What Would You Do?

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 that 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!)

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.

You see, Jo is dying.

I have typed and deleted dying 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.

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.

How fucking unfair is that?

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.

 

 

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 root cause or causes of her illness.

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 boat, train, bus and taxi with best friend Sarah who has been heading up the Breathe for Jo campaign which aims to raise £70,000 to cover the cost of the trip (including tests, resulting treatments, travel and accommodation).

So that is why I am writing this post. Jo is asking for help. 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 miracle treatment. There is no guarantee that Jo’s trip to America will be a success. It could be fruitless.

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.

 

 

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:

1) Will there be a swimming pool?
2) Can he take his Lego?

Of course those are his concerns. He is five. His Mummy was told she wouldn’t make his 5^th birthday but she did. She has been told she won’t make his 6^th birthday. Maybe she won’t. But she wants to give this a shot and I would like to help her. I am sharing in case you would like to help her too.

 
There will be no endless plugging of fundraising appeals here on the blog and I am not going to ask 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 anything you can do. 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.

Xx

You can read more about Jo’s story and donate to the campaign here. Campaign video below.

 

Sometimes That'll Do is All You've Got

I never had much of a need for that'll do before I became a parent.

There was no 'that'll do' during my schooldays when I was the 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).
 

(No prizes for guessing which one's me. I know).

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 wouldn't do.
 
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'.

I gave it my all. All of it. I gave it all my all.
 
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 be the best would see me through. I would totally boss it.
 
And I have totally bossed it and been a fucking legend of motherhood ever since.
The end.
 
Just kidding. You see, I have done a bit of a U Turn on my aversion to that'll do 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 A grades in Baking, Housewifery and Motherly Amazingness but it turns out it wasn't as simple as that. Or as easy.

It was much harder.

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.

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. That'll do 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.

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.

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.

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 Paw Patrol AGAIN I know it's not ideal but it's enough. That'll do.

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.

That'll do.

All hail the plodding.

The Unmumsy Mum

The Can't Be Arsed Workout for Busy Parents

10 everyday exercises for busy parents:

Squat to enjoy 0.2 seconds of sofa-sitting. Return to standing immediately when you hear shouting (repeat x infinity).

Weight lift children who are refusing to move of their own accord (it's not really possible to do reps here, you simply have to carry them forever unless you can find some bribes in the change bag).

Sprint to stop your toddler free-falling from the deadly corner of the climbing frame he would otherwise topple off.

Challenge muscles you never knew you had by climbing up endless rope ladders whilst carrying straw mats to access shit slides.

Hurdle over discarded items like regurgitated banana and naked Barbie. When it's no longer possible to dodge all the crap in front of you it might prove easier to dive right in and swim through it.

Lunge to pick up flattened raisins off the floor (WARNING: exercise caution if you spot chocolate raisins you don't remember buying).

Hop the length of the landing in agony after stepping on bastard Lego.

Commando crawl to the fridge for healthy snacks wine*.

Invest in a punch bag and pretend it's Topsy and Tim's mum and/or your husband when he is more than ten seconds late home.

Bounce a teething baby on your hips (WARNING: once you have practiced this exercise a few times you may find yourself repeating it involuntarily  at the checkout when you have no baby with you. Like a bouncy weirdo).

Well done! Refuel with some custard creams.

 

THIS IS NOT A SUBSITUTE FOR REAL EXERCISE.

OBESITY KILLS. EAT AN APPLE.

*ALWAYS DRINK RESPONSIBLY

The Unmumsy Mum

A Change Is As Good As a Rest (Our Caravan Holiday)

This blog has always been a snapshot of my everyday reality at home and sometimes I feel like I'm being a right mardy cow. I finish every other sentence with, "For fuck's sake" and in part I think this is because I'm simply far more compelled to write about stuff that has wound me up. I've made no bones about finding motherhood more than a bit tough at times and writing is a bit like therapy; the comments from you guys quite often feel like a reassuring pat on the shoulder which says, 'You're doing alright.' For that, I am eternally grateful.  

Anyway, as you know my vow has always been to document the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the 'I've-Watched-So-Much-Twatty-Paw-Patrol-I-Might-Kill-Someone' truth. So as we jetted off drove down to our caravan in Cornwall I made the same vow about the holiday. I'd give you the warts and all rundown.

Well here's the thing. The holiday warts were much less warty (totally not talking about a nasty STI here, just to be clear). It's true I've given the virtual Screw You to 'Supermum' many times before and I stand by that gesture (Supermum is not a real person, she's a mythical beast much like Ruth from Shelly Parkinson's daughter's comprehension homework). However, this weekend I came the closest I probably ever have to dabbling in Supermumdom.
 
Not outwardly, I don't suppose. Supermum would never have rewarded her child's shitty behaviour by giving him a Twister.

