The funny side to life as a working single Mum. My stories of embarrassing escapades, toddler tantrums and great expectations.
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
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.
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.
Monday, 7 October 2013
An Ode to Amateur Poetry.
An ode to amateur poetry.
Again, you see me naked.
Cruel and attentive, mine
Again, you leave me naked
And blind to solace.
As always, you tend to this,
Broken heart of mine,
And make it yours, unclean
Again, you leave me empty
And deaf to true tones.
Words, mean everything and
Nothing, all at once,
Where I stand alone, unkind
You submerge me, weightless,
Drowning in you.
Cat Howe.
7th October 2013
Tuesday, 23 October 2012
Keep Rollin', Rollin', Rollin'
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| Knackered from the rolling! |
The most challenging part of the whole thing was probably getting it attached to the door frame in the first place. It seems baby equipment really isn't built to be easy to make or set up at all. The pram/car seat/transformer is the worst, with its secret buttons and straps and parts it really is one of the biggest challenges of having a baby!
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| Woooooooooooooah! |
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| Happy in this awesome number! |
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| Modelling my new H&M outfit! |
Monday, 22 October 2012
Diablo Jo's Rockabilly Accessories: Treats for Mamma and Bambino!
In writing this blog I realised I have missed one thing which is probably more important to me than I like to make out: fashion. To clarify, when I say fashion I mean unique and original ideas and creations which make you look and feel good, not TOWIE inspired dullness. I like to think that I am far too interesting and clever to be bothered about silly things like clothes, make-up and hair but the truth is I am a girl and I like pretty things! Like I say to the teenage girls I teach, there is nothing wrong with enjoying these things but this doesn't stop you being a creative, intelligent individual! My style, if you can call it that, varies between poetic bohemian (ha!) to indie comic book geek to 50s rock 'n' roll. The later of the three is my favourite look but the one I have always struggled with. To embody real 50s glamour you need to maintain yourself well, from your hair to your nails it works best when you make an effort. Sadly, I don't have great nails and wear my hair short. While I love having short hair and think it suits me, it doesn't quite fit the 50s chic look. Here is where the rock 'n' roll comes in!
While pregnant I came across some outstanding headscarves which provide the perfect solution to my hair woes. Designed to tie in a typically retro style headscarves come in a range of cute and kitsch designs, from classic flowers to edgy tattoo inspired skulls, each and every one stunning! Throughout my pregnancy and beyond I wear Diablo Jo's creations, not only to help on bad hair days but to make a simple jeans and t-shirt combo far more glamorous! Since finding Diablo Jo's I have found an array of wonderful hair accessories which are just beautiful but the latest addition to the range is 'Bambino Diablo' which includes fabulous pieces for your little rocker! The skirts for girls are gorgeous and I can imagine they would make any little girl look and feel amazing. As for the boys there is an inspired range of beautifully crafted bibs in the same designs as the headscarves. Designed to make your little dude look similar to a cowboy they hold so much more style value than the usual dribble catchers without losing their practical value.
These are two of my favourite designs from the Bambino range:
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| Anchors Away! |
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| Skulls and Roses! |
Sunday, 23 September 2012
Lazy days, tattooing days and an impending birthday.
As I approach my 28th birthday tomorrow I realise it has taken me some time to reach the point where I am truly happy. Not drunk happy with false smiles, not plastic happy with forced hope, but happy. Smiling so the wrinkles show happy, wearing no make up and baggy PJ bottoms happy, really happy. I can credit this whole heartedly to my husband, who came out of nowhere and shook me into reality, our reality. If someone had told me that I would be sharing my 28th birthday with my 23 year old husband, who I sang Shania Twain to at our reception in a 50s diner while 16 weeks pregnant with our now 7 week old son I would have at least laughed out loud. Here I am though, laying in bed with the most straightforward happiness available; a wonderful husband and beautiful baby boy beside me. Nothing breeds smiles like days like these.
Just to clarify I am not knocking drunk happy. That can still be fun, even for a wrinkly Mummy like me!
I also sit here with a new tattoo to share. Yesterday as a birthday present we both went and had tattoos together. Charlie ended up having a disaster piece repaired, which we had created on a previous lazy Sunday pre-marriage, pre-pregnancy. I, however, am now the proud owner of a gorgeous pink and blue cupcake with 'Ethan' on the band. I am sure in years to come our son will find this highly embarassing and question what his arrival has to do with cakes! Mummy loves Ethan, Mummy loves cakes. Simple. While being tattooed yesterday the in laws looked after Ethan and he was perfectly behaved of course! This was the first time (other than an essential blood test) that I have been out without Ethan in tow and the first time me and Charlie have been out just the 2 of us since his birth. Some may find it strange but getting tattooed was the perfect way to spend this precious time as a couple. We have both always shared a love of tattoo art, Charlie is a tattoo artist himself and one of our first points of contact was when comparing ink. I can see more tattoo outings on the cards in the future.
My new tattoo by Darren at Thundertats, Leigh-on-Sea.
