tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19417523388865482242024-03-06T03:58:35.530+00:00The Unmumsy MumThe Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.comBlogger105125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-62761933478838630992017-07-21T21:50:00.002+01:002017-07-21T22:40:39.747+01:00Ten Things I Have Learned in My First Year as a School Mum<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">1. Schools still smell the same as they did in the 90s. Like
PVA glue mixed with cabbage. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2. It doesn’t matter how nice they are, teachers make you feel
like you are ten. You'll want to impress them and, despite being a fully-functioning adult who left primary school decades ago, you will find yourself at
parents’ evening sitting on Borrower-sized chairs worrying that you’re about to
get told off. <i>Yes, Miss. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">3. Your level of parental organisation will have a direct
correlation with where you are in the school year. For the first few weeks, when
you are as keen as mustard, a crisp uniform will be lovingly laid out the night
before, books will be read dutifully in the evening and you’ll arrive at the
classroom on time. By July, your child will be dragged out of the door wearing
something resembling a uniform (including odd socks and a greying polo shirt
you had to sniff) as you bust a bollock trying not to be late, again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">4. Phonics seems like the most cock-arsed way of doing things until you realise your child has developed the tools to start reading themselves. Which, after a year, is pretty marvellous. (Just don’t attempt reading when either of you are tired – I nearly had a breakdown in the first term over <i>Tim’s Din</i>). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">5. Schools can’t get enough of Comic Sans, a font which most of
us thought had died out at the turn of the century. I think they must use it
because it makes the letters in the book bag seem friendly.*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">6. Extracting info from your child about what they have been up
to requires a snack bribe and/or Chinese water torture. It might as well be
classified info. <i>What the chuff do they do all day?</i> The only information freely
offered relates to school dinners - I can confirm that Henry has consumed upwards
of 150 jacket potatoes since September. Oh and ‘school roast dinners are nicer
than Mummy’s!’ Super. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">7. There is no pride quite like the pride of watching your
child in their first Nativity play or end of term dance performance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">8. There is also no guilt quite like missing Sports Day (sorry
H-Bomb, Mummy had to work).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">9. On the very last day of term your child will look like a giant compared to how they looked on day one. They will also have developed an attitude, a sassy eye-roll and quite possibly knowledge of 'naughty words'. (<i>'Please don't call your brother a 'penis butt crack.'</i>)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">10. Teachers have a bloody hard job and don't get enough
credit. I will be forever grateful to the reception team in Henry’s class for
taking care of him when he cried every morning and then, when he found his
feet, for putting up with his daily renditions of Despacito. Respect of the highest order. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>If you are worried about your little one heading into school for the first time in September, please know that it will all be okay. You can see how emotionally charged I was the <b><a href="http://theunmumsymum.blogspot.co.uk/2016/09/here-we-are-then-henry-starts-school.html">day before Henry started school</a></b> and we have lived to tell the tale. </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">*MY MIND HAS BEEN BLOWN by the response to this question! It seems Comic Sans is widely used by schools because it has the </span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"><i>right form of letters</i> e.g. the 'a' kids learn when reading and writing. So there you go. I promise not to wince at it in future ;-)</span></span></div>
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The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-61826273708487413102017-05-16T14:12:00.002+01:002017-05-16T15:06:26.347+01:00Dear Anna: a Response to that Daily Mail 'Article'<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Dear Anna May Mangan,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I would usually start a letter with some textbook niceties, perhaps 'I hope this finds you well' or something about the weather, but I am just about to stick some fish fingers in the oven and crack open another bottle of Sauv Blanc, so I'll cut to the chase. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When I woke up this morning I discovered I had an unusually high number of social media notifications alongside several 'Have you seen the <i>Mail Online</i>, yet?' messages. A couple of years ago, this early morning flurry of online activity would almost certainly have thrown me into a sicky panic but this morning there was no such fear as I clicked through to your article. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I already knew what it would say. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In fact, if I had put money on it, I would have been on the lookout for a five-point attack:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Something about being slummy.</i> Check. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Something about swearing. </i>Check.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Something about alcohol. </i>Check.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Something about fish fingers. </i>Check.</span><br />
<i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">An overarching message about how mums should cherish every single moment. </i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Check. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN7zPXkFDy1BkCaTj-wNv4sJ-EbzHnzkqAg9XE5W2FGWrewQfFAr9pqvfNEkrtww2RTyWi6qN1yOSt1QrIlKDlgPcjc2mgiOqAYKz_ZMh02Jdj66z91y3LlqetIKzu39mCNc16pHbi-VSV/s1600/18519624_10100959378486854_8459439918076614175_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN7zPXkFDy1BkCaTj-wNv4sJ-EbzHnzkqAg9XE5W2FGWrewQfFAr9pqvfNEkrtww2RTyWi6qN1yOSt1QrIlKDlgPcjc2mgiOqAYKz_ZMh02Jdj66z91y3LlqetIKzu39mCNc16pHbi-VSV/s400/18519624_10100959378486854_8459439918076614175_n.jpg" width="328" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I do think it's a bit of a shame that you felt the need to attack a group of mum bloggers and authors but I completely understand why you did. We are terrible parents, or at the very least we are all masquerading as terrible parents simply for likes and shares. That's not how us mums should behave, I can see that now. It would be so much healthier for the maternal nation if we all swept our bad days under the carpet and captioned every photo with #blessed. I promise I will try harder.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The thing is, if you had actually taken the time to properly read any of my stuff you would have come across the many </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">heartfelt chapters I've dedicated to my boys, and indeed my own mother, who died of cancer when I was young. You</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> would have known that</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I regularly beat myself up for not cherishing every sodding second but that on balance, I have decided that sharing the good, the bad and the ugly is more important. Potty training is ugly. Fact. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You say that you, 'appreciate how this 'honesty' could make new mums feel less isolated and more reassured' but I couldn't help but mutter 'bullshit' when I </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">read that token paragraph, </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">particularly noting that you also say, 'these arrogant women shouldn't forget that, as well as being hard, a new baby is a gift.' </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>That </i>was the point at which I knew I had to say something. For all the mums out there who, like me (and Katie, Clemmie, Steph, Helen and Ellie - all good pals of mine, actually, we like to have Slummy Mummy Squad meetings), might read your bile and feel bad for having the odd moan. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">These were for me. The kids have theirs raw.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Admitting to serving up beige frozen goods ('freezer tapas' we like to call it, we're very middle class), confessing to the odd hangover and occasionally ranting about the inability to go to the toilet without a small person trying to unwrap our sanitary items is not </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">boasting</i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">, Anna. It's just real life. Whether or not you choose to believe that what we are documenting is in fact our real lives is not really any concern of mine. I shan't lose any sleep over a lack of endorsement from the Mail. The point of this post is simply to say </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">shame on you</i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> for failing to recognise the wider importance of this so called 'slummy mummy movement.' </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If taking snaps of fish fingers, cursing the bastard stray Lego impaling my feet in the middle of the night and offering a virtual hug to mums who are having a shitty day is wrong then shoot me down, because I don't want to be right.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I would like to conclude by saying a massive thank you for sending an extra thousand or so followers my way just this morning, and pushing both <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Unmumsy-Mum-Diary/dp/0593078101/">my books</a> back up the chart (I'm guessing that probably wasn't your intention but I am ever so grateful, thank you). I couldn't help but think your mention of our bestselling books smacked of jealousy, which I can't for the life of me understand because your own parenting manual, <i>The Pushy Mother's Guide</i>, sounds like an absolute classic. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Have a lovely day, I know I will.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yours sincerely,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Sarah Turner</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>A boastful slummy mummy from Devon. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com199tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-68772708544989324732017-01-23T16:44:00.006+00:002017-01-23T17:18:27.386+00:00Chaos Theory <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This morning, when I got back from doing the school run, I unlocked the door, awkwardly shimmied past Jude’s pram and Henry’s scooter - both of which appear to be permanently wedged in our hallway (a standoff over who should clean the mud-encrusted wheels) – and then, in a slapstick <i>Tom & Jerry </i>style move, I trod on PC Selby’s police car (one of several Postman Pat toys young Jude received in his stocking from the big FC) and I went flying, travelling at least a metre towards the stairs with my arms flailing. Had it not been for the pram, which I grabbed hold of on my way to the floor, I think I might have broken something. Or died. Imagine that! <i>Death by treading on PC Arthur Selby’s police car</i> would be such a tragic tale, would it not? Anyway, the pram came to the rescue so I felt bad for having cursed the 'twatting obstacle course' on my way out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />I must have looked all kinds of ridiculous taking flight with one foot on a toy vehicle and both arms windmilling, and, after an initial chuckle to myself, I had to have a little sit down on the sofa to recompose myself, a bit like old people do when they've ‘had a fall.’ As I assessed the state of the living-room - which looks a lot like we’ve been burgled with all the contents of the drawers and cupboards spilling out onto the floor - I realised that the toy explosion in front of me was evidence of the morning we’d had before the school run. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It told a story, and as I sat for a moment I allowed my mind to piece it all back together: ‘Baby Richard’ the dolly, discarded to one side because Jude had got bored ‘feeding’ him so had plonked him down and moved on to take a call from Miss Rabbit on his phone. The plastic toy tub, upturned, because Henry had been wearing it on his head, shouting, ‘I am a Dalek!’ The stacking cubes arranged in an unconventional top-heavy tower alongside a pole which started its life as a mast for a toy ship before the ship fell foul of rough play and ended up in the ‘Bye-bye box’ in the loft (absolutely not at the dump if Henry asks because we are not allowed to take broken things to the dump or put them in the bin, not even broken pen lids). </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">To the side of the boxes lay a collection of Nerf bullets which, I realised, had been forming the basis of a ‘trap’ – Henry is very much into making traps these days and although none of them actually work we must pretend they do, which is all well and good until you’re trying to cook dinner and get called away from the hob to theatrically act out being caught in his non-existent deadly webs. PC Selby’s police car was positioned as a death-trap in the hallway because prior to us all having trudged out into the cold it had been PC Selby’s mission to save a Sylvanian rabbit from ‘the witch’ who appears to be everywhere both inside and outside of our house at the moment, despite being invisible. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />I have lost count of the number of times since becoming a parent that I have cursed the state of the house, muttering under my breath about the ‘piles of plastic crap’ and sighing at having to contort myself into a size zero to get past that pram which has left the already-narrow hallway so snug I pretty much had intercourse with the electrician as I showed him out the other day. But this morning, as I sat in a quiet house, staring at the usual trail of destruction, I saw things differently. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I reviewed the evidence. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And for once, I wasn’t looking at it like it was the evidence from a crime scene, nor was I rushing to stuff all the toys back into their boxes while wondering aloud why I bloody bother tidying up in the first place. Because, I realised, <i>the chaos is what makes our house a home.</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhL165-i7HDkQq2etusdrDwyOswNB2DVl7FCdUdlqrtwxXJBnLlnRotUDah-wLMrNSSP7YA2_6dZSgAYDVdFub55UZp3xyIfm41yu4f-hXK9qJeeUbKBw-gROhIY5H0ugT56jTVB1aeBs1/s1600/I6v9Vo8LQ8%252BXGx%2525fmI6%252BkA_thumb_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhL165-i7HDkQq2etusdrDwyOswNB2DVl7FCdUdlqrtwxXJBnLlnRotUDah-wLMrNSSP7YA2_6dZSgAYDVdFub55UZp3xyIfm41yu4f-hXK9qJeeUbKBw-gROhIY5H0ugT56jTVB1aeBs1/s400/I6v9Vo8LQ8%252BXGx%2525fmI6%252BkA_thumb_2.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />The toothbrush on the side reminds me of the daily battle to get my two-year-old to let me brush his teeth, which usually results in him trying to bite me and somebody crying. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The mud-encrusted pram reminds me of the walk we went on where we argued about the suitability of the terrain for a pram (I feel I have made my point). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The washing draped over radiators and chairs reminds me that I haven’t been on top of the washing situation for the last four years because life is busy and kids are messy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The dishes on the table remind me that there were two boys sloppily shovelling Weetos into their mouths while singing ‘Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg’ and laughing so hard that milk came out of their noses. <br /><br />All of it, the total pandemonium, is what reminds me that there are children living here. It’s not a showhome, it’s a <i>family home </i>- it's messy and lived-in and loved. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Yes, I will continue to curse the pram as I bash into it with my hip and I will continue to nag my children to put a few things away so it looks slightly less like a tornado has hit. But just for a moment this morning I imagined photoshopping all the chaos out of the picture and I didn't much like it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">One day, the time will come when the dining table is clear, the cupboards are tidy and all the washing is up to date. Perhaps it will be when my children have grown up and moved out, when I have started grilling them about their relationship statuses to assess my chances of becoming a grandmother. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">One day, I reckon I will have the sanctuary of calm I so desperately longed for only it won't feel much like a sanctuary at all. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>I will miss the chaos.</i><br /><br /> So thank you, PC Arthur Selby in your tiny police car, for being kind enough to trip me up and remind me of that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>I would like to apologise to anybody who has clicked on this blog post hoping for something mathematical about deterministic dynamics or some clever commentary about the 'butterfly effect'. I'm afraid this post doesn't really explore Chaos Theory at all. </i></span></div>
