queen of faff

Former secret writer. This is my rehab.


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Stuck

I’m sitting here with pen in hand,

but hesitant to write.

The censorship’s inside my head

No editors in sight.

 

I often think in prose and rhyme

but rarely write them ‘out’.

My head is full, instead, with words

My pages, empty with my doubt.

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Manchester

My heart is heavy.

 

After Peshawar, my baby was my balm.

Her warm, soft body caught my tears,

and kept me calm.

 

After Manchester, my baby is now four.

I don’t know how to speak to her about the horror

that’s reached our shore.

 

After Nice, Paris, Brussells, and many, many more,

my baby is not my balm.

She has a brother now and I

cannot shield them from such harm.

 

Aged four and one, they dance innocently

to any sound they hear.

I won’t teach them how to fear.

 

This venue, these children – it’s all as senseless as before.

No bullets this time, but the bones were no more grown,

and more faceless men keep score.

 

These small children of mine, will grow

with time,

and are home with me tonight.

 

I will teach them to dance

at every chance.

 

My heart will provide the beat.


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It’s Time to Talk….. again

De ja vu. I have definitely been here before. Different baby, different sleep issues, different impact, but same exhausted mama who has taken a while to realise something is wrong.

This is the post I wrote two years ago on Time to Talk day. This morning I posted on facebook what an awful night I’d had, and how mad it makes me when people tell me to sleep when the baby sleeps. He doesn’t sleep. That is the problem. A friend responded to my post this morning to say it’s good to share as it helps other people who may feel the same but don’t feel they can say. If that’s true, you are welcome to hear this. It’s not much of a gift but at the moment it’s all I have. 

I’m not having the same self deprecating thoughts this time, I’m a more confident me as a second time parent. But I am more irritable, and sometimes, inexplicably and disproportionately sad and/or angry at the world. I am disengaged from politics, from the news, from the world at large because my heart breaks when I watch or hear what is happening to people and places.

Until recently I have only really told my husband how bad things were. I would flit between thinking I had depression on bad days, to thinking it was hormones or “just” tiredness on better days. To be honest, I’m still not entirely sure what it is. What I am sure of, is that sleep deprivation is the most wicked thing that has ever happened to my mental health and so this week, I talked.

I told my parents, my GP, my friends, my parents in law, a health visitor. I have been offered practical support, company, solidarity, medication, counselling, childcare, sleep strategies (not for me!). 

I know this is a phase, I know from experience that I will survive, but more importantly I also know that it’s ok to ask for help. Granted I’m a little late to the party on that one!

Tiredness is such an inadequate word for what I’m experiencing. But I do know I feel better now I’m not trying to work it out on my own. 


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Fat fairies

A few weeks ago, while playing with my three year old, she told me I couldn’t be the fairy godmother to her Cinderella. “Why not?”, I enquired. “Because she’s fat”, came the reply.

Of course, the postpartum part of me, having given birth to her baby brother a few months earlier, was chuffed to bits with this declaration. The warrior mama part of me however, was not.

My daughter’s only visual Cinderella frame of reference is the 1950’s Disney film, and whilst the godmother is more rotund than Cinderella herself, I was and remain baffled as to why my/her physical appearance was the barrier to the part, rather than say, my lack of wand or ability to turn pumpkins into carriages – I have never needed plaits or royal lineage to be the Anna to her Elsa after all.

Fast forward to two nights ago and I was reading her a book, Florence was no ordinary Fairy. Borrowed from the library, I was reading it for the first time, out loud, to my three year old. The basic premise being that Florence doesn’t like fairy things, won’t sit atop a Christmas tree or grant wishes etc, but does adore fairy cakes, eats too many of them and gets too fat for her fairy wings to carry her. Cue scolding from Queen fairy for eating too much and getting heavy.

What are we doing to our children that they can be fed such shite about fatness and fitness at such a young age? A recent BBC report showed that 34% of 10-15 year old girls are unhappy with their appearance. I know I can’t protect her from societal pressure and that how she feels about how she looks when she’s a teenager could be hugely problematic but does it really have to start now?

I don’t talk about how I look in front of her. Sure, she sees me doing my hair and makeup, but even on days I’m lamenting the skinny jeans I can’t get back into yet, I don’t comment on it within earshot of my children. I don’t flinch when she pokes my soft belly, still recovering from growing her brother. I do my best to promote strong and healthy as body aspirations, rather than thin and pretty.

And yet.

And yet she knows fat. She sees fat. Goddamm this superficial world that is harming my daughter already.


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Failing at motherhood

I told my husband tonight I felt like I was failing at motherhood. I’d felt that way all day and had been crying before he ever got home from work. I have a three (and a half) year old and a nearly three month old and for the love of whichever god you believe in I don’t know why it feels like I should pretend that I don’t find that hard.