Supermum would never have said, "Oh you don't need to buy a poncho my darling they're just trying to rip us off!" as her unsuspecting three year old (and husband) set off on the log flume only to return five minutes later soaked to their underpants.

Supermum would never have forgotten to pack her son's bedtime toy nor would she guiltily have bought an extortionately priced toy cow from a gift shop as compensation (no the original isn't a cow, I did what I could with limited resources).

Supermum would not have whispered, 'Do what you fucking like' under her breath when her son didn't want the sausage he had chosen from the chip shop and instead wanted a jumbo sausage (even though after much shouting it soon became clear that in actual fact he simply hated all sausages. Since when? Since that exact moment, obviously).
 
So whilst I didn't rock up to the beach with well groomed children and organic healthy snacks and a list of 101 ways to be the best fucking mum ever there was something about being on holiday that just felt great.

  

It felt different.

I had more patience. I swore under my breath far less. On several occasions I caught myself  laughing so hard it was dangerous (maybe one time it was more than dangerous). I got stuck in. I went on water slides and built sandcastles and made hot chocolate and let Henry stay up late to look at the moon.

So if you want to know if I'd recommend squeezing small people and luggage into a car to embark on a mini-break adventure then absolutely I would.

Was it easy? No, but somehow it felt easier than being at home.

Was it relaxing? No. (I optimistically packed not one but TWO books for a three night break. I also packed running trainers. I read five pages of one book and I didn't go for a run, I watched the X Factor with a beer instead).

Was it worth it? Yes. Truly, it was worth it. For once the Scales of Parenthood Woe were tipped in my favour and I've come home feeling a bit bloody fantastic. I might even do some crafty shit tomorrow (just kidding, unless putting Mister Maker on counts as craft time).

My best friend described holidaying with kids as 'Same Shit, Different Location' and she wasn't wrong. Yet somehow I felt more positive about the shit. I had more shit-fighting motivation in my locker and with it came fun and laughter and memories.

After all, memories aren't solely about the glossy stuff, are they? In fifteen years when I sob nostalgically as Henry heads off to University or wherever I'll probably say, "Do you remember that summer when you were little and we took you and your brother to Cornwall and drank hot chocolate under the moon and went on water slides but then fell out because you were being a total wanker about a chip shop sausage?"

I'll remember that I found having small kids unbelievably rewarding and totally bloody impossible all at the same time; it's only natural that my holiday memories will reflect that too.
 
The Unmumsy Mum

Trevella Park, Crantock
We stayed at Trevella Park and whilst this is not an official review post our caravan was just the ticket (and just down the road from the best beach I have ever been to). I was very sad to leave.

Job Advertisement: Parent

We are seeking a Parent to join our team of UK Parents.

About The Role
Hours: 168 hours per week
Location: Home-based, though access to a car or public transport is desirable as visits to the park and/or soft play hell labyrinths may be required.

Key duties/responsibilities:
- Imaginative use of baby wipes.
- Accepting graciously that you are never ever playing Lego right. You are doing it wrong.
- Negotiating with a small person who is protest planking amongst the home accessories in Debenhams.
- Clearing up poo, snot and vomit.
- Mind reading (you will need to know why the baby is crying and during the toddler years you will need to understand that just because he said he wanted cheese sandwiches it doesn't mean he wanted cheese sandwiches though when you take the cheese sandwiches away he will cry hysterically about the loss of the cheese fucking sandwiches).
- Mediating arguments over who gets the best beaker.
- Overseeing the Witching Hour/s (usually 5pm-7pm, this often involves food being lobbed from highchairs and general arsiness about nothing at all).

About You
The ideal candidate will have a degree in Patience, an NVQ Level 3 in CBeebies and the dexterity of an octopus on speed. You should possess a strong desire to be accompanied everywhere (including the toilet) and a high level of irritation tolerance for programmes like Peppa Pig and Twatsy and Tim. You should not possess a strong desire to:
- Sleep
- Get shit-faced
- Laze around in your PJs
- Sit down with a cup of tea
- Browse Accessorize
- Sunbathe 
(Unfortunately these activities are not compatible with the role).

Remuneration Package and Benefits
Salary: The square root of fuck all
[This role is very much an investment, non-financial rewards include a warm fuzzy feeling and pride so overwhelming your heart could burst].

*The small print
Due to the nature of this role we regret we cannot facilitate any annual leave and there will be no designated breaks throughout your 168 hour weekly shift, though in exceptional circumstances it might be possible to organise cover through our relief agency Grandparent Staffing (extra teeth-brushing will be required as a result). In line with our Up Shit Creek Without a Paddle policy no training will be provided. This is a permanent position and you cannot ever resign.

The Unmumsy Mum