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The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-28167562595022512472016-12-02T15:07:00.002+00:002016-12-02T15:52:45.472+00:00The Unnecessary Pressure of Christmas<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Last year I had a bit of a moan about <a href="http://theunmumsymum.blogspot.co.uk/2015/12/why-is-christmas-so-fancy-these-days.html">how fancy Christmas is getting</a>. I questioned the necessity of Christmas Eve boxes and slagged off Panettone because I was feeling nostalgic about Viennetta. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This year? Well, this year I’m feeling pretty much the same so it looks like an annual ‘What the fuck has happened to Christmas?’ blog might be on the cards. <br /><br />This isn’t a Scroogey post, though – far from it, in fact, I’m a massive fan of Christmas – but earlier this week I found myself getting stressed over all the impressive things other people are doing/planning that I haven’t been doing/planning and I figured that if I’m stressing out, the chances are some of you are, too. So this is my attempt to reassure you that you are not failing at Christmassy parenting just because you haven’t hand-sewn an advent calendar out of sheep wool you’ve flown in from Nazareth.<br /><br />I’m bewildered by some of the Christmas-themed conversations I've seen online lately and the final straw came when I stumbled across an entire thread dedicated to mums debating which Christmas theme to go for this year. What do you mean <i>which theme</i>? I read on and discovered that one mum is having a 'monochrome Christmas' because it looks classier. Another is accessorising in pastels this year because the bright colours clash with her sofa and the third isn’t sure yet what to go for but ‘crikey’ isn’t it hard work coming up with the decorative theme every year?!<br /><br />I wanted to scream at my computer, “CHRISTMAS! THE FUCKING THEME IS CHRISTMAS!” but I didn’t because it was obvious I had stumbled into a zone that wasn’t safe for me, like the Helmand of mum chat, so I muttered, ‘monochrome my arse’ and shut down the browser. What the bloody hell is a <i>monochrome Christmas</i>? OK I know what monochrome is – everything is black, white and grey or varying tones of just one colour - but that’s not Christmas, is it? <i>Is it?</i> Christmas isn’t supposed to be classy, right? Christmas is bright and colourful and chaotic and brings together a hodgepodge of decorations bought from random places or handmade by kids over the years.</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVvwP8Y5SuOx1z9Kkpzy0z1K16MwQbAczlAfRvijP8ME1kSWcFkhfelS4_0co5y0fS7AgUYuaJI2U4FbcTwnYy9tHC8Qfb-6d28A2SsyGkorYyDbJ8fakNtC42fqtD8U7UJYyiIjNVT3tC/s1600/Christmas+in+the+early+90s..png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVvwP8Y5SuOx1z9Kkpzy0z1K16MwQbAczlAfRvijP8ME1kSWcFkhfelS4_0co5y0fS7AgUYuaJI2U4FbcTwnYy9tHC8Qfb-6d28A2SsyGkorYyDbJ8fakNtC42fqtD8U7UJYyiIjNVT3tC/s400/Christmas+in+the+early+90s..png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Christmas in the early 1990s. Great times with little fuss.</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Granted, this was just one thread. But over the course of a few days I was drip fed-further images of impressive festive creations and elaborate Things To Do lists and I couldn’t help but feel a bit sad. So much seems to be expected of parents in the run up to Christmas nowadays.<br /><br />Firstly, you have to trample over people in the supermarket on Black Friday as you panic-buy presents you don’t really need but feel you ought to buy because of the colossal savings off the list price they definitely didn’t hike up the week before. Then you have to think about December 1st. What are you doing for advent? Some people are doing book advents, some people are doing craft advents, some people are giving away a clue as to where the chocolate is hidden each day - because if life wasn’t already busy enough you can now get up ten minutes earlier to facilitate a daily fucking treasure hunt. Then you have to get the elf down for the shelf and make him do cheeky things every day.<br /><br />We’ve got shop-bought advent calendars for the boys again and they’re chuffed. We do have an elf - because the good-behaviour bribery potential is strong - but he doesn’t write messages in Weetos or cosy up to Barbie because I haven’t got the time. He basically moves around the shelf and the kids think that’s amazing.<br /><br />I suppose my point is that Christmas isn’t about the showy stuff. Unless, of course, you want it to be. If you want to pay for a personalised letter from Father Christmas and arrange a visit to a top notch grotto (with a Santa so true-to-life he must have been through Santa Factor boot camp and Judges’ Houses to secure the role) then do it. You need not defend these actions if they <i>mean something to you</i>.<br /><br />But don’t do these things because you feel like you ought to, or worse because you’re worried your yuletide Instagram feed looks a bit shit. So what if Derek from the garden centre’s black moustache is visible over his Santa beard in the picture and the gift he’s given your son is a shit plastic toy for the bath when you don’t even have a bath (true story). Kids are brilliant. Kids think Santa knew you didn’t have a bath but bought the toy for their outside water tray.<br /><br />Kids don’t get to Christmas Eve and think Christmas is ruined because there isn’t a personalised ceramic plate for the mince pie and carrot or because they haven’t got new pyjamas in their ‘Christmas Eve box’. They don’t wake up in a cold sweat because you forgot to buy them glittery reindeer food to sprinkle on the front door step.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /><br />For me, the build-up to Christmas will always be about leafing through the Argos catalogue, putting the tree up without any regard for monochrome classiness, eating tins of chocolates, drinking Buck’s Fizz, watching <i>Home Alone</i> and dancing around the living room to Shakin’ Stevens. </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Tuesday is set to the greatest moment of the year so far when I get to watch my little Henry Bear be a shepherd in his first nativity ('Get that fire going!' - I've been saying his lines in my sleep).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>That’s</i> Christmas. </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I bloody love it.<br /><br />This isn't my way of 'mum-shaming' anybody who is borderline professional at festive stuff. I just felt I needed a moment to re-focus on what’s important and what's important is different for all of us. It's whatever stuff we <i>believe </i>to be important.<br /><br />Don’t get swept up in doing shit you don’t really want to do. <br />Don’t worry about keeping up with The Clauses on social media.<br />Don’t put Derek out of business.<br /><br /> Have a proper crimbo.<br />x</span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com173tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-58251783308375298312016-09-04T21:16:00.000+01:002016-09-05T09:58:01.224+01:00Here We Are, Then (Henry Starts School)<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I considered not writing this post at all, suspecting that
whatever I typed would fast become a </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Starting
School</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> cliché (“Where has the time gone? I can’t bear it!” yadda yadda
yadda). But I have been a walking mess of emotions for the past few weeks and
shy of hiding in the fridge sobbing into Dairylea triangles (again) I didn’t
really know where else to go with it. [Spoiler alert: this post is one hundred
per cent a Starting School cliché, seasoned school parent pros need read no
further].</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The truth is, I have looked ahead to this moment many times
over the last four years and I quite honestly never expected that I would be one of </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">those </span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">mums. The criers. The ones who get
struck down with My Baby is Starting School pangs in the middle of Tesco. The
ones who make an excuse to escape to the kitchen with a lump in their throat
when the uniform is tried on for the first time. The ones who scroll through toddler
photos from two years ago on Timehop and say, “I just can’t believe it.”</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Yet here we are. Timehop presents me with a photo of my about-to-start-school
child from when he was a toddler, waddling around not quite able to master walking
in his wellies, and all at once I’m floored by a hurty heart.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">J</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms";">ust like that my Henry Bear, my biggest boy, is going to
school. Joining the hordes of reception-starters, he’ll be making his way through
the school gates in the oversized uniform I’ve dutifully labelled with name
tags, carrying a book bag that will come home bursting with reminders about things
we have to do to help him succeed at numeracy/phonics/life. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Parents of children already at school tell me this overwhelming
emotion will soon become a distant memory and I have no doubt that when term
begins </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">next </span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">year I too will be skipping
up the road and updating Facebook with, ‘Lovely summer and everything
but thank fuck for that!’ </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I will know the drill by then. I’ll be used to having a
school-aged child and I’ll have realised that the school day is actually quite
short (and that it’s never very long before the next holiday which presents
me with all manner of childcare issues). With a level-head on I already know
all of these things but level-headedness rarely makes a guest appearance in
Parentland, does it? In fact, Parentland has proved the biggest mind-fuck of a
destination I’ve ever been to and that’s without the use of any narcotics. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Parentland
is maddening and hilarious and weird and makes me cry all the bloody time. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">I</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms";">t’s not that I don’t want Henry to go to school. I do. He
is more than ready to go and I’m excited for him. It’s just that seeing him
trying on his uniform this evening, singing along to his favourite song (Coldplay’s
</span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">Yellow, </span></i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">genuinely he demands it on repeat</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms";">), I can’t hide from the fact
that he is growing up. In any normal week one day rolls into the next and it’s easy
not to see it. Sure he grows out of his clothes and shows an interest in new TV
programmes and games so I </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms";">know </span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms";">he is
growing up. But I don’t stop and take stock of that. Life’s too busy.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4NsiMlIuVmo2tLVoEakb7YKDXLhIbB4PCNhDIrIfinbEZ1GhicZF4jubz7wZadUJu6HfsRH5pTLnpLQXmgELzEAgQXr5Xdu3yLAzAV05dhQwIjKOOYiSx7KRCd7miOjLQhnS6f-j1ur_0/s1600/school.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4NsiMlIuVmo2tLVoEakb7YKDXLhIbB4PCNhDIrIfinbEZ1GhicZF4jubz7wZadUJu6HfsRH5pTLnpLQXmgELzEAgQXr5Xdu3yLAzAV05dhQwIjKOOYiSx7KRCd7miOjLQhnS6f-j1ur_0/s320/school.png" width="239" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">School very obviously marks the start of a brand new chapter, which is no
bad thing it just means I have to accept that a line is being drawn under the old
chapter - the one where he was baby who was sick all the time who then became a
toddler who called all animals, “Cat!” and later a pre-schooler who made me
howl with laughter at his naked living-room dancing. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">I </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">have moaned about him a lot over the last four years
(because he’s annoying – really, he is) but this last year has seen a change in
our relationship. He makes me laugh. He’s bloody good company. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I will miss him. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">There have been </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">times when I have muttered, "Roll on school!" and
I could give you some bullcrap about how I didn't really mean it but in all
honesty at the time I definitely meant it. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">I </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms";">think maybe that is why I am so sad.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Because I never enjoyed
the earliest days as much as I should have. I tried but it turns out the whole
baby thing just isn’t my bag (though my ovaries are positively exploding at the
prospect of being one child down during school hours so I think Mr Unmumsy will
be wearing three pairs of boxers to bed for the next week. “Just one more?” “NO”).
</span><br />
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<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">On top of the fact that I am distraught at him going to
school (not an exaggeration) I am also worried about how I will fare as a
School Mum. I’ve bumbled through the last four years of motherhood on a wing
and a prayer and I’m fairly sure my maternal incompetence will be outed
sometime in the first term.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The other mums might have read my book. What
if they stand in the corner of the playground whispering, “There’s that mum who
called her baby a dick. Look how creased his trousers are - I did read she doesn’t
iron anything. Oh and there’s her husband. Do you know he once had to milk her?”