I find it hard to pay my toddler the amount of attention she needs (or just wants?) while at the same time trying to keep on top of the endless laundry. My parents came to visit us today and my mum helped me peg out the washing (the second load of the day as the first load had been in the machine at 8.30am). I cried as she washed my dishes because I felt like I should be able to manage.

When a delivery of boxes to organise our chaotic house turned up and nearly half of them were broken I thought I was going to lose my mind whilst spending ages on hold to sort it out, followed by simultaneously trying to decide which order to tend to my children in whilst tidying up the chaos I had intended to pack away into the boxes and fold yet more laundry because there’s no way in hell I’m getting the iron out.

I’d had the slow cooker on since 10.30 am to make an easy yet nutritious tea, a desperate attempt to wean my toddler off beige and breadcrumb coated food. It was met with a ‘bleugh’ at lunchtime as I showed it to her, followed by a “I’m too tired to eat my tea mummy” at dinner time.

So I retreated upstairs as the tears fell, wondering what I’m doing wrong, wondering why I feel so goddam guilty about finding things so goddam hard. I don’t want to hear how lucky I am, how quickly this will pass, how quickly they will grow or how soon my own children will be saying all this to me. I don’t want to be told I’m selfish because some people can’t have children, I really fucking appreciate mine. I don’t want to be told I made my bed….., because I know, and I wouldn’t change it.

I just want people to talk about how fucking hard it is, how lonely. How one more game of nursery or Topsy and Tim might tip you over the edge and that that’s normal.

So I told my husband I was failing at motherhood today. Largely on account of the amount of guilt I feel at not doing more or better. He asked me how many children I’d washed, dressed and fed today. “Two” I replied though my tears.

“Doesn’t sound like your failing to me”, he said.

Perspective restored. 


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Identity crisis

I’m sick of hearing that I should put my kids first. I know how important they are, and I absolutely prioritise their basic needs. But not at the cost of all else. They’re not more important than my husband (equally, but not more).  If I didn’t have him, I wouldn’t have them.  If I didn’t have his love, support, company, ability to keep me grounded, I’d have climbed my tree ages ago with no sense of how to get down.  We’re a team, and because of that we are both better parents.

The sense that mothers (and it does seem to be directed at mothers rather than fathers, or parents generally), should sacrifice themselves at all costs to put the children first is grossly unfair and, in my experience, utterly unrealistic.  If I don’t eat, I don’t function well enough to feed my kids. Sometimes it’s just basic common sense and biology.

But sometimes it’s about recognising that we are people too. I don’t want to be defined by my parental or marital status anymore than I want to be defined by my paid employment role. I am beyond proud to be my husband’s wife and my children’s mother, but it is not all I am and I refuse to feel guilty any more for aspiring or even hoping to feel anything different. To be anyone different.

I don’t think I really knew who I was before my children came along, never really ambitious or dedicated to one particular thing.  Maybe it’s their being here that is making the need to locate the part of me that is just about me more urgent. But as a good friend of mine said to me as I went on maternity leave: “This will not be the last big thing you do”. I have clung to those words like a buoyancy aid and I am determined to prove her right.

I’m a wife, a mother, and somewhere, way down, way way down, there’s a little something that’s just about me.


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Daughters and sons

I have never read anything as powerful, harrowing or heartbreaking as the victim impact statement from the Stanford University rape victim.

I have never been so hopeful for huMANkind as reading Joe Biden’s open letter to her.

Angry and saddened again to read about the conversation taking place in an office this week – and I imagine it isn’t the only one. Yet again the insinuation that she (the victim) had any responsibility for what happened to her.

My heart breaks for the women who have been violated, some I know personally and most I will never meet. Women who have been betrayed, abused, hurt, damaged by strangers, by people known to them, and perhaps worse -by people they loved and trusted. Knowing one personally would be one too many. I don’t have enough digits on two hands to count them.

I will teach both of my children that their bodies belong to them, and them alone. I won’t make them hug or kiss anyone they don’t want to, no matter how long they have known them or how related to them they are. I will let them decide what contact makes them feel comfortable and what doesn’t. I will listen when they say ‘stop’ even if I am only tickling them- they get to choose what happens to their bodies and call the shots at the point they have had enough – even if two minutes earlier it was fun and they were laughing.

But I loathe and detest that I will have to teach my daughter how to protect herself as she grows up. That other people will make judgements on the choices she makes about how much she drinks, the clothes she wears, or the route she takes home, though they are never any excuse for anyone to harm her. I loathe and detest that her brother would never face the same condemnation for his choices.

And so, I will teach my son that no always means no.

That yes can become no.

That unconsciousness is a fucking no go.

That drunkenness is not an invitation.

That any type of clothing, or lack thereof, is not an invitation.

That nothing gives him the right to take something that isn’t willingly and consciously gifted to him.

Nothing.

Nothing.

NOTHING.