The funny side to life as a working single Mum. My stories of embarrassing escapades, toddler tantrums and great expectations.
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?
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
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