</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I hadn’t thought this through. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But it’s not about me. And my main worry is not how bad I’ll
look when I put Henry in his skeleton pyjamas for World Book Day (Funnybones,
yes he has worn them for the last two Halloweens), my main worry is how he will get on. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Will he enjoy it? Will he make friends? Will he manage to
remember that not everybody wants to abide by his rules when playing <i>Star
Wars</i>? Will he fit in? </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He’s too young for me to give him the school advice I want
to give him. I want so badly to tell him the things I learned from school. That
it’s better to be nice than it is to be popular. That if you are nice you will
be popular for the right reasons, because people like you. That if you strive
only to be popular you will be popular because people think they </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">have</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> to like you, because you're
popular (and that is not the same thing). </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I want to tell him to work hard, to play harder and to
always be kind.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I want to tell him that </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I am so very proud of
him. So proud it makes me look around and shout, “That’s my son!”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">I </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms";">want to thank him for giving me something so wonderful that
I will miss it. For allowing me to make a million and one parenting mistakes in
the first four years of his life which will no doubt benefit his little brother
(trial and error, it’s the only thing I know).</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But I won’t tell him any of these things. He’s a </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">sensitive
creature and it would be selfish of me to burden him with the extra worry of his
mother having the emotional restraint of Gwynnie at the Oscars. So I will bite
my tongue and in my best cheery mum voice I will say, “School tomorrow then
buddy! How fab, you’ll love it.” I will keep things upbeat. I won’t make it too
big a deal. I will do all the stuff I hope will make school easier for him and none
of the stuff that will make school easier for me. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I know it is probable that at some stage he will cling to me
and tell me that he doesn’t want me to leave (we had four months of that at
preschool, it broke my soul). Every ounce of my being will want to stay there
in the middle of reception class holding onto him, but it would start to look a
bit weird. So I will be firm, because that’s what parents do. And he will be
fine. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I will not be fine. I will come home and cry and eat
Dairylea triangles and say, “Where did the time go?” </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">That’s Parentland. The best place on earth. The worst place
on earth.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I bloody love you Henry Bear. Go get ‘em. </span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The Unmumsy Mum</span></i></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com49tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-64477031035560582192016-07-08T23:29:00.001+01:002016-07-09T00:07:50.275+01:00Why Parenthood Is Nothing Like I Imagined<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Not so long ago somebody asked me whether life as a parent was ‘everything I imagined it would be’ and I laughed so hard that food came out of my nose.<br /><br /> ‘Oh yes,’ I replied, after realising that this was, in fact, a genuine question. ‘It’s everything I imagined it would be and <i>more</i>,’ adding a slight grimace which I hoped delivered the honest subtext of ‘Absofuckinglutely not.’<br /><br /> Remarking on all the failed expectations of parenthood is actually one of my favourite pastimes. Not in a ‘Wow, look at all the things I hoped I would do/say/be as a parent, I’m none of them hahaha!’ way but just a chuckle over all the shit I thought I would do.<br /><i><br /> Except that’s not strictly true.</i><br /><br />Clear as a toddler's backwashed sippy cup? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Allow me to explain.<br /><br />I’m not saying I have lied about imagining a whole host of shit I’ve subsequently never come close to doing, I'm saying that <i>imagining</i> doing these things is not the same as genuinely <u>believing</u> that I would do them.<br /><br /> Is anybody still with me? (This feels like the bit in <i>Titanic</i> when Rose is calling the rescue boats back and begging Jack to stay with her but it’s too late because his bollocks have frozen after she hogged the floating door big enough for two). Stay with me Jack, I’m getting to the point.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>My point </i>is that deep down I <i>knew</i> my vision of parenthood was unrealistic even before I threw a baby into the mix. And that’s actually got nothing to do with parenthood itself, not really, because I’ve been setting myself up to fail with unrealistic imaginings all my life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";">Before I started secondary school, I <i>imagined</i> that I would be instantly accepted by the cool kids and that I'd successfully attract a boyfriend to hold hands with between lessons. Only it turns out that when you have Deirdre Barlow glasses engulfing two-thirds of your face and you team ankle-basher trousers with ‘square’ shoes from Clarks (because your mum wouldn’t let you go to Shoezone and get the platform ones) you never do slot straight into the cool crowd. In fact, you later find yourself in Year 11 with nothing to show by way of romance except a drunken snog in the Football Club car park with a boy you suspect was sick before he kissed you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When I started working in finance, fresh-faced from University and keen as mustard, I <i>imagined</i> that I would swish around in pencil skirts and deliver dynamic presentations so impressive they would leave senior management bamboozled. Credit where credit’s due I had a pretty good bash at swishing around in pencil skirts and delivering presentations but I also had spells of mediocrity. I got things wrong, I didn't always make a dynamic impression and I once managed to get myself locked in the staff toilet where I had to be rescued by a commercial banking manager who climbed over the top of my cubicle and gave me a leg up (upon re-entering the office from the toilet I discovered word of the escape had spread and I was greeted with a round of applause). Work life wasn’t always very swish, in the end, but it did provide years of laughter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Parenthood has taken these unrealistic imaginings to a whole new level because every stage of the parenting game brings a new anticipation. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When I first imagined myself having children I visualised a mum who would rustle up fresh pesto with a pestle and mortar, while listening to Jazz. Who would glide around looking positively glowy with her baby in a sling and her toddler sat nicely doing crafts (she would exude maternal confidence and have all sorts of educational crafty ideas because that’s what imaginary glowy pesto-pulsing mums do).<br /><br />Only I’ve <i>never</i> been a glider, not ever, and there’s nothing about passing a small human out of your fandango that automatically makes you more glidey, is there? The reality is that I’m clumsy, I walk into things, I always seem to manage to get the belt loop from my dressing-gown caught on the door handle so it pulls me backwards with great force. I’m crap at cooking, I hate crafts. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It’s never been the boys’ fault that I haven’t blossomed into the beacon of delicious yummy mumminess I imagined. That was never my calling. My calling has always been slightly crummier. I just <i>imagined</i> a sleeker version because that’s what imagination does. It creates expectation.<br /><br />So you see, it’s not exclusively <i>parenthood</i> that has failed to become 'everything I imagined it would be'. It’s just that by their very nature our imaginings are a bit fucking daft.<br /><br />They are also inevitable. Which is why I can’t help but imagine myself absolutely bossing the role of School Mum when Henry heads into the classroom for the first time this September. I’m imagining that I will be on top of costume-making and cake-baking and the trillion emails I’m told I can expect every day. I’ll have a magnetic family organiser and I’ll have my shit together at all times. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>I imagine.</i> </span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com47tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-8183559712955712312016-05-31T20:16:00.000+01:002016-05-31T20:39:47.513+01:00One for the Bloggers! Get Your (Blog) Name Out There<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Are you a parent blogger with something to say? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Are you longing
to shout your musings about weaning/episiotomies/playground
politics/any-other-topic from the rooftops of the interweb? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Maybe you have just
started toying with the idea of starting a blog and need a gentle nudge to take
the plunge?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If you are nodding along to any of these things then listen up and
listen good. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>This is your nudge.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am nudging because for some time now I have been spectacularly
failing at replying to all the emails and messages I receive from parents who
are asking for my advice about starting a blog, or asking if I could have a
quick read of a post they have written. I always promise myself that at the
very least I will reply with some words of encouragement because I know
first-hand that sharing your parenting thoughts online for all to
see/share/judge is actually quite a big deal (and also, if I’m honest, because
I strongly suspect that jotting down my own thoughts on this here blog has
saved me from myself a little bit). I’m not about to start droning on again
about how blogging has changed my life yadda yadda yadda because I have told
you all that before. (It totally has though, just FYI).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Instead, I have decided to get involved with something that will
help dazzling blog posts get the attention they deserve while at the same time
mitigating the risk of me having another meltdown about all the inbox messages
I can’t respond to (in my meltdown defence, I was knackered after leaving the
boys’ shoes at my Dad’s and consequently having to sprint to buy them an
emergency pair – I arrived one minute before the shop closed and panic-bought
the first ones I found in their sizes, total nightmare). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’ll get on to this blogging opportunity in just a moment (I’m
wondering if ‘opportunity’ makes it sound like I'm pushing some kind of dodgy bloggy
pyramid scheme? I promise that’s not what’s going on here) but before explaining
what the hell I’m banging on about I thought I’d make a note of the one genuine
titbit of blogging advice I have sent back to parents (well, all those I managed
to reply to before shoegate hit the fan). It’s the advice I would prioritise over
everything else:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Be yourself.</i></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yes I
know it’s a cliché and might make me sound a bit wanky but it’s quite
possibly the most important direction I can offer. There is absolutely no point
trying to write in the style of somebody else, even if that’s a proven 'successful'
style because if it’s not really <i>you</i> it simply won’t sound right (it also
won’t flow, just like my Year 10 English essay). Equally, don’t be too scared
to write a post that’s similar in style or content to another you’ve read - the
crucial thing is that it doesn’t feel forced. Obviously it would be immensely shady
if you were to plagiarise another’s post and steal all their pictures but if
you fret about covering the same ground as another blogger whenever you write
then you’d never write anything! No two posts are exactly the same, anyway. The most
important thing is that you are writing something you feel inspired to write.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And if you </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">are</span></i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
feeling inspired to write then look no further… </span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Share your blog
with GoodtoKnow</span></u></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Starting on June 1st (and on the 1st of every month
thereafter) </span><span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">a brand
new blogging platform: </span></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">‘</span><span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Because I Said So (</span></span><a href="http://www.goodtoknow.co.uk/family/biss" target="_blank"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>BISS</b></span></span></a><span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">)’ is being launched over
on the</span></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> <a href="http://www.goodtoknow.co.uk/family/546426/parent-bloggers-share-your-blog-with-us-to-win-a-guest-spot-on-goodtoknow"><span style="background-color: white; color: #b45f06;"><b>GoodtoKnow</b></span></a>
website.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Bloggers will be able to submit a favourite recent post to be
considered by a panel of judges (me included, hello!) and between us we’ll
choose five bloggers who will each get a paid guest blog spot on the website.
Better still, the blogger whose guest post attracts the greatest page traffic over
the course of a week will automatically land themselves a page in a future
issue of <i>Essentials</i> magazine. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Whether you are a brand new blogger, a vintage blogging pro,
a lapsed-but-returning blogger or somebody simply toying with the idea of
giving the whole blogging malarkey a go then this is an amazing chance to get
your writing shared online and possibly in print. (It’s also a great chance for
me to be nosey and read some blogs). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Further info and details about how to link up your blog post
to the GoodtoKnow website can be found </span><a href="http://www.goodtoknow.co.uk/family/546426/parent-bloggers-share-your-blog-with-us-to-win-a-guest-spot-on-goodtoknow"><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>here</b></span></a><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">.
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Go forth and blog! Good luck xx</span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-26500925529220940032016-05-15T00:06:00.000+01:002016-05-16T11:07:42.578+01:00The Extraordinary Ordinary (Life Is Not a Movie)<div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This evening I went out for a jog. When I say ‘out for a jog’ I mean I walked around the park at the end of my road at a pace slightly faster than my usual stride, which is hardly a challenge given that my usual stride is one step forwards and five steps into somebody else’s garden chasing a feral toddler. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">How fast I was bumbling around the park tonight is kind of irrelevant to this post, I’m just setting the scene, as it was during this uninterrupted walking time that I started thinking about life. Life in general. Everyday life. And how all too often there is build up and expectation attached to daily events, moments and milestones which can leave us feeling under pressure to feel a certain way. Feelings are not like that. By their very nature you can’t </span><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">create </span></i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">feelings or build up to ‘a moment’. Something either gets you in the feels or it doesn’t.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I need to rewind to this morning for this to make any sense. First though, I need to tell you how years of watching sentimental films and TV dramas has set me up to fail on the feelings front. Real-life is nothing like film-life. Of course we all </span><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">know </span></i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">that movies are not real life but once you’ve internalised a whole catalogue of film ‘moments’ it’s hardly surprising if you start to expect life to play out like a script every now and again. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if I sit at home every night hoping the knock on the door is Andrew Lincoln instructing me to pretend it’s carol singers and declaring his undying love for me on handwritten cue cards. James has never once dressed up as a fighter pilot and serenaded me with </span><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling</span></i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> but I fell for him nonetheless.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Films have simply left me expecting emotional moments that just haven’t happened. Parenthood has brought about the absolute worst of this disappointment because parenting moments are so well-documented on the big screen. Moments like childbirth, where the parents always share a cuddle and a cry when the baby is born. My boys were delightful and I was over the moon to hold them against me but I didn’t cry. I can remember thinking, ‘Should I be crying now?’ No tears came.