While being tattooed and chatting to the artist he said something which I have been thinking about since: 'a tattoo is the only thing you will take to your grave.' This may sound depressing but it made me reflect on our life and really consider how our family memories which will be tattooed on our hearts and sleeves are the only thing which matters. Do I care if we never afford to buy a house? Am I upset if we can't buy expensive clothes? Does material gain interest me? Not so much. I knew this all along but I think the impending birthday might be getting to me and making me realise that as I head closer to 30 I really haven't done too badly for myself!
Saturday, 4 August 2012
10 things to do when overdue in pregnancy (the alternative list)
We have
all read the usual lists which contain enlightening suggestions of things to do when overdue
such as reading a good book, watching a film or washing baby clothes. In all
honesty these tips are either ridiculously obvious or as dull hearing yet
another woman tell you how kinky 'Fifty Shades...' is. I like to think that the
following is a list of far more inventive and entertaining ways to spend your
final days with child:
1, Go out
for dinner in a busy restaurant and, when you get massive cramp in your massive
arse, jump up suddenly and loudly. If not suffering cramps, do it anyway. Watch
the staff shit themselves and the childless couples around you look really
uncomfortable.
3. Take a bus or train ride and when (if) someone offers you a seat act horrified and demand to know what they are suggesting.
4. Head
to Boots but not for your usual breast pads and Bio Oil. Browse the contraceptive
aisle for a while and engage an assistant in an in depth conversation about which
method is best.
5. Ask
for a tour of your local gym. When they ask you what you want to use the gym
for tell them you have a bit of a belly to sort out for your holiday to Ibiza
next month.
6. Go
speed dating and watch the horrified and potentially disgusted looks on the
faces of the singletons. In particular the men as they sit down uncomfortably
and think of something to say.
7. Take a
trip to Ann Summers. Ask the assistant for advice on the crotchless knickers
and nipple tassels. If you are really brave you could even ask them which sex
toy is best to bring on labour.
8. Go to
your local shop or cafe and pick up a bag of prawn cocktail crisps. Proceed to
ask the assistant whether you can eat them because they contain shellfish and
you are concerned about the risks in pregnancy. Please note someone genuinely
asked our midwife this question. I shit you not.
9. Take a
trip to the cinema to see a 15 or 18 rated film and ask the staff whether you
allowed because you are carrying a minor. Even when they look confused and tell
you it is not a problem, leave quickly, looking upset and ashamed.
10. The
possibilities are endless. Use your imagination to make being overdue in
pregnancy as inventive and enjoyable as possible.
Note: I
have not tried out all of these ideas and am not a medical professional. I am
not suggesting that sex toys or any other point from the list will help to bring on
labour or is a good plan in any way.
Friday, 3 August 2012
The Moth and The Chamber Pot.
I spent what I consider a considerable amount of time simply maneuvering myself out of the bath like something more reminiscent of a creature from some Japanese horror story of revenge and doom than the glowing earth mother I am in my mind. Having relaxed and feeling rather proud of managing to hoist myself from the bath I suddenly felt an onset of unusual pains. Embracing my inner big screen demon I wandered around a little, sat on the sofa, had a crack at bouncing on the exercise ball. Imagine if someone shagged one of the zombies from 'The Walking Dead' and got it pregnant then then left it to get on with it in an airy flat by the sea. Imagine a potential victim of Jeremy Kyle, who even he couldn't find the right synonym for 'scum' because, well, she's dead and trying to eat him. Now that would make daytime TV far more interesting but that's a whole other story.
Back to my toilet/moth story. Feeling tired after all that undead action I headed to my chamber pot only to find that even this would be a challenge to face. When will it stop? Still feeling unusual I reclined and realised nothing was happening down there, other than the original pain. I would apologise for too much information but if you didn't get a vibe for the subject matter from the heading I refuse to take responsibility for your lack of responsibility. Already uncomfortable, it was at this point I fell off the toilet seat, which appears to have broken somehow. Probably because of my massive arse or belly weighing it down. After 9 months it has just given up. Oh, the irony.
This pretty much covers the whole toilet fiasco, except for an uninvited guest. The moth. It may have been a tiny beast but it seemed determined to make my afternoon toilet adventure even more eventful. So, here I am at now over 9 months pregnant, in a bath towel, looking and acting like a zombie on the toilet. Falling off it, getting back on. Fighting a moth all the way through Read into that whatever metaphor you will. I am just wondering whether Beyonce was in the same boat as she prepared to head to the hospital floor she had rented with her millions.
Thursday, 2 August 2012
Yoga: not just for hippies.
I can see what you are thinking. This woman is clearly a hippy so how does this support yoga as anything other than a pretenious pastime for the peculiar?
When I fell pregnant I hadn't undertaken a sustained amount of yoga time in several months and felt it would be an easy way to stay active without working too hard! However, I really have found that it has provided so much more than an easy way to prevent myself from feeling like a total sloth. While continuing to work full time in a highly pressured and intense job with the usual pregnancy gripes it was the only time I really experienced real relaxation. Whether this is simply because of the focus on movement, careful breathing or simply the quiet time to switch off I would suggest everyone should try it at some point, pregnant or otherwise. I also suggest doing so with the door shut with no risk of interruption to save yourself any hippy shame!
