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baby made a mess

The mother of all blow-outs…

Today, I had the mother (and first) of all blow-outs with my 3.5 year old. 

We spent 20 minutes screaming at each other. It was like looking at a snapshot of things to come in what I was hoping wouldn’t be for another 10 years. If at all. 

The absolute rage in her tear-stained, red, snot-drenched face was shocking. 

It was all a power struggle. She didn’t want to put her Kindle on charge and go for a walk when I suggested… she wanted to do it on her terms (10 minutes later). 

I gave her the choice. It was nearing dinner time and a grey cloud was looming. She said she wanted to stay home.

I explained the consequences of her choice to her over and over. She kept crying and screaming “but I want to go NOW”. It continued. I took a step back and let her cry it out. She worked herself further and further into a rage and came back for round two. I explained it all again. She screamed at me again and I screamed back. I told her that it was the end of the conversation and said that I was going (as in going upstairs to feed the cats). She grabbed my arm and BIT my ass. 

She’s never been a biter. Something just SNAPPED and she lost her shit. I cried and managed to loosen her grip. 

Soon after, she got on my lap and apologised and said “You must never say you’re going. You can’t leave me mummy”. In that moment I realised my choice of words made her snap. 

We talked and apologised for shouting at one another and explained that it didn’t mean that we didn’t still love each other forever. 

It was a daunting experience. One born mostly out of exhaustion. 


World Mental Health Day

Today is World Mental Health Day. I’ve read some harrowing stories by friends and strangers on social media throughout the day. 

I envy their ability to put their truths out there. I still don’t feel able. I’ve been so good at pushing back and putting a face on this subject. I don’t have the poetic, deep words to describe the dispair that is sometimes felt. I also feel that I’m fairly “lucky” with my brushes with depression. 

This year didn’t start off well. I had a miscarriage. I think this was a trigger for what would later become one of the worst bouts of depression I’d had in a while (or since I took an overdose and was taken away in an ambulance many years ago). I woke up crying every day for about a month. My husband had this look of concern on his face. He hugged me tightly. Asked if it was his fault. A lot.  Said he didn’t like seeing me this way, felt helpless. But he continued to be patient and continued to hug me. Ramona quite often said “Mummy, you can’t be scared because I love you”. It killed me. It hurt every time she said it whilst wrapping her arms around me. Lucky for me, the cloud eventually lifted and I almost felt/feel human again. 

I feel all these things. Useless. Crap mother. Crap partner. Crap human. 

Today has been HARD. And the anguish I saw in my child over her attempted power play, I see in myself. 

I must try harder tomorrow. 

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The age old Tupperware problem…

I’m ill. Again / still.

I can’t shake this cold. It was reignited after braving storm Imogen (ftw. Imogen. Seriously. What’s with the ridiculous names?) to take Ramona to playgroup.

But being a full-time mum means you aren’t allowed to be ill. So instead, I tidied.

Continue reading “The age old Tupperware problem…”

Enter: the Sh*tlord

Yesterday, R and I had a perfect day under a beautiful London winter sun.

Today? She turned into a bit of a sh*tlord.

Why is it that as soon as you think you’re getting the hang of this motherhood thing, that bitch called reality comes and smacks you back down?

Continue reading “Enter: the Sh*tlord”

David Bowie 1947-2016

“Did you hear that? Wake up…”

There are only a handful of reasons as to why my husband would wake me in the morning whilst our daughter is still sleeping beside us…

Continue reading “David Bowie 1947-2016”

Where the f*cking f*ck is Peppa f*cking Pig?!

If ever a photo summed up modern day fatherhood, it would be this:

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OH HOW I LAUGHED SO.

Continue reading “Where the f*cking f*ck is Peppa f*cking Pig?!”

Monthly Roundup: December 2015

Ok, so we’re already halfway through January. Or at least it feels like it. Christmas a distant, blurry (or drunken, if you were lucky) memory. But I’m going to persist with a monthly roundup (instead of a quarterly one; I fell asleep writing those so I can’t imagine anyone actually read them).

The month of CHRISTMAS. I’m a bit of a fanatic. Though not in the sense that I like to put up the decorations in October (although I do usually start accumulating presents around mid September).