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">More generally, there are all those scenes in films where motherhood looks amazing. Even when it’s portrayed as chaotic it looks like <i>fun</i> chaos – cereal spillages on floors, lots of noise and laughter, the odd slamming of a door that is later resolved by an emotional chat over fresh coffee and lots of meaningful eye contact. The chaos in my life can be fun too but milk on the floor generally results in a head injury and we tend to save all meaningful eye contact for our smartphones. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This morning, however, something special happened. A special feeling.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I had taken Henry to his first ever gymnastics class and after waiting awkwardly outside, not really knowing what was expected of me in this environment, it was time for him to go in. I have taken him to other classes before – music, drama etc. but these have always been things I have joined in with (to be honest, by the time we stopped the music classes I had found myself running around in a circle doing the animal actions while he tried to climb the chair stacks and steal other people’s shoes). This morning was different, though, because he is four and has joined a group where you just leave them to it. No big deal. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Only it became a big deal for me as I stood there and watched him through the glass. Watched him trot in with zero fear, confidently taking a seat on the mat amongst the other boys and girls and proceeding to follow them around in a gym circuit, stretching his arms out as he balanced on the beam and joining in with floor exercises (where he was understandably two steps behind everybody else but persevered with such a happy face). He was in his element, and when I saw his eyes searching for me I jumped and waved and mouthed, ‘Well done!’ with a huge thumbs up from the other side of the door. He returned my thumbs up with a long-distance fist pump and then, just as quickly as he had looked for me, he looked away and slotted straight back into the class. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";">I</span><span style="font-family: "georgia";">t was nothing like anything you would see in a film. There was no moving soundtrack, no pep talk from me telling him I knew he could do it, no slow-motion shot of him leaping off a balance beam and landing gracefully on the mat to rapturous applause from the rest of the gymnasium. Nobody else noticed anything remarkable.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But I did.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">To me, it was extraordinary. My boy was extraordinary. I fought back a lump in my throat as I stood there in a sweaty-smelling gym corridor and realised, with mild amusement, that it was the most proud I have ever felt about anything.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So this evening, as I found myself out walking and contemplating life-in-general, I realised that I have been looking for the wrong moments. Or at the very least looking in the wrong places. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been looking at all. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Feelings aren’t like that. Feeling just </span><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">are</span></i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Like pride just was for me, today. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Unmumsy Mum</span></i><br />
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-76112854044810696402016-04-26T23:01:00.003+01:002016-05-16T10:49:10.953+01:00Cherish Every Moment? No. My Advice For Brand New Parents <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was asked last week what advice, if any, I would give to brand new parents. I couldn’t help but think back to myself as a new mum. It made me feel a bit sad.<br /><br />The New Mum Me was a bundle of self-doubt. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">She wasn’t doing anything right. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">She wasn’t cut out for it. Her baby deserved better. She was failing. The New Mum Me once stood in the shower with her fingers in her ears, crying, trying to drown out the sound of the nursery rhyme CD which in turn was drowning out the sound of the screaming baby she could not settle. When her husband returned home she could only recall the 5 minute neglectful shower (she was sure this had emotionally scarred their baby for life) and not the 9.5 other hours she had attentively fed him ‘on demand,’ cuddled him and whispered to him that he was the most perfect thing she had ever seen. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghYL-0CuPZ4dpOwXr_8hztbO82HiRJ-4biHxPyRT6YkcxdjpIJgufj9yPdx50dej3lEbEgtXhwK1l_3S0SqnBk05-3WELXy8PmqsAuvYKz4T9pjq6OEE53PwHzyoVzvqaLXWpWO6Vm_SLI/s1600/untitled2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghYL-0CuPZ4dpOwXr_8hztbO82HiRJ-4biHxPyRT6YkcxdjpIJgufj9yPdx50dej3lEbEgtXhwK1l_3S0SqnBk05-3WELXy8PmqsAuvYKz4T9pjq6OEE53PwHzyoVzvqaLXWpWO6Vm_SLI/s320/untitled2.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;">Very first pic as a mum. Terrible quality I'm afraid, I wasn't blogging then ;-)</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So, with the magical wisdom of hindsight now bestowed upon me, I think I would tell brand new parents the following:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You are not obligated to cherish every moment.</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s true that you will ‘never get this time again.’ It’s true that it will all ‘be over in a flash.’ It’s true that one day you will wake up and wonder where the time has gone, why you wished the days away, how it is possible that your baby will soon be heading out into the Big Wide World (reception). </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">At 2am, however, when you’re not sure if the wet patch in the bed is leaked breast milk or leaked baby excrement, it is also true that you will quite justifiably wonder what the actual fuck has happened to your life. </span><u></u></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></u></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Nobody</span></u><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> cherishes </span><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">every</span></i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> moment. Some moments are magic. Others are shit. On a sleep-deprived/‘cluster feeding’/nothing-stops-the-crying type day it is quite possible that the moment ratio will end up at 80:20 in favour of shit. Social media will never reflect this shitstorm because <i>social media is not real life</i>. </span><b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There is no shame in asking for help.</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Asking for help is not a sign of weakness. Quite the contrary, it is a sign of strength. To be struggling and to admit that you are struggling demonstrates a kick-ass determination and fierceness in your ability to look after your baby. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There is also no shame in putting your own needs above the needs of domestic chores. Of course we all know that the liberally-offered ‘sleep when the baby sleeps’ nugget of wisdom is a bit of a joke (are you going to hoover when the baby hoovers, too?) but sometimes sleep is the most productive thing you can do with thirty minutes. Do not feel guilty about sleeping. If and when you have subsequent children you will kick yourself for not maximising naptimes the first time around (as you find yourself at the beck and call of a toddler who wants you to watch his Ninja Turtle kick for the gazillionth time).</span><b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Have faith when people tell you that one day it will all be worth it.</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You might want to smack them in the face. But they are right. The New Mum Me who broke down in the shower couldn't see it. She was yet to feel her heart jump at the sound of her baby's giggle. She was yet to feel the overwhelming pride of watching him have a go at writing his name before looking up at her as if to say, 'I did it, Mummy!' </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If you're reading this as a brand new parent, I want you to know that there are magical moments to come. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And some shit ones, too, which you are absolutely not required to cherish. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">That's what I wish I had known.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>The Unmumsy Mum</i></span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com86tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-86908602595971421562016-04-11T11:34:00.004+01:002016-04-11T11:44:24.050+01:00An Alternative Fireman Sam Script<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>[Dilys Price is chatting to Trevor Evans inside her shop]</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Dilys: Oh Trevor, I’ve been having dreams about you and what we could get up to on your bus. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>[Trevor, clearly uncomfortable about her sexual advances, is saved by the shop door flying open. Fireman Sam enters dragging Norman Price in by his ear] </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Fireman Sam: I’m afraid Norman has been up to no good again, Dilys. I found him skateboarding between cars down at the harbour, he almost caused a pile-up. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Dilys: Norman Price! What have I told you about skateboarding between cars? You silly boy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Norman: Sorry mam.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Fireman Sam: Sorry isn’t good enough this time, Norman. I’m afraid I’m going to have to have a word with your mum in private. Go to your room.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Norman price: You can’t tell me what to do, you’re not my father!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>[A knowing look is exchanged between Fireman Sam and Dilys. Norman’s face turns even paler than normal as he clocks Sam’s hair colour and starts reflecting on all the historic unwarranted patience Sam has displayed whenever he has been a total bellend]</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Norman: Mam? Say something!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Dilys: It was one night, Norman. Strip poker got out of hand at the Floods’ house and Sam and I… well, Sam and I made you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><b></b><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>[Fireman Sam winces at the memory, it is plain to see he had his beer goggles on that night but doesn’t want to upset Dilys by labelling it a mistake]</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Fireman Sam: We thought it best not to tell you, Norman. It has been tricky keeping it a secret. Both Station Officer Steel and Penny have voiced their suspicions, mostly because you have set fire to yourself and the rest of PontyPandy a gazillion times and yet still I have refrained from joining in with the others when they call you a dickhead.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Trevor: [coughs loudly] I think I should get going...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Dilys: Oh Trevor, please don’t be jealous of the night of naked passion Sam and I had on board Jupiter. It’s you I love.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>[Trevor exits, leaving Dilys with her head in her hands]</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Norman: I can’t believe I didn’t know that the bravest firefighter in PontyPandy is MY DAD. Are you going to pick me up and take me out in your fire engine every other weekend?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">[Fireman Sam’s phone rings]</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Fireman Sam: Hello? Penny, what’s happened? [cartoon squeaky phone voice from the other end] I'll be right there... I’ve got to go, Dilys - Mike Flood is stuck on a roof again and Elvis has made the situation worse. I honestly don’t know why anybody finds the ineptitude of a brainless firefighter so endearing - Elvis is a bloody liability. Let’s pick up this conversation again later, Norman. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Norman: Okay dad.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b><span style="color: black;">[Fireman Sam leaves the shop, vowing to never have drunk sex with a randy shopkeeper again].</span></b><span style="color: black;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The End.</span><br />
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<br />The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-65121216407040839922016-04-05T17:08:00.002+01:002016-04-05T17:28:19.827+01:00Paid Posts, Free Stuff and Gut Feelings<div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This isn't my usual type of post, which is ironic considering it has its roots in my reluctance to stray from my usual type of post. Clear as mud? Allow me to explain. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have always known that people blog for a wide variety of reasons. Because they have something to say, because they have something to sell, because they love writing, because it helps to pay the bills, because there is every chance they might get a whole heap of free shit.<br /><br />It's the latter two motives, the bill-paying and the free shit, that I have been thinking about for the last couple of months. Mostly (and in the spirit of this blog’s honesty) I have found myself wondering if I am missing out by refusing to entertain the idea of sponsored posts and brand collaborations. In fact, I have been told several times that I am indeed missing out. That I could earn a substantial amount of money from ‘paid posts’ (we’re not talking a few squid to spend on the annual messy-night-out dirty burger here we’re talking whole extra income territory).<br /><br />But (and it’s not an insignificant but) it feels a bit like I’ve been offered a job I don’t want. Quite simply, it’s just not my cup of tea. And after much to-ing and fro-ing with a number of different people via email, I reached a pretty major conclusion at around midnight last night. I couldn’t get to sleep and I realised it was because I felt uncomfortable. Not <i>physically</i> uncomfortable, like when your knickers are a bit small and you can’t adjust them without looking like you’re touching yourself, but <i>uneasy </i>uncomfortable. And just like that, a decision was made (I am really very sorry to all the brands/companies who received an email from me at midnight last night with a polite but firm Thank You But No Thank You).<br /><br />I woke up this morning feeling like a weight had been lifted and I wanted to share this with you because I think it’s important that you know exactly what you are seeing on my blog and social media pages. (I appreciate this is by no means the most interesting thing you’ll read on the internet today and if you’re already bored allow me to suggest BuzzFeed’s <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/tomphillips/the-corridors-of-powerpuff">‘Can You Guess Who These Powerpuffed British Politicians Are?’</a>).<br /><br />So, here’s some upfront honesty from me about paid posts and free shit. </span></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Paid Posts</span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>I have never been paid money to promote a product on my blog or social media pages.</b> I have obviously been paid to write articles/features for others (writing is my job these days!) but I’m talking about being paid by brands i.e. ‘we’ll give a few smackeroonies to post a link/blog about our exciting new highchair.’ (Not quoting an actual email there, obviously, though it’s not far off). After last night’s moment of clarity I’ve realised that despite tempting offers my stance on this hasn’t changed, however I should add in the disclaimer that if somebody offers me a million pounds I will pose naked on their highchair with nothing but the brand’s logo covering my modesty.<br /><br /><u>Free shit</u><br /><b>I <i>have</i> been given free stuff, which is in itself a kind of payment for the potential future sales generated by me having the free stuff and my followers seeing it.</b><br />My rules are as follows:</span></div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If it’s something I would have bought or used anyway, or something I genuinely fancy getting my mits on after admiring it from afar, then it’s all good (i.e. if I needed a highchair - which I don’t by the way I’m just sticking with the highchair example - I might accept a free highchair in return for telling people where I got the highchair when they inevitably message me to ask me where I got the highchair). I may post a pic of the highchair. I am unlikely to ever post ‘WOW look at my amazing highchair it has CHANGED MY LIFE’ on Instagram (but you never know). There will also be no ‘Reasons I Love This Highchair’ or ‘The Unmumsy Clan Test the Highchair 3000’ blogs because <b>I don’t do reviews on this blog</b>. That doesn't mean I won't do reviews for 'work' just not here.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I will never agree to casually dropping a key branded message into my post. In other words, <b>I will not be told what to say</b> (i.e. ‘Having such a great day because the easy-wipe highchair tray is designed around the modern messy family’ – you get the picture).</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">More often than not I will tell you where we've stayed on holiday (if I don’t I’m only </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">met with ‘where did you stay?’ comments). Sometimes we will have been invited to stay in return for a mention and sometimes we won’t. If I love it, I’ll probably tell you I love it because you might love it too. <b>I will never accept money to tell you that I loved it.</b></span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In a nutshell, you quite rightly trust that what I post and share is ‘real’ and my gut feeling tells me that this is how it should stay.<br /><br /><i>The Unmumsy Mum</i><br />PS This honestly wasn't an arse-about-face way of bagging myself a new highchair, we've got one.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia";">PPS This is <i>not</i> a dig at other bloggers who are paid to promote stuff on their pages. This is just what works for me.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia";">PPPS I wouldn't pose naked for a million pounds. I look better with clothes on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";"><br /></span></div>