Right, I know that was a quick one but having completed my afternoon yoga session it is about time I headed off for some green tea and chick pea curry!
Wednesday, 1 August 2012
The good, the bad and the ugly.
I will start with the good but believe me, it is all downhill from here! People tell you about the pregnancy glow right? They may even tell you have it. In the early stages when you have been projectile vomiting for longer than the girl in 'The Exorcist' or even the parody of this legendary scene seen in 'Scary Movie 2' this is a ridiculous. As you move further on in pregnancy and seem to become more tired and aged than the coverage of the Olympic ticket farce already has done it feels on the cusp of offensive. Either this or blame the hormones. While some people may be saying you have the glow on a day when you really do look like shit to try and perk you up, I do believe there is some truth in it. I am not saying we have some kind of teen vampire sparkle but looking back at photos of myself I can see some truth in the preggo glow myth. Either that or blame the hormones. Again.
Next I come to the bad. There are plenty of bases to cover here. A base of constipation with a filling of piles and heart burn all topped off with stretch marks for good measure. Lush. This isn't to say that these aspects of pregnancy have been unbearable or are in any way not worth the final outcome; they are largly just amusing really. My own Mum saw my stretch marks just the other day and seemed surprised but told me, in her Rosie the Riveter manner to be proud of my stretch marks and what they represent. Outstanding advice in my opinion. Hence why these are only finalists in the category of bad. I am talking about the bad which are what I like to call baby wardens, belly monitors or the bump police. We all know them, those people who just love to comment on the size, shape and implication of your bump. They feel the need to tell you either how massive you are and what a beast of a baby you are going to have to push out of your nether regions or how tiny and lucky you are but that your baby will clearly be a tiny, malnourished specimen which will just pop out no trouble! In my case it was the later. From people I actually know to taxi drivers, it seems that bump development could be considered an Olympic spectator sport. I am sure they mean well but take a minute to think about it. At what other point in life do you approach a woman and tell them what a fat bastard or skeletal creature they are?
Time for the best bit. The ugly. If you have ever heard the phrase 'bumping uglies' I may have found where it originates. The challenge of the beaver in pregnancy. Let me take you back to my time in Ghana. My volunteer friend and I were getting dressed for the day and suddenly realised that with a lack of consistent running water or clean facilities we were beginning to develop an au natural approach to tackling said beaver and couldn't wait to tackle that bad boy on our return home. First on the list was a cheese sandwich and cup of tea. Next was the battle of the beaver. Let me tell you something, what I thought was a beaver discovery in Ghana was merely a simple squirrel in comparison to what has emerged over the past 9 months. In the beginning and for some time I was gaining points in the beaver wars but as time progressed and my view of the beast became even more limited I was forced to hold up my white flag and surrender. In the battle of Cat vs Beaver I am sad to say that beaver has well and truly won. KO.
You may as well laugh at the ridiculous bits of pregnancy. Otherwise you might just cry. Or maybe this is all the hormones talking yet again.
Tuesday, 31 July 2012
My Ghana experience.
I have always had an urge to volunteer doing something worthwhile with my time and energy. It was only once I became a Secondary English teacher here in the UK that an opportunity arose with a Ghanaian organisation. My trip to Ghana was my first flight alone, first trip alone and first adventure alone. When I reached Ghana I soon realised you are never alone; you always have friends and family. Whether this is through the wonderful children in Santrokofi, the amazing Agnes or volunteers and local friends you meet there is always someone to talk to! Once at The Living Faith Orphanage I was struck by how easily I was embedded in day to day life with the children. Every child at the orphanage is a pure joy to be with and I feel privileged to be able to hold them in my mind and heart.
Soon after my arrival at the orphanage a group of RHF volunteers arrived and immediately I felt welcomed into their family. I was due to leave for another project on my own but couldn’t bear to leave the children and just had a feeling that these volunteers were who I was meant to be with in Ghana. From the happiness I saw in the children when we took them to the park or read them stories to the support we gave each other in private times of emotion I truly feel that I have gained not only memories and experience from the children of Ghana but friends for life in the RHF volunteers. While at the orphanage I formed a close bond with Mambra, a girl who for unexplained reasons seemed to connect with me. I remember her asking me not to leave and the urge I felt to be able to return to Ghana and maintain my link with the children. When we moved on to teach at the school in Santrokofi I found that my teaching experience and understanding of children was a mixture of incredibly useful or totally useless! I was able to teach with freedom, creativity and most of all love. One of my greatest memories is of using music to encourage students to consider their personal feelings and it was amazing to see them go from being apprehensive to reflective of their own emotions and thought processes. We ended the lesson by taking the class outside as it was incredibly hot and it was unreal to see the class dancing and laughing to ‘You got the love’ by Florence and the Machine; a song which sums up Ghanaian love to me.
Beautiful Mambra.
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