The funny side to life as a working single Mum. My stories of embarrassing escapades, toddler tantrums and great expectations.
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
Thursday, 29 August 2013
Time for tea.
When you feel let down and at odds with the world a simple cup of hot, steamy nectar makes it all seem slightly warmer, even for a brief moment. Over the past few weeks of personal disappointment, confusion and discontent in my own life, tea has been a staple in both my physical and emotional diet.
Contrary to this, tea is also a fitting accompaniment to friendship, love and celebration. A sign that someone cares enough or that you care for them. A symbol that everything is all will be at least alright.
Tea. I can't imagine life without it.
Wednesday, 31 July 2013
I *heart* Caitlin Moran.
Moran is indie without being pretentious, intelligent with just enough ego and funny but dry enough. Like a good cider; she's no white lightening but she isn't quite a Bulmers either. Definitely not a scrumpy but certainly not completely refined dry. Caitlin Moran is the Brothers cider to our sisterhood. Original enough to be convincing but tastes nice enough that you don't have to pretend you like her because she's cool.
To then discover that this woman is not only married...yes, married! How bloody normal. So normal, it makes it unusual. Not only is this woman married to a man, she has two children. Two of them! Two. Of. Them. This, of course, makes her even more accessible for a woman of my intellect and prowess.
I had discovered Moran a few years ago on the telly box interviewing Fay Weldon and talking about her own childhood of being one of several children, home schooling and family financial struggles. I found her interesting back then but hasn't picked up on her again until finding this gem of a book, bought for a mixture of I know her, the quote on the front is funny and her boots are awesome.
As you read Moran's thoughts and theories on life, you build a picture bigger than her writing; a portrait in fact of her life. Like me, Moran embarrasses herself a lot and has string opinions, a lot of those too. She writes passionately about her hatred for party bags which is something on my current agenda for the first time. Alongside this, Moran writes about feminism in a way so honest and new it's like it's a whole new concept. She writes about fashion as an outsider, as someone who likes to look in and occasionally step over the threshold, soon returning to those refreshing DM boots.
To give you an example of Moran's brilliance, here is her take on our addiction to caffeine:
"So many aspects of modern life I'd never understood before-things that had completely baffled me about society-suddenly became obvious-once I'd spent a month off my face on tea."
Moran doesn't write as a wife, as a mother, even as a writer. She writes as a woman, encapsulating all sides of her moranthology and leaving them wide open for her readers to delight over.
I urge you to go and read some of Moran's work and if you see her, tell her Cat Hadley is always up for getting off her face with her on beer, or a cup of tea.
I *heart* Caitlin Moran.
Moran is indie without being pretentious, intelligent with just enough ego and funny but dry enough. Like a good cider; she's no white lightening but she isn't quite a Bulmers either. Definitely not a scrumpy but certainly not completely refined dry. Caitlin Moran is the Brothers cider to our sisterhood. Original enough to be convincing but tastes nice enough that you don't have to pretend you like her because she's cool.
To then discover that this woman is not only married...yes, married! How bloody normal. So normal, it makes it unusual. Not only is this woman married to a man, she has two children. Two of them! Two. Of. Them. This, of course, makes her even more accessible for a woman of my intellect and prowess.
I had discovered Moran a few years ago on the telly box interviewing Fay Weldon and talking about her own childhood of being one of several children, home schooling and family financial struggles. I found her interesting back then but hasn't picked up on her again until finding this gem of a book, bought for a mixture of I know her, the quote on the front is funny and her boots are awesome.
As you read Moran's thoughts and theories on life, you build a picture bigger than her writing; a portrait in fact of her life. Like me, Moran embarrasses herself a lot and has string opinions, a lot of those too. She writes passionately about her hatred for party bags which is something on my current agenda for the first time. Alongside this, Moran writes about feminism in a way so honest and new it's like it's a whole new concept. She writes about fashion as an outsider, as someone who likes to look in and occasionally step over the threshold, soon returning to those refreshing DM boots.
To give you an example of Moran's brilliance, here is her take on our addiction to caffeine:
"So many aspects of modern life I'd never understood before-things that had completely baffled me about society-suddenly became obvious-once I'd spent a month off my face on tea."
Moran doesn't write as a wife, as a mother, even as a writer. She writes as a woman, encapsulating all sides of her moranthology and leaving them wide open for her readers to delight over.
I urge you to go and read some of Moran's work and if you see her, tell her Cat Hadley is always up for getting off her face with her on beer, or a cup of tea.
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