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<br />The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-42638862248301363752016-03-14T12:28:00.000+00:002016-03-14T12:37:12.720+00:00The Secret Diary of an Eighteen Month Old<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>05:00</strong> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Started shouting at full volume to make sure everybody woke up startled. Dozed for a bit. Resumed shouting. Can't make out the exact conversation from Mummy and Daddy's room but it seems to be a disagreement over who should get up. Why wouldn't you want to get up? Who wants to lie in bed when you're <em>awake</em>?! Adults are weird. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>06.30</strong> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Got carried downstairs. Mummy always smiles at me, kisses me then tells me I stink. <em>Every day</em>. Yes I do have a 'stinky bum bum.' It's hardly a surprise, is it?! She then changed my nappy before I was allowed my breakfast which made me cross because I spied my big brother tucking into his cereal. I kicked Mummy when I had poo on my foot and it left a stain on her trousers. Surprisingly, she said that this was 'just great.' Phew. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">07.30 </span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Daddy left wearing his smart trousers and shirt. Where does he go every day? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>08:30</strong> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Tipped the toy basket over. Didn't fancy anything in there. Mummy tried to simulate car racing on the floor with tiny cars but she does it all wrong. Got cross at Mummy's toy car ineptitude. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>09:30</strong> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Felt a bit bored, so I messed with the telly again by pressing all the buttons on the remote (major LOLs watching Mum trying to sort it out as she mutters that rhyme about the duck's cake).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>11:00</strong> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Went to the park. I'm confused about what I am supposed to do here, because Mummy always tells us that it 'will be nice to run around!' but then seems agitated when we run around. She is particularly agitated when I run to the edge of the climbing frame where they have the pole from <em>Fireman Sam</em>, and keeps trying to move me back to the bit where there are railings on all sides. How boring is that? Eventually, after lots of sighing I'm removed from the climbing frame altogether and as she attempts to wrestle me into the pram I assume the stiff-as-a-floorboard position to illustrate my unhappiness with the situation. Sitting imprisoned in the pram isn't 'running around' is it? The protest did at least secure me some yoghurt raisins.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>12.30</strong> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Ate my lunch <em>really</em> nicely. This lulled Mummy into a false sense of security about my independent feeding capabilities (groundwork for teatime, <em>see 17:00</em>)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">13:30 </span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mummy picked me up and cuddled me on the sofa with my brother to read a story. They said I could 'join in' but then the pair of them got cross with me when I wanted to hold it and turn all the pages myself. Once again, I have no idea where I stand. Nobody understands me. <em>I just want to turn all of the pages.</em> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>14:30</strong> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Started feeling a bit tired so cracked out the 'I'm tired' signals (pulled my ears, rubbed my eyes, did the glazed-over stare and the sucky-mouth thing like when I'm chewing Mummy Pig's foot). Became un-tired when Mummy put me in the cot. Did the sad moany noises so she felt guilty while she sorted out the washing. Turned up the volume to shouting after I heard her tell my brother that I would 'settle down in a minute.' We all went back downstairs again. Mummy doesn't know why she bloody bothers. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>16:00</strong> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Went over to see what Mummy was doing on her computer. Pressed some buttons. This was not well received. She turned it off. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>17:00</strong> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Stuck a whole hand in my spaghetti hoops. Lobbed the spoon. Cried because the spoon was on the floor and my hand was covered in hoops. When Daddy got home, Mummy was scrubbing spaghetti hoops off the skirting board. She told Daddy I had 'been like this all day.' Erm, that's not fair. She forgot to tell him about all the fun we'd had on the climbing frame and reading a book, for a start. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>18:00</strong> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Received my daily telephathic notification from the Toddlers' Union that the Witching Hour had started. Treated everyone to a constant snotty whingey tone until Daddy said he 'couldn't bear it' and put me in my PJs. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>19:30</strong> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Made sure I fell asleep in my best angelic pose - one hand up by my cheek and a slight smile seems to be a winner. Pretty sure I heard them both whisper, 'Love you sweet pea' so it definitely did the trick. Will commence the shit storm at dawn. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com52tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-53249959754640005892016-03-05T15:54:00.001+00:002017-03-26T11:27:22.026+01:00Mother's Day Without Mum<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">'Are you
doing anything with your mum for Mother’s Day?’ </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">O</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">h god. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This
question, when asked in general office conversation, used to bring on a kind of
anxiety sweat and leave me wishing I could morph into Flat Stanley and escape
under the door. Usually, a simple, ‘Nah, not much!’ would cover it and I’d
swiftly make an ‘urgent’ phone call, praying the discussion would shift to last
night’s </span><span style="font-family: "\22 georgia\22 " , "\22 times new roman\22 " , serif;"><i>Coronation Street</i></span><i style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', serif;"> </i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">by the time I
had finished</span><i style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', serif;">. </i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The problem was, any
level of truthful natter would have opened an uncomfortable can of worms. It turns
out ‘My mum’s dead, actually,’ is not a workplace crowd-pleaser.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s not
that I mind talking about it – I was fifteen when she died (the big C) and after
you’ve said ‘she died’ enough times it becomes quite matter-of-fact. It just doesn’t
feel that matter-of-fact for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">other people</i>,
who invariably feel the need to say that they’re sorry/they didn’t know/it must
be so hard, to which it is customary to respond that it’s fine/it was a long
time ago/you’re not upset. And by this point the YouTube clip of the Ninja Cats
which has been providing belly laughs all morning has been turned off as a mark
of respect, as tumbleweed crawls towards the photocopier. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">One time,
the casual question thrown my way was, ‘Help settle the debate Sarah – do you
bother with Mother’s Day flowers for your mum or do you agree they’re a rip
off?’ Oh dear. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Think think think. </i><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">‘Erm…well, supermarket
flowers aren’t always as pricey, and you have to expect <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">some</i> mark-up on these commercial days.’ Phew, awkwardness averted. (Much
less awkward than the factual, ‘I don’t buy her flowers <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">every</i> year, just the years I’m taking a bunch to the spot we
scattered her ashes.’)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2BQ7kiR4qY3Nl3PLKgAqN_Ebh75KUze6bfi0ry6KxlgRvdazJwVmW3uxrsrk-swyVe7qvxxLGw5mZdGLPplnPmjhjhdCAGcuXGf6x5NsVQrbKvfziPhdVQPc-Wb2ufVWD0w7Yrj9Mn-PF/s1600/38259_625632856814_1984134_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2BQ7kiR4qY3Nl3PLKgAqN_Ebh75KUze6bfi0ry6KxlgRvdazJwVmW3uxrsrk-swyVe7qvxxLGw5mZdGLPplnPmjhjhdCAGcuXGf6x5NsVQrbKvfziPhdVQPc-Wb2ufVWD0w7Yrj9Mn-PF/s320/38259_625632856814_1984134_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">The late '80s, with my mum and sister</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">To be
honest, when February rolls around and all the ‘show her she’s really special’
Mother’s Day advertisements start popping up I have always had a bit of an
internal groan. I stopped groaning in 2012 when I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">became</i> a mother and, for the first time in a decade, Mother’s Day shifted
from being a day I yearned to hide under my bed to a day I finally had a part
in. Yet while <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mother’s Day</i> is easier
for me since I have had the kids, the
day-to-day feelings of loss and sadness at not having Mum here have greatly
intensified.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Being a mum
without mum here is hard. Four years into
the parenthood adventure and practically-speaking I’m doing all right. I get
through most weeks just fine - though it has to be said I’ve significantly lowered
the bar on what ‘just fine’ means (sometimes the bar is on the floor). I have a
great network of family and friends to help with the day-to-day logistical
challenges, and not having Mum here to do the preschool run and take the kids
to the seaside isn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">problematic</i>.
</span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s just sad. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', serif;">Last year we took Henry (three at the time) to London
as a treat. We live in Devon, so the chaos and buzz of the capital blew his
tiny mind in all the best ways and made for a pretty special trip. I was
probably extra keen to take him to London because I have been holding such fond
memories of the time my mum took me to London in the summer holidays (my sister
had gone camping, my Dad had gone fishing, and London was a trip for just the
two of us). The frustratingly sad thing about the exclusivity of our trip is
that I no longer share the memories with anyone. My awe at seeing the </span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', serif;">Cirque du Soleil, the entire day we spent simply hopping on and off
double decker buses… I have racked my brain trying to remember where we stayed,
where we ate dinner, whether we went to the Natural History Museum or not. I
will never know these things. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Of course the biggest tragedy is that Mum never knew she
was a grandmother. She never saw her daughters become mothers and she never got
to stand in a draughty church hall proudly cutting the world-famous chocolate-button
birthday cake she would lovingly have made for her grandchildren. They are missing out, too. Sometimes, when we’re heading
off on a day trip and I get that familiar ‘Oh god, we’ve forgotten to pack
something important’ feeling, it dawns on me that I have lived with a similar
feeling for thirteen years. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There is always something not there that should be
there. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mum will never not</span><i style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', serif;"> </i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">be
missing. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">She will never not be missed. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Conversations
about Mother’s Day no longer make my cheeks flush red or leave me staring at
the floor. Sometimes, I embrace the commercialism and buy an overpriced bunch
of flowers to take to her beach, though I’m just as likely to do that on her
birthday, or on Boxing Day, which is the day she died. Sometimes, I wish she
could join us for our Mother’s Day carvery but I don’t spend the meal absorbed
in those thoughts because I invariably spend it picking up the food Jude
has lobbed from his highchair and encouraging Henry to sing the Farty
Bum Song at a slightly reduced volume. It’s one Sunday in the year when I
relish a bit of pampering as payback for the tiny humans I birthed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s all the other days, the ordinary days, which remind me what has been lost.
For me, for Mum, for the boys. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Doesn’t cancer have a lot to answer for? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com139tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-77522562489847198552016-03-02T21:33:00.002+00:002016-03-02T21:56:45.183+00:00Mother's Day: Posh Face Cream and PEAS<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’m never quite sure what to make of Mother’s Day. On the one hand, it always seems like a lot of fuss over what inevitably turns into a normal Sunday with the added bonus of a CD and/or a Toblerone ‘from the kids’ thrown in. On the other hand, there is something heart-warming and pretty smashing about a handmade card and the promise of a lie-in (even if the card is 99.9% the work of nursery and the lie-in is scuppered by the sound of an actual physical fight breaking out over the Power Rangers Dino Charge downstairs). </span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Regardless of whether you are a ‘WAHOO it’s Mother’s Day!’ family or not, there’s certainly no escaping the build up to the day as ‘Make your mum feel special!’ advertisements kick in. Mother’s Day is <em>everywhere</em>: on the telly box, online, in magazines and newspapers (and, apparently, when you’re shopping in ASDA and an advert for some book called <em>The Unmumsy Mum</em> comes on approx. once every 20 minutes, sorry about that…)<br /><br /> “What do you really want for Mother’s Day?” I was asked by somebody this week and I reeled off my textbook response: “Oh you know, a lie-in, time with the boys, possibly some posh face cream where you don’t get change from a fiver.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">And do you know what? I would be happy with all (or any) of that. </span><span style="color: black;">If Henry draws me a mess of crayon squiggles I will display it proudly and explain to visitors that is <em>obviously</em> a picture of a Ninja Turtle battling a Lego Nexo Knight. If James produces the CD I’ve been hinting at (Justin Bieber – yes I’ve converted to Belieberism and I fancy The Biebs a little bit, I’m not hiding it any more) I’ll be genuinely quite chuffed. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Growing up, I always bought <em>my</em> mum a load of tat for Mother’s Day and she either quite liked it or pretended that she did. (After she died, I kept the ‘No.1 Mum!’ Mother’s Day bear I’d bought her years earlier from our local newsagents – she had displayed it proudly on her dressing table, even though as bears go he was a bit shit). </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The 'No. 1 Mum' badge has worn off, sad times.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Are you wondering when the peas are going to feature in this post? Well, right about now. I’m not talking mushy/garden/green peas, I’m talking about the charity </span><a href="http://www.peas.org.uk/"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">PEAS</span></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> (Promoting Equality in African Schools). </span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Bit random? Hear me out…[As I typed <em>charity </em>I couldn’t help but wonder how many people would groan and/or press the back button on your browser as if the page was on fire, which I totally understand – you have probably seen a gazillion other charity posts already today]. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">So why am I banging on about PEAS? It probably won’t come as any great surprise that I am inundated with fundraising/petition sharing requests each and every day and I struggle to even read them all. I have always known that if I shared every charity/appeal request I receive that before long you would become pissed off with my gentle nudges to donate ‘just £1’ (All those ‘just £1s’ mount up, right? You cannot give £1 to <em>everybody</em>). On top of that, I always face the same dilemma: which one to share? How can you possibly choose one worthy cause over another? It is for that reason that I started the week with absolutely no plans to highlight the work of a charity for Mother’s Day…</span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">…And then, as I started contemplating my posher-than-usual face cream and daydreaming about time alone in the car with The Biebs (not like <em>that</em>), I changed my mind. I changed my mind because something I had read about PEAS inspired me.