day.
8. You let him play with swords.
A foam one, yes. I also play at being monsters. He's not actually a monster though. It's called make believe which means it's not real.
9. You take your child to the pub.
Twice in the past week, in fact. We had a lovely dinner and I had a lovely pint of cider. Just call me Miley Cyrus, I'm so rebellious. Oh, it may have been my twerking in the pub garden after our scampi and chips which caused that pseudonym.
Nine out of twelve on the rebel checklist. Must try harder next time.
Granted, the list does also say that it is 'ok' to do these things but should we really need permission to just be a parent?
Saturday, 12 April 2014
First Aid.
In clear view, I see myself. It comes to me that I will never have this. My time has passed, as the past lies dormant, undercutting all. All that I have been and all I have been is shaped by a damaged dream. A broken paradise deep within.
The bride, glowing and warm. The groom, proud and home. Their dreams, fresh and exciting. I stand just outside of this familiar scene, gazing with joy for them and rot for myself.
I will forever remain a stillborn bride, a stagnant wife. First, my heart was broken. Second, my dreams were broken. Which is worse? I know the truth. A truth which is now more evident than ever.
With the blindfold peeled away, I can see the truth. My truth.
I keep the blindfold close, in case of emergency. I fold it carefully and store it in my first aid kit. Alongside this are bandages, pain relief and sedatives. There is a needle and thread, crudely packaged, resting on top of an unopened instruction manual. Should I open it?
Hidden in the first aid kit is an old fashioned pack for open heart surgery. There are implements and tools of all shapes and sizes, framing the heart itself. The heart which beats quietly, echoing, taunting: "Take me. Wear me. Use me." This is his whisper, as he waits, impatiently and sinister.
I have looked upon this heart before. I even approached it once, with a hesitant finger and thumb. I am closer now. Closer and calmer. This heart is mine.
Friday, 11 April 2014
Need, want and independence.
A boisterous toddler, Ethan now has real personality, holds the most basic of conversations and yet has far more complex needs and, moreover, wants than as a baby.
At the weekend, we went for lunch at our local The Alex with friends and got to discussing when Ethan gets older and starts to work. Maybe he will work in a pub. Maybe Auntie Sam, Auntie Katie and Mum will embarrass him by popping in for lunch. What kind of young man will Ethan become? I have an image in my head of what he will look like, what he will sound like, who he will be. The frightening thing is that I have a feeling it won't take long to get to this point.
The last ten years since I was a teenager myself have passed in what seems likes minutes. All of a sudden I am a Mother, with relationships and marriages behind me, sitting on the brink of thirty. This is not to sound negative at all as my life now is richer and fuller than that of my 19 year old self. It has just taken years, yet moments to get here.
Ethan is no longer a baby. That part of his and my life has passed. The night waking, breast feeding and endless rocking is finished. Done. The Ethan of now is loud, excited and sometimes seems to need me less.
Or, does he simply need me differently?
On his first trip into London on Monday, this was more obvious, wonderful and alarming than usual. As we walked the streets of Camden, made friends with animals in the zoo and travelled by train and underground, Ethan seemed to grow even more into a little boy in front of my eyes. He ran with confidence, laughed as an emotional, not biological reaction and was wild with excitement.
There were moments, however, when my little boy still needed me. He didn't need to suckle for nutrition and comfort, but needed to tell me or show me things, to share chips with me and to hold hands while running through puddles.
Similarly, he needs my Mum, his Nan, for cuddles, for laughs and for playtime. He needs his Grandad, my Dad, for walks to the shop, noisy games and secret sweets. Ethan may not need me solely, but he still does. The difference is the wonderful independence he now has. It may feel like rejection and loss at times but, ultimately, I have utilised our close relationship and Ethan's reliance and trust of me to give him an independent and brave spirit. If this gives any prediction of his future young man, he will be an incredible young man indeed.
From this...
...to this...
...to now...
Monday, 31 March 2014
Should I give myself to you, the reader, completely?
I admit to being an incredibly complex human. I am not simple in any aspect of my life; my 'self' does not exist in simple means. I am unsure as to whether I bring this on myself. I suppose I must do in some way. I am a juxtaposition of romance and bitterness; fantasy and reality. In my daily life I somehow manage, just about, to reach a middle ground for the purposes of the general viewing public. If I were to pour my heart and soul out to you now, in this mutually desolate and overcrowded stage of the Internet, I am unsure how you would feel. Unsure whether you would want to read on and how it would taint your reading of past, present and future. If you were ever to meet me, would you feel fear or affection?
At the bottom of my mind lies the remains of romance, the bones of hope and the wings of youth. Surrounding this is a smog laden poisonous cancer of hate, bitterness and depression. There is nothing pleasant in this place, nothing pure, nothing optomistic. The disease of the creative self, the thoughtful self, laughs at the graveyard of my past. It mocks the simple dreams, the innocent laughter and secretly weeps at its loss. If you look beneath my witty retort, endless words and passion, you will find a stack of corpses from long ago. There are no mourners for them, no flowers, no goodbyes. Only ear bleeding screams and cries from a locked room, hidden from polite society.
Is that what you want to hear? I will leave it to you, the reader, to decide which part of me is my true 'self.' Or maybe, you will be deciding which 'self' you would like me to be. Your call.
Thursday, 20 March 2014
Fight fire with fire.
What happens when this dream is stolen? Do we die or are we just empty, still life carcasses? Active taxidermy, drowning in our own weakness and disappointment.
It has felt, at times, like my emotional circulation has been cut off. Calling it a barrier or guard doesn't even cover it. It is as though every ounce of want, need or belief in love has been burned. This is not to say that my life or happiness were lost in the fire, as they survived in my son. It is just that my previously undying belief in love and a relationship as a possibility genuinely formed a pyre, which was burning out in the distance. So far away, I could no longer taste the ash or feel the warmth.
I have recently come to realise that possibly, just possibly, the belief and desire had not been permanently destroyed. Maybe it had just moved further away and needs tempting from the flames. This is not to say that I am, by any means the naieve romantic of a past life. Is this sad? I'm unsure. All I know is that this slight lack of belief has provided and still is a procurer of protection. For that, I am thankful and it may remain in part.
I now feel as though the door of my centre of belief is ajar. Available to peek at for those deserving. To be able to honestly say that my openness has returned, if only partially, is almost new to me. As though this is a different form of availability and belief that in my past life.
Sometimes, an internal fire, wild yet equally tame is the counter action to the flames in the distance. An equal battle. Balanced perhaps.
Cliche as it is, they say fight fire with fire. If this is the case, then perhaps the pyre and ash can remain in the distance. Perhaps there is no need to burn out completely.
Tuesday, 11 February 2014
Times they are a-changin'
"Then you better start swimmin'
Or you'll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin'."
Or you'll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin'."
Bob Dylan
To say that parenting is an ever evolving, eternally eveloping partnership is, for me, stating the ever obvious. In the case of Ethan and I, our relationship as parent and child has been through huge changes within a short space of time. While the causes of these changes may not have always been positive, our relationship is solid, stable and strong. Now, this isn't me preaching as to my fantastic parenting but making a declaration of independence. Independence against the natural order of parenting as guilt ridden. While I am in no way suggesting I do not feel standard parent guilt, I have also grown to acknowledge that I am good at what I do. I am a very good full time working, single Mum of one well adjusted little boy.
When looking at my friends and how we have changed, kids or no kids, I am certain of one thing. We have all grown better with age, or maybe it just took this long to see ourselves for who we really are?
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