Continue reading “Monthly Roundup: December 2015”

Not another New Year post…

I’m not one for Happy New Year posts. Or sentimentality for that matter. And I’ve never made New Year’s Resolutions (though agreed to partake in one three years ago when my [now] husband suggested we get married). But this year I thought I’d give it a go.

1. Be [more] present.

Most nights, after putting Ramona to bed, I go downstairs and after the flood of relief has washed over me, the sense of guilt seeps in. I feel like a failure. I’m not saying I should give in to every whiny whim that’s thrown my way, but postponing a response to an email or giving in and reading the same book for the 20th time at bedtime isn’t such a bad thing. On occasion.

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2. Stop following blogs / reading comments on Facebook / internet that I know will irritate the f*ck out of me.

Seriously, when did it become acceptable for people to be so vile towards one another? From: You’re a sh!t mum if you don’t breastfeed. You’re disgusting if you do breastfeed. Stop breastfeeding in public you pig. Your baby is too old to still be breastfeeding because I f*cking say so. To: absolute abhorrent racism. I’m sick of it. Can everyone just please shut the f*ck up?

3. Give up breastfeeding R by the time she’s 2.

Thanks Internet you bullying know-it-all d!ckhead.

I gave up the daytime feeds a while ago but it’s the night feeds that need tackling. I suppose it’d be nice to not have to wear a bra to bed…

4. Plan ahead and do sh!t.

As everyone knows, getting out and about with a baby / toddler can challenge the most saintly. I want to attempt to plan and execute at least a few decent day trips per month around London with R.

5. Write more.

Just do it you lazy good-for-nothing.

Hem

6. Try to cook more.

Give my husband a break from cooking every night. Try to actually follow a recipe instead of second-guessing it and ruining f*cking everything.

7. Exercise.

Absolutely tedious. I don’t know who I am right now. But as I’ve not made resolutions in the past, I think I can get away with putting this one on the list.

When I was pregnant, I really enjoyed doing some antenatal yoga in the evening. It made me feel a bit less like a fat, useless tw@t who was sitting around just waiting to squeeze one out.

8. Stop getting annoyed at Question Time.

This will probably be the hardest resolution to keep.

I rarely get to the end of an episode of QT. I usually storm off to bed, shouting expletives at the husband and the TV, a deep internal rage brewing before tossing and turning in bed convinced that we live in a land of tw@tting f*cking tw@ts.

9. Don’t drink for the sake of it (if I ever get to go out again).

I’m boring and socially inept and I’m sick of pretending otherwise. Therefore, I won’t be keeping myself topped up for the sake of conversation and to not seem so awkward. Whatevs.

10. Me time(?)

I’ve hardly spent any time away from R. It’s just the pattern we’ve fallen into. I went 15 months without taking a time-out from her. Early December, I attended a baby shower and reluctantly left her with my husband for a couple of hours…before they came to meet me.

This was her face when it suddenly dawned on her that she wasn’t actually coming with me:

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It was difficult and actually not an enjoyable feeling for me. I felt like a wreck. I guess this rezzie should actually be “try to enjoy some me time”.

11. FINISH THE F*CKING BRIDGE (BRON/BROEN) III.

Seriously. I’m part way through episode 10. Still. I can’t even politely take my computer in the bathroom whilst I take a dump so I can watch just that little bit more because I’m not even at home.

12. Don’t beat myself up when the above isn’t achievable. 

Apart from no.11 because seriously, if I don’t get to the end of the last episode of The Bridge, something has gone very, very wrong in my life. Maybe I died or something.

T’is the season to be jolly, f*ck-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la

It’s Christmas. Finally.

Hubby is ill. Grandma is ill. Mother-in-law is stressed. We have an extra head expected at the table in the form of a recently divorced pal of the father-in-law (second divorce, talks non-stop, usually about trains). I’m stuck watching Peppa Pig because for Ramona, this day is not yet different to any other day.

All I want for Christmas is an hour to watch the final episode of series III of The Bridge (Bron/Broen if you will). And Luther.

Merry f*cking Christmas. x

Autumn is over… (Part II)

Continuing with the Autumn round-up: my adorable little bundle of joy continues to test her boundaries and I openly weep in Sainsbury’s…

Continue reading “Autumn is over… (Part II)”

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