<br /> <br />I am a lucky mum. Not just because I own two <strike>nutty and hyperactive</strike> bright and healthy boys but because <em>before</em> I became a mum I had the privilege of an education. Year upon year of primary, secondary and eventually University education. I took all of that for granted, not because I am knobheadishly spoilt but because an education is the norm here. You go to school because, well, because that is just what you do. And usually, by the time you have children, you have some kind of education under your belt. <br /><br />In most schools across Uganda – where 1 in 10 adolescent girls (aged 15-19) are mothers - childbearing marks the end of education, full stop. This is a sad (and avoidable) state of affairs, not least because a girl who progresses beyond primary school and further into secondary school is <a href="http://www.aidsmap.com/Longer-secondary-education-protects-against-HIV-infection-Botswana-study-shows/page/2981366/"><span style="color: #b45f06;">three-times less likely</span></a> to contract HIV in her lifetime; will earn </span></span><a href="http://www.ungei.org/resources/files/2014-04-GPE-UNGEI-Accelerating-Secondary-Education-Girls.pdf"><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">over 150% more income</span></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> in her career, and; any child she has is <a href="http://bmcpublichealth.biomedcentral.com/articles/10.1186/s12889-015-2332-y"><span style="color: #b45f06;">three times more likely</span></a> to survive beyond the age of five. Pretty staggering figures.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">PEAS are on the case. They build and run secondary schools to ensure that girls (including those who are mums) see the benefit of continued education. They have also created ‘Girls Clubs’ at many of the schools which focus on providing menstrual hygiene kits and management advice, lessons on female empowerment and encouragement to believe in their potential to achieve.</span> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I<span style="color: black;"> have a strong enough following to help raise awareness of the work PEAS does so I'm giving it a shot!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><strong>Are there other worthwhile charities you could donate to?</strong> </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Absolutely there are. Loads of them. This is simply the charity (and the mums) I have decided to support this Mother’s Day. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /><span style="color: black;"><strong>Is this a direct plea asking you to donate</strong></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>?</strong> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">No, not really.</span> </span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">You will donate only if you feel inspired to and I wouldn’t have it any other way. (I did check that you can </span></span><a href="http://www.peas.org.uk/donate/donate"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>donate 'just £1'</strong></span></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> <span style="color: black;">though, you know, just in </span></span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">case). </span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Happy </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mother's Day for Sunday. I will let you know if all comes good on the face cream and CD front. <br /><br />xx</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You can donate to PEAS </span><a href="http://www.peas.org.uk/donate/donate"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>here</strong></span></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">.</span>The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-42017139711997517672016-02-23T14:33:00.001+00:002016-02-23T14:47:11.952+00:00It's Probably Just a Phase...the Best Crap Advice You'll Get<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"If <em>one</em> more person tells me 'it's probably just a phase' I'm probably just going to smack them in the face." (Knackered Me, 2012).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It's true, in the earliest days of being a mum the classic 'it's just a phase' pearl of parenting wisdom used to get right on my (slightly engorged) tits. It was only ever offered as an attempt to make me feel better, of course, but on the days I was existing in a fraught Mumzilla state, the fact that something was a <em>phase</em> didn't offer much comfort. In fact, it was right at the top of the Things I'm Sick of Hearing list alongside, 'It's probably a growth spurt!' and, 'He's probably just teething!' (which 9 times out of 10 were accurate assessments, actually, but still...bastard teeth and bastard growth spurts - everything is a bastard when you have had zero sleep and a small person is stuck to your body with Clingy Glue). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><em>Phases</em> were no good to me! I wanted answers. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia";">I wanted somebody to fix the baby who was waking every hour, or the toddler who would only eat beige food. I wanted a solution to the bed-wetting and tantrum-throwing, not a shrug that it 'wouldn't be forever'. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";">And yet, l</span><span style="font-family: "georgia";">ike almost everything in this here parenthood adventure so far, I am starting to realise that there are a couple of pretty solid reasons why 'it's probably just a phase' is offered as the default answer to everything (and why I have recently found <em>myself </em>offering the same statement to friends when discussing their parenting grumbles). </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";">At times, dropping the phase-bomb is quite possibly the <em>only</em> comfort we can offer someone who has declared that things have become a little bit shit. If you have a baby with reflux so severe the vomit-spray hits a stranger in Starbucks (true story), or a toddler who will not sleep in beyond 4am (a friend of mine is living this exact excitement at the moment), there is not always an obvious <em>practical</em> solution. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia";">When staring into the bloodshot eyes of an exhausted mum who has already begged her GP/Health Visitor/Postman for advice, the promise of the current situation being <em>temporary</em> is sometimes the only half-helpful thing left to say (aside from, 'I'm coming round with cake.') </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We all know the drill here. The chances are, she has already desperately scrolled through every online parenting forum looking for answers and come away feeling more confused than when she started - not least because a fight about baby-led weaning broke out somewhere in the comments and she couldn't code-break the apparent foreign language (<em>DD1, DS2, TTC, WAATFAA</em>??*). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So out it comes, the thing that always sounds slightly feeble and unconvincing but at least offers a glimmer a hope: "I bet it's just a phase..."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And do you know what? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>It probably is.</strong> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">That doesn't make it any easier when you are living it, of course. ["Phase my arse! He's been like this for months!" was another midnight rant of mine, in the thick of bi-hourly feeds.] And though it's possible that the 'phase' could go on for ever, more often than not it doesn't. More often than not the issue or difficulty you are so desperately trying to shake off transitions into a new issue or difficulty without you even realising it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So I'm sorry to all the people I quietly sneered at after they tried to tell me about the temporary nature of teething/reflux/general toddler arsiness. It never feels very 'phasey' at the time, but eventually your child will have a full set of teeth and, with any luck, will have stopped performing the Stiff-as-a-Floorboard trick when you try to get them into the pram. Tomorrow just might mark the start of a new challenge. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It really <em>isn't</em> forever. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It probably <em>is </em>just a phase.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Bastard phases.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"><em>The Unmumsy Mum</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">*('Dear Daughter 1,' 'Dear Son 2,' 'Trying to Conceive,' 'What Are All The Fucking Acronyms About?' <em>Might have made the last one up</em>).</span> </span></div>
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The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com43tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-27326704217920783532016-02-14T21:14:00.004+00:002016-02-14T21:19:28.749+00:00Your Child's Birthday Party in 10 Stages<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">1) During the preceding week, you will threaten to cancel the party (and, in fact, your child's whole birthday) at least 172 times. The evening before - when a tantrum over not being allowed on the CBeebies app coincides with <em>has-anybody-bought-the-mini-rolls?</em> panic - you'll resort to making fake 'phone calls' to warn the other parents that the party is likely to be cancelled. Cue hysteria.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">2) You will make too much food for the crap party buffet. Granted, nobody ever eats the egg sandwiches or the token vegetable sticks but you can't face displaying an entire table of beige carbs. If we're being honest, the kids are only there for the Haribo. The foamy hearts will disappear in seconds. The carrot sticks will not.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">3) Parents are never sure if <em>they</em> are allowed to tuck into the crap buffet, so deem it safest to hover with uncertainty near the sausage rolls. [There is self-preservation logic to this - the first child's party I ever went to I missed the briefing for rookie parents about it being the <em>kids' </em>food and piled a plate up for myself alongside one for my toddler. It wasn't until I was three bites into a cheese straw that I realised none of the other parents were eating...Oh. The. Shame.] The trick is to overfill your child's plate by 50% and then legitimately 'save wasting it.'</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">4) You'll unnecessarily worry whether said parents are having a good time. <em>Has anybody offered them a cup of tea? Does she know anyone here? Why isn't the bloody Disney CD working? </em>[The reality is that no <em>adult</em> is expecting to have a riot - it's Sunday morning in a church hall supervising bouncy castle play and making small talk with a friend-of-a-friend's-friend, not bloody Glastonbury].</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">5) Kids in superhero costumes and princess dresses will overheat and become red-faced and sweaty (but no they wouldn't like to take any layers off). Instead, they will down a plastic beaker of squash as if they have spent a fortnight in the desert, before wiping sweat from their brows and charging back towards the inflatables. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">6) "Happy Birthday" will start feebly at least twice before somebody has the gusto to sing it like they mean it. Colin the Caterpillar will make a guest appearance at this stage.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">7) At some point during the celebrations (or shortly after) the Birthday Boy or Girl will have a meltdown over something ridiculous (somebody stole their yellow balloon and although there are four more yellow balloons they need that <em>exact</em> yellow balloon back or they will go batshit crazy). People will nod in agreement that they are 'just over excited.' You will then need to read out the riot act about 'not showing off.' </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">8) Cards and presents will get separated and you will end up back at home opening presents from anonymous benefactors. Having started off with the intention of writing 'Thank You' cards, you will soon realise you don't know which present you are thanking them for and end up sending a generic thanks via WhatsApp instead.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">9) The Haribo sugar-high (which I recently read is mythical but I'm standing by or my entire childhood - based on the legend of the Blue Smartie - is a lie) will crash before teatime. The witching hour with zombified staring and/or whingeing children will prove painful. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">10) Finally, you will eat leftover cocktail sausages and mini scotch eggs for tea and find yourself grinning at the happiness of your now-four-year-old who has gone to bed with Ninja Turtles stickers stuck to his pyjamas. [We're living stage 10 right now, Happy Birthday Henry Bear].</span><br />
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The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-18796989680913417762016-02-03T21:31:00.001+00:002016-02-03T22:29:26.770+00:00I Am a Terrible Mother (my innermost thoughts from today)<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Most of what I write and share on this blog is a kind of tongue-in-cheek observational snapshot of my life with small, slightly feral, children. I rant, I laugh, I curse the gigantinormous list of shit I need to do (and then curse the inability to complete any such shit without somebody crying). But it's all quite light-hearted and generally picks up on one or two moments from an otherwise event-free (and often quite pleasant) day. We cope just fine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This week I am not coping just fine. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There are several fairly understandable reasons why this is so. One child has got chicken pox, the other child has got a cough<em>, </em>and both me and Mr Unmumsy have got the flu. Last night the pair of us woke up in a panic and patted down our pyjama bottoms, fearing that by some bizarre and unfortunate synchronised incident we had pissed ourselves in our sleep. We had, in fact, just sweated so much that we were lying in a puddle. That's too much information, sorry, I'm just setting the scene.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am not here to write a blog post about the Flu Sweats, or the sheer disaster of running out of painkillers which led to me clawing at the medicine cupboard and desperately swigging Capol like an addict. I'm sat typing a post because above and beyond feeling physically crap this week I have found my emotional state slightly more alarming.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Tomorrow, incidentally, is <a href="http://www.time-to-change.org.uk/timetotalkday-online">Time To Talk Day</a> and if we are to remove the stigma and embarrassment around mental health more generally I think us parents need to share our innermost thoughts and feelings every now and again. So this is me sharing my thoughts from today (and I mean my actual <em>thoughts</em> - this is the state of my brain right now):</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><em>I wish I was anywhere else but here.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><em>I can't cope with my own kids. I literally cannot cope with my own kids.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><em>I shouldn't have had kids at all. Other parents just get on with it when everybody is ill. I am resentful that The Show Must Go On this week and it's not their bloody fault, is it? </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><em>I hate what being a mum has turned me into. Why am I screaming at everyone?</em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "georgia";">I am a terrible mother.</span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><em>This is not okay.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><em>This is not okay.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><em>This is not okay.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I'm not picking this apart. I don't need to tell you that I remain pretty satisfied with my decision to procreate and make small humans (marginally less satisfied today, it has to be said, but satisfied all the same). I've been here <em>many</em> times before and have almost always shaken it off by 9am the next day when I'm teaching the kids the Macarena and eating Weetos out of the box.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia";">I'm simply sharing that these were my thoughts today. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia";">Because we don't share our <em>true</em> thoughts often enough. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia";">Much love</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia";">The Unmumsy Mum x</span><br />
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<em></em><br />The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com123tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-57231068425202900512016-01-03T15:53:00.002+00:002016-01-03T17:54:24.152+00:00What Happened to Sisterhood?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have read some pretty catty (and downright ridiculous) comments this week regarding the choices parents make about working. Or not working. Actually, not the choices <em>parents </em>make<em> -</em> god no, how 21st century would that be! - but the choices <em>mums</em> make. I'm not talking about comments from the media either. I'm talking about comments from<em> </em>mums slating<em> other mums</em>. Full-time working mums labelled 'uncaring' and 'selfish', mums who are not working labelled 'benefit scroungers,' and a whole host of 'My Choice Is Superior To Your Choice' comments in between. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This has got to stop. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It is hard enough to know whether you are doing 'the right thing' (and to not feel guilty about it) at the best of times, and, when it comes to working, it seems you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Why oh why are we damning <em>one another?</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">We should be proud of our own choices, of course we should, but shouting about the superiority of one's choice is often done at the expense of people who have chosen differently (I'm using 'choice' with caution here as I know there are a whole host of factors at play - it is not always a case of simply <em>choosing </em>whether or not to work). Sometimes, I don't think we consider what we are <em>really saying</em> when we self-justify our own circumstances. Perhaps we fear being judged (and found lacking) - I'm pretty sure I have defensively blurted out bullcrap about work being the righteous option because deep down I've felt insecure alongside mums who are parenting full-time. (In truth, I don't believe either is a <em>better</em> option - how many hours you work, if any, doesn't determine your Parent Brilliance Ranking).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Below are just a handful of things I have heard and read, from both working mums and mums who do not work, all of which carry judgment for the alternative. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><u>From mums who work:</u> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"By going out to work, I'm teaching my child the value of working hard."</span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">What are you saying, exactly, about mums who <em>don't</em> go out to work? That they are bringing their kids up to have no work ethic? What absolute cockwaffle!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Well, I'm sure we'd all <em>love</em> to stay at home!"</span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">What happens if that isn't the case? [Even if money was no object, I for one would still choose to work. Is 'I work because I want to' not justification enough? Should I now be feeling <em>even worse</em>? Oh dear. Awkward.] It's also pretty condescending to suggest being at home is the easier option. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<u><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">From mums who do not work:</span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Why have kids at all if you were just going to palm them off onto somebody else?"</span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Ah yes, because I'm sure palming the little buggers off is the sole aim of working-motherhood. What about financial pressures, the <em>desire</em> to work, both? What about children who benefit from time spent in a childcare setting? Most children go to nursery or a child-minder at some point - is it only neglectful if you are <em>at work</em> when they are 'palmed off?'</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"My children are more important to me than having a career - I'm making the most of their early years."</span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">We all have to weigh up what's important to us, that much is true. But does this mean that working mums have deemed their children <em>unimportant</em> by going out to work? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">What happened to The Sisterhood, <em>The Motherhood</em>, the 'we're all in it together, whatever the weather' hood? It isn't necessary to pledge allegiance to one camp, is it? Is it terribly controversial that I have mum friends who don't work alongside mum friends who work full-time? Am I in some kind of limbo camp, the camp of the <em>part-time worker -</em> not fully committed to parenthood, sometimes 'palming my children off to others', but not being an impressively dedicated 'Career Mum' either? Does working part-time make me just a bit crap at everything?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I like to think not. I like to think that nobody is crap here. Nobody's decision is better. Or more righteous. They are just <em>different.</em> Different needs, different wants, different families.</span><br />
<em></em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I'm not sure what the point of this post was, really. It certainly wasn't to set the cat among the pigeons and kick off a debate (it's a prickly subject matter, though, so I will hide under my bed for an hour after posting). Perhaps I just wanted to remind myself that the Sisterhood of Motherhood <em>is</em> a real thing. I've seen it. I am lucky enough to have brought together a whole host of mums on my blog and social media pages - I have spoken to mums who work up to fifty hours a week and mums who won't work again until their children are at secondary school. Work (or lack thereof) is not the common ground bringing everyone together and is quite often completely irrelevant. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The real common ground is that we are all mums. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">All just trying to do our best<em>. </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Let's remember that, ey.</span> <br />
<br />
<em>The Unmumsy Mum</em><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Couldn't find anybody to palm him off onto that day ;-)</span></td></tr>
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<br />The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com73tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-6370740021909636912016-01-01T16:09:00.000+00:002016-01-01T17:07:12.850+00:00Resolution Schmesolution<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I love New Year. I get swept up in the feeling of newyeariness and the promise of wiping the slate clean (and clearing out the mouldy cheese/neglected dips from the fridge). I think resolutions are naturally a part of that, and though I don't officially announce any goals for the New Year, I have usually silently considered what they are by the time New Year's Day arrives. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Mainly, I'm talking about food-related pledges - following that post-Christmas limbo week of snacking on turkey and cheese and Terry's chocolate orange (for breakfast) I actually quite fancy a salad. I also make vows about increased exercise activity because my jeans won't do up and the idea of some kind of power walk or mammoth swim sounds quite appealing. I start making noises about digging out my running clothes from that time in 2009 when I did Race for Life...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Then there are the <em>parenting</em> resolutions. I blogged about my failed bash at those (and about <a href="http://theunmumsymum.blogspot.co.uk/2015/02/lesson-44-parenting-resolutions-we-cant.html"><span style="color: #990000;">Supermum and her fucking chicken</span></a>) last year, concluding that the whole exercise was pointless because you are no more able to shake up your routines and behaviours on the 1st January than you are at any other time of year. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And yet here I am, on the first day of another new year, feeling slightly tempted once more to try and better myself as a parent by making promises I won't keep. Promises like: shouting and sighing less, restricting the kids' TV-watching, cooking a wider variety of meals where vegetables don't come out of a tin, being 'present' in the moment (and not absorbed </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">in work emails/Facebook stalking on my phone)...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I can't see myself sticking to any of those. So, I thought I'd take a pragmatic view and set just <em>one</em> resolution I have a hope in hell of keeping:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>I'm going to get out more.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I don't mean on a night out (though an increased frequency of drinking and dancing to something that isn't the Paw Patrol 'Pup Pup Boogie' would be welcome). I mean get out more with the kids. To visit people and places and get our arses out of the house. Because e</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">ven weighing up the public tantrums and tears and risks of dirty protests in National Trust tearooms, I still cope a <em>gazillion</em> times better with parenthood when I'm out and about. A change of scene. Different places. Different faces. Different soft play locations to get my socks wet in. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So that's it. Just one resolution this year that is designed to benefit us all (if we go out more there will be absolutely no need to ever contemplate indoory shit like crafting or baking, which is fine by me). I'm looking forward to braving some new adventures. Though I'm a tad hungover today, so our adventuring will have to start tomorrow...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Once I've finished my porridge and cleared a 10k jog, obviously :-)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
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The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-19974014764316123852015-12-21T22:05:00.000+00:002015-12-21T22:35:32.734+00:00A Year of Facebook - THANK YOU!<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This time last year, after dabbling in the bloggersphere via Twitter, I decided to set up a Facebook page. I was mortified at the thought of having a page that crashed and burned so I messaged all my friends-with-kids and gently begged them to like my page. I also pimped the page out to my existing Twitter followers.<br /><br />I had no expectations, really. In fact, as I sat with a glass of wine creating the page I very nearly didn't bother publishing it. What would be the point? Twitter seemed to be the heartland of blogging and I had reservations about creating another account I'd have to update regularly. Still, there wasn't a lot on telly that evening and I had absolutely nothing to lose...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Just twelve months (and 325,000 followers, WTF?!) later, I think it's fair to say that the wine-fuelled decision to put the blog on Facebook will go down in history as one of the better life choices I've made (much better than my life choice as a teenager to pluck my eyebrows into tiny squiggles, I've spent a decade trying to encourage those skinny bastards to grow back). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Largely off the back of the whole social media explosion, 2015 has been a year of <em>firsts.</em></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have realised, for the first time, that it really <em>is</em> possible to change career direction in favour of doing something you love. I have spent six months writing a book, the final proof of which is being sent to me over Christmas. Who knew, ey. Who bloody knew.</span></li>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have realised, for the first time, that sometimes people say mean things online. I struggled with negative comments at first - it's an indescribably shitty feeling to read nasty comments that make you want to crawl into bed and sob. But it's okay, really it is, because I've also realised that you cannot please all of the people all of the time - nor should you try to. Onwards and upwards (wankers).</span></div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Most importantly, I have realised for the first time that I am not alone in finding motherhood more than a bit testing at times. It turns out there are a fair few like-minded parents out there experiencing the feelings mash-up of 'I've never known love like it' and 'I'm not cut out for this shit.' Oh how I wish I'd known this when the Doubt Cloud first descended almost four years ago. </span></div>
</li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So, this post is simply a THANK YOU. For picking me up after a bad day, for making me wet myself with laughter (genuinely wetting myself at least twice) and without exaggeration for changing my life a little bit. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Happy Christmas, and here's to 2016.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Much love</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">xx</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">PS - I do realise my blog page is temporarily looking a bit weird - I fucked up the template and quite frankly cannot be arsed to rectify it until the New Year. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">PPS - I also realise it's not New Year's Eve yet but this is probably my last blog of 2015 as I plan to spend the next week drinking Prosecco and shouting, "WELL SO COULD ANYONE" along to The Pogues. Always drink responsibly though folks. Hic.</span><br />
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The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-6626469736647787142015-12-10T14:32:00.002+00:002016-12-02T11:10:18.081+00:00Why Is Christmas So Fancy These Days?<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I absolutely <em>loved</em> Christmas as a child and I am keen to recreate the same level of magic and excitement for my boys. Yet as I begin to feel Christmassy, I can't help but wonder whether expectations are being set slightly too high nowadays. And I don't mean the expectations of our kids, I mean the expectations we set for <em>ourselves</em>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I blame the internet. And the telly. A quick browse of Facebook and a watch of the adverts between Emmerdale and Corrie tells me that Christmas prep is no longer just about buying presents, stockpiling alcohol, decorating the tree and choosing which bird* to have. HELL NO. <br /><br />Firstly, it seems there are a million and one 'essential Christmas food' items you need to buy. Like Stollen and Panettone. When did these things become Christmas <em>essentials</em>? I'm not disputing that they are treats traditionally devoured around this time of year but I have quite happily survived three decades of Christmasses without Panefuckingttone. Does nobody whip out the Viennetta anymore?<br /><br />And actually, the internet suggests we should all be <em>making</em> some Christmas goods too. Christmas cake, Christmas pudding and don't forget the all-important Gingerbread House with intricate icing and jelly sweet detailing. You can buy these things, of course, but people will ask you if you've made one so it might be best to come up with an excuse you're comfortable with (I find 'God no, I can't be arsed with all that shit' gets mixed responses).<br /><br />I'm already breaking out into sweats about having to make an elaborate sheep onesie when Henry starts school next year, after witnessing parents stressing out on social media about nativity costumes. I was Mary in the nativity play once and I'm pretty sure I wore a bed sheet. Everybody else wore tea towels on their heads. It did the job.<br /><br />When I was little, I always thought our Christmas tree looked magical. In actual fact, it was probably a bit naf (uneven spread of decorations topped with that god-awful <em>angel hair</em> - does anybody else remember that?) but I can vividly remember standing and looking at the lights with a happy Christmassy glow in my heart. Sadly, a multipack of baubles from BHS and some paper-chains across the ceiling doesn't seem to cut it anymore. Nowadays, I'm told, it's all about hand crocheted decorations, elaborate fairy light displays and sophisticated colour schemes. (I <em>have</em> experienced the frustration of watching a toddler aggressively plonk decorations on the tree, but a quick redistribution to less crowded branches when they are in bed soon fixes that). <br /><br />My sister and I often got pyjamas for Christmas (always from M&S, "yay, thanks Nan") but we didn't get a special pair delivered to wear on Christmas Eve. We didn't open Christmas Eve boxes with a personalised ceramic plate for Rudolf's carrot nor did we have a Christmas family photo shoot uploaded to Christmas cards. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: small;">Early '90s M&S PJs. I've still got that bear.</span> </span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I'm fairly certain all the Christmas <em>crafts</em> (Father Christmas with his cotton wool beard and all that jazz) were reserved for school or playgroup. These days we're expected to paint reindeer out of baby footprints and, according to an article I read a week or so ago, <em>Christmas origami</em> is a fun activity to engage in with toddlers. Origami with toddlers! I'll just let that sink in.<br /><br />I wasn't convinced about the Elf on the Shelf until loads of you reported that elves had proved a powerful tool in encouraging good behaviour (this sounds a lot like bribery, which is where I tend to live as a parent - so we got one). He didn't arrive in time for December 1st and instead arrived on December 5th - on paper this is a Christmas parenting disaster, but in reality it didn't matter one bit.<br /><br />And when it comes to <em>presents</em>, well, I'm never going to be one of those 'all your children need is love' types, because my son has been sleeping with the Smyths toy catalogue so is clearly hoping for more that just my love. But I see no need to go bananas on the gift-buying. A fat OAP in a red suit takes all the credit anyway.<br /><br />This isn't a dig at households who go The Whole Christmas Hog. I'm just commenting on the pressure to do it all. The way I see it, you should opt in (or opt out) of the things that suit you and your family. The things you <em>enjoy doing</em>. I won't be making gingerbread houses or handmade crackers anytime soon but if I enjoyed baking and crafting then maybe I would.<br /><br />When Christmas Eve arrives, you should be able to kick back with a glass of wine in front of the Vicar of Dibley, or do some last minute wrapping to <em>NOW That's What I Call Christmas!</em> without having to worry about rustling up another batch of mince pies.<br /><br />Do Christmas your way. Don't stress out about the small stuff. Remember to buy sellotape, batteries and Prosecco and it will all be fine. <br /><br /><em>The Unmumsy Mum</em> <br />[*Apparently people aren't content with eating just one bird anymore, either. These days it's all about having a pigeon inside a chicken inside a dog inside a horse. What the chuff is that all about?]</span><br />
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The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com47tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-35695663782131535202015-12-08T22:38:00.004+00:002015-12-08T23:14:26.619+00:00My Darling Boy, If Only You Knew...<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If only you knew, as you scream blue bloody murder at my retraction of your spoon, that I am merely going back to get you some more yoghurt. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If only you knew, as you crumble to the floor in pure RAGE
at the harness and reins you’ve discovered attached to your chest, that I am
merely trying to stop you getting squished by a lorry. I wouldn’t like for you
to get squished, you see. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If only you knew, as you twist your body into an impossible
yoga pose, that I don’t get much enjoyment from our daily nappy wrestle either.
It is not me versus you. It is the two of us versus the massive turd you have
deposited, for the second time in half an hour. (The same goes for your hatred
of wearing clothes and disgust at being forced into a sleeveless sleeping bag
before bed - these are processes we follow to stop you from freezing.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If only you knew, as you pull on your ears and rub your
eyes, that it is not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">entirely</i> my fault
that you are tired. I gave you two opportunities to nap earlier in the day and
you chose <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">5:15 p.m.</i> to start snoozing,
which is a Code Red Terrible Nap Time. One day, perhaps when you are a daddy, you will realise that opportunities
to nap are golden, and discover that you would in fact sell a kidney and/or the telly to
have a nap (by this point it will be too late.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If only you knew, as you launch your upper body backwards
against my collarbone and I shout ‘OWWWW YOU BASTARD!’ it is, in fact, not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> that I am calling a bastard. It’s just
a bastard situation – I live in hope that you will sit nicely on my lap for a
book and a snuggle but it turns out you’re not really into books or snuggles
right now.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If only you knew, as you look up from trying to eat your
brother’s shoelace, that I’m only about to confiscate the shoe because it might
have dog faeces on it from our park trip. I’m not a deliberately setting out to ruin
your fun and steal all your treasure. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You are a rather strange being, my darling, but I love the bones of you. I love your laugh and the way you indiscriminately
use ‘BAAAAAA’ as the sound for all farmyard animals. I love your
crazy hair and the fact that you always smell of Cow & Gate Spaghetti Bolognese,
even when you’ve had a wash. When you are mad at me I am usually just trying to do my job as a mummy and look after you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If only you knew.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvz7cYuTErJCd-4A5a9Q-nJVIjtXXbjH1zwIlhXg6zd962Xa3giD0mO-y5nhrS1DzBpvXDmSfNxWZYcGimfdyZ2rEQa7oyJR-7UGYZMx31aZztdPv1_WjnaJNY2LTlWy_6WIGSmsgoy5HJ/s1600/DSC_0671.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvz7cYuTErJCd-4A5a9Q-nJVIjtXXbjH1zwIlhXg6zd962Xa3giD0mO-y5nhrS1DzBpvXDmSfNxWZYcGimfdyZ2rEQa7oyJR-7UGYZMx31aZztdPv1_WjnaJNY2LTlWy_6WIGSmsgoy5HJ/s320/DSC_0671.JPG" width="320" /></a>The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-11020417017158443032015-11-13T14:23:00.000+00:002015-11-13T14:37:29.109+00:00The Barbie and the Pumpkin - Expecting Too Much<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A couple of weeks ago, in the run up to Halloween, I commented on the disastrous afternoon I was having, which had kicked off with a tantrum over a naked charity-shop Barbie and ended with me dragging a howling Henry home by his coat hood. To add insult to injury the hood was detachable and popped off as I tried to juggle the angry child with a pumpkin.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It has taken me a fortnight to realise that said afternoon will go down in family history as a story to treasure. Oh how we'll laugh about <em>barbiepumpkingate</em>. The whole situation was ridiculous - from his insistence on me buying him the naked Barbie (whose previous owner had obviously hacked half her fringe off) to the moment he deliberately dropped to his knees on the floor of the shopping precinct prompting a total stranger to walk past and sarcastically mutter, 'Nice.' (That was truly inspired by the way, it really helped. Twat). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It's only now that I have worked out why <em>barbiepumpkingate</em> upset me so much. It wasn't the tantrum - I don't give two hoots about the public meltdowns anymore and I was actually quite glad I hadn't had £1 for the Size Zero wonky-fringed Barbie (I may otherwise have given in to keep the peace rather than delivering the valuable "<em>I WANT" doesn't get</em> lesson.) It certainly wasn't the first time I had steered an angry child home by his coat hood. Nothing about that afternoon was particularly out of the ordinary (except the one-armed pumpkin-carrying, which was proving a challenge). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So why did I go home and cry? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Well, maybe it boils down to expectations. You see, Henry and I don't usually have any time just the two of us anymore - it just so happened that after shifting childcare around that week we were left with a window of three hours after he finished his half-day at preschool . Not wanting to waste this opportunity I had built up an idyllic afternoon in my head. I had it all planned:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Pop into the library to choose some new books!</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Stop off at local café for a milkshake!</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Buy a pumpkin to carve together!</span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">SO MUCH FUN.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">For once I would be able to hold his hand and properly chat to him without simultaneously having to steer the pushchair and placate the baby with some yoghurt raisins. It was going to be perfect.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But Henry didn't get the memo about the idyllic afternoon. He didn't know I had been looking forward to it and that so much was resting on him behaving nicely. Unfortunately for me he didn't much fancy looking at books, he didn't like the rocky road slice I bought him at the café and after <em>that </em>charity-shop meltdown we undoubtedly should have gone straight home. The fact I further tormented myself by nipping to the Co-op to select a pumpkin (which I chose, he couldn't be arsed) was a mistake on my part. I was trying to squeeze too much into those hours in the name of being Fun Mum.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The truth is, Henry would have been quite happy to have come straight home after pre-school and played in his room with me. We could have devoted an uninterrupted couple of hours to Lego (without me nervously checking the baby hadn't stuck a brick down his windpipe). We could have snuggled on the sofa watching <em>Scooby Doo</em>. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Instead I had built our afternoon up to be something that later left me disappointed. Hence the crying. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Sometimes I think I probably expect too much. I was angry with Henry for letting me down that day, for spoiling our 'special afternoon.' Yet in reality he was in a bit of a shitty mood and simply didn't appreciate my itinerary. <strong>He's three.</strong> I don't think that registered with me at all two weeks ago - I was blinded by the Barbie and the pumpkin and the sodding detachable hood.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Of course it's lovely to plan nice things - sometimes those things will work out just fine and you'll end up holding hands and taking selfies. But sometimes they'll leave you wondering why you fucking bother. Next time I'll try to keep in mind that there is simply more to go tits up when you make grand plans. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And next time I'll carry £1 ;-)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Unmumsy Mum</span></em><br />
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<em></em><br />The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-50048299690056042192015-10-29T22:16:00.000+00:002015-10-30T10:37:14.527+00:00What Would You Do?<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;">This morning
I went over for a cuppa with a mum who lives near me. We had never actually met
before today but had exchanged a few emails so I was not at all surprised to
find that she was warm, honest and funny and within minutes of meeting we were
sharing stories about our boys – their insistence on running around naked, their
obsession with Lego, the time when Henry said the F word to the man from
British Gas (no not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> one, the
fanny one). In many ways the chat on her sofa felt much like any other coffee
or playdate (I mean that in a good way - those chats have become the underpinning
of my daily survival as a parent; nothing beats a brew and a good moan!) <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;">But this was
not just another coffee or playdate. In fact, from the moment I met Jo this
morning there was a gigantic elephant in the room and after chatting some more
about motherhood it was time for me to invite the elephant into the
conversation. I wish I hadn’t had to acknowledge him at all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;">You see, Jo
is dying. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;">I have typed
and deleted <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dying</i> several times in
the writing of this post because it kept jumping out at me from my laptop as
being too direct, too frank perhaps, yet I’ve re-typed it because it’s the
reality. It’s a very difficult reality to process.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;">At 37, and a mummy to
five-year-old Rudey, Jo is the only known person in the world to be suffering
from not one but TWO terminal illnesses and she is dying. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;">How fucking unfair is that?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;">In April, Jo was given just
weeks to live. Nearly seven months later and she is still here, chatting, smiling, wrapping her arms around her boy and pulling him in for a snuggle
in the way only a mum can. Rudey, who chirpily wakes Jo up every day with
his signing and says he loves his mummy ‘up to the castle at the top of the
hill,’ remains her focus and motivation.</span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span></span> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjCSd5dfz3lJEX-flEeJ45Y0rMgX5rwdBWQZEmnXprDe5CZZVjZpEzZM_fY0YQFx3-bRepZwQxIQFzWB6KBswYRXdbcSk35zvguOUPQGPeuZr9zfs3kT1zyJsZf11oGjuVjv5X0fLQnSUx/s1600/jo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjCSd5dfz3lJEX-flEeJ45Y0rMgX5rwdBWQZEmnXprDe5CZZVjZpEzZM_fY0YQFx3-bRepZwQxIQFzWB6KBswYRXdbcSk35zvguOUPQGPeuZr9zfs3kT1zyJsZf11oGjuVjv5X0fLQnSUx/s320/jo.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span> </div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;">Jo is desperately ill but
she has not been beaten thus far and after months of research has found a
scientist in America who she believes can help. His approach in a nutshell is
to run hundreds of tests and extensively study Jo very much as an individual
case to try and get to the bottom of the <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">root cause or causes of her illness. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Jo
is determined to get to him, in fact she IS going to get to him and sets off
for America next week where she will spend the best part of three months in
Arizona. This is far from a holiday. As she is too poorly to fly she will be
undertaking a mammoth 12 day voyage by </span><span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;">boat, train, bus and taxi with best friend Sarah who has
been heading up the </span></span></span><a href="https://www.youcaring.com/jo-smith-447797"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Breathe for Jo</span></span></a><span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;"> campaign which aims to raise
£70,000 to cover the cost of the trip (including tests, resulting treatments,
travel and accommodation). <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;">So that is why I am writing
this post. <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Jo is asking for help.</span>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I’m going to be open with you because I
have always pledged honesty on this blog and if you make a donation because you
have read this post I want you to do so for the right reasons. Donations are
not funding a </span>miracle treatment. There is no guarantee that Jo’s trip to
America will be a success. It could be fruitless.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But Jo wants to go. Jo has
pinned her hopes on this trip, a trip she has admitted is her last chance to do
something proactive in her fight to see her boy through more of primary school
than just his first year. I’ve never truly understood the term ‘fighting
spirit’ but I saw it today. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia;"></span></span> </div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span> </div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;">Rudey will fly out with
family to join Jo when she has settled in Arizona so they can spend Christmas
together. Despite knowing that his mummy is poorly, he is too young to
appreciate what that means. When discussing the trip to America he has only
really expressed two concerns:<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;">1) Will there be a swimming
pool?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">2) Can he take his Lego?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;">Of course those are his
concerns. He is five. His Mummy was told she wouldn’t make his 5<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>
birthday but she did. She has been told she won’t make his 6<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>
birthday. Maybe she won’t. But she wants to give this a shot and <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I would like to help her. I am sharing in
case you would like to help her too.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">There will be no endless
plugging of fundraising appeals here on the blog and I am not going to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ask</i> you to donate in the same way I do
not ask you to share my blogs – you will like and share only if you want to and
I wouldn’t have it any other way. I went over to Jo’s for a cuppa because when
somebody in your neighbourhood is dying it’s kind of instinctive to ask them if
there is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anything you can do</i>. I am
shit at making casseroles and as 300,000 people are mad enough to follow my
ramblings about wonky-fringed Barbie tantrums (and the fucking pumpkin) I figured
this is all I can do. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;">Xx</span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>You can read more about Jo’s
story and donate to the campaign </strong></span></span><a href="https://www.youcaring.com/jo-smith-447797"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="background-color: #ffe599; color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>here</strong></span></span></a><span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;"><strong>. Campaign video below.</strong></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #494949; mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span> </div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/GQ9V4OiS1dQ" width="560"></iframe>The Unmumsy Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04094380010913263266noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941752338886548224.post-4679062356132617672015-10-22T21:07:00.000+01:002015-10-22T21:20:45.353+01:00Sometimes That'll Do is All You've Got<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I never had much of a need for <em>that'll do</em> before I became a parent.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">There was no 'that'll do' during my schooldays when I was <em>the</em> geekiest child (I was a straight A student, I did extra homework for fun and aside from the beautifully brainy boy in my maths class I never so much as looked at the opposite sex until I was fifteen and had started dabbling in hair mascara and Smirnoff Ices and tops from Tammy girl). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoyRmT824pnC_NdZgnGYldpYSfClaqqw_Pqx-7nxtPYJFESr0Af_kOoFbWMGTOh6wm0gj5SKLwxfk6mIztuaAaz0JOlMmTHONn8JT29g4lGKjG0GCb-zqIX_FLvZZlO_Zi_GsV2ci4-9wm/s1600/10685527_10100385341995584_1486095683320707711_n+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoyRmT824pnC_NdZgnGYldpYSfClaqqw_Pqx-7nxtPYJFESr0Af_kOoFbWMGTOh6wm0gj5SKLwxfk6mIztuaAaz0JOlMmTHONn8JT29g4lGKjG0GCb-zqIX_FLvZZlO_Zi_GsV2ci4-9wm/s320/10685527_10100385341995584_1486095683320707711_n+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: small;"><em>(No prizes for guessing which one's me. I know).</em></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">There was no 'that'll do' at University either when I was hell-bent on getting a First class honours degree and would crawl into 9am lectures with the mother of all hangovers because the thought of borrowing somebody else's notes just <em>wouldn't </em>do. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">There certainly wasn't room for 'that'll do' when, as a graduate, I joined the Fast Track scheme of a bank and spent my days seeking to prove to myself (and everybody else) that I deserved to be 'fast tracked'. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I gave it my all. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">All of it. I gave it all my all. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Motherhood, I anticipated, would be no different. I would invest the same level of time, energy and get-up-and-go that I'd successfully displayed in the preceding twenty-five years. I'd no doubt feel an element of healthy competition when surrounded by other mothers and my desire to do my best, to <em>be</em> the best would see me through. I would totally boss it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And I have totally bossed it and been a fucking legend of motherhood ever since. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The end.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Just kidding. You see, I have done a bit of a U Turn on my aversion to <em>that'll do </em>since becoming a mum. A gradual one, it has to be said. I wanted so badly to be the best, to get glowing reviews, to get Straight <em>A </em>grades in Baking, Housewifery and Motherly Amazingness but it turns out it wasn't as simple as that. Or as easy. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It was <em>much</em> harder. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I just couldn't maintain the same get-up-and-go. My get-up-and-go got up and went and now when it periodically returns I appreciate it, I think YES this is a good day and I am doing a good job. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">On the other days I am plodding. I have never been a plodder but I'm starting to think that there is something to be said for plodding. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>That'll do</em> has become part of my life. Not because I'm lazy, or because I'm happy to settle for a compromise but because sometimes it's all I can manage. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">When the house is an absolute shit tip and I do the one-minute Express Baby Wipe of all surfaces and run the hoover around just the visible bits of the floor I know it's not ideal but it's enough. That'll do. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">When we're all tired and the baby is screaming and the three-year-old is hungry and I've got a cough and I resort to cereal for tea (then compensate by giving them fruit for pudding which they don't eat but it makes me feel better) I know it's not ideal but it's enough. That'll do. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">When I wake up with grand plans to take them to the beach and run around with our arms outstretched like aeroplane wings but then for one reason or another we end up at the park AGAIN before coming home to watch <em>Paw Patrol</em> AGAIN I know it's not ideal but it's enough. That'll do. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It's an interesting feeling. To settle for less, to settle for not being the best, to type message after message of responses back to mums who tell me they are 'terrible parents.' They are not terrible parents, I tell them. They are doing their best. Sometimes your best is not ideal but it's enough. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">That'll do. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">All hail the plodding.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>The Unmumsy Mum</em></span><br />
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