Pip is poorly. It is heart-breaking to see this tiny (if chunky) little lady so uncomfortable and being able to do little about it. She has had a cold for around a month now- more likely one virus after another- and seems unable to quite shake it off.
You're singing Taylor Swift in your head aren't you... well you probably are now.
The latest sniffles have turned into a cough, accompanied by a wheezy chest resulting in a very over tired baby. Come to think of it- a very over tired Family T! When the littles are poorly its all hands on deck. It just so happens to be a bank holiday and so Mr T is around. We actually had plans to escape to the Big Smoke together tomorrow (this never happens) to see a band with some friends. This band holds great meaning to me and brings many fond memories of the beginnings of our relationship- it's fair to say I'm a little bit gutted to be missing out. That said, even if I were to go, I would not enjoy the show and would be very much on edge until back by Pip's side. What's more important than the wellbeing of family?
There are times when illness strikes in the middle of the working week. The worst kind has to be the dreaded sickness bugs. Noro and Rota viruses are just plain evil! When such a... *ahem* storm goes down I am always more than a little resentful of Mr T as he leaves the house for work. I can't help but wallow in this self pity as I maintain my position on vomit-watch, bucket at the ready, wavering at my own peril. I think back to times before children, times of sleep, a busy social calendar and my own income to spend freely. Then I'm hit by a pang of guilt as Crazy nuzzles under my arm for comfort, or a sad cry emerges from Pip, unable to tell me the cause of her distress. Times have changed, I'm no longer just me, nor am I now just Mrs T- I am Mumma T. I am the glue that holds my family together and actually, I wouldn't change it for the world. So, I won't get to see a band play- there will be other times. I will get to see my children through their sadness and pain and back to good health and their cheeky antics once more and that means more than anything.
Whilst I may still accidentally elbow a snoring Mr T in the face as I get up to see to poorly Pip for the tenth time that night, I will only do it gently because actually, when daylight breaks and I can't take much more, there he is. He's putting the kitchen back together after I have ransacked the cupboards for the elusive bottle of calpol in my sleep deprived state at 2am. He's handing me a toasted sandwich when I realise that noise I've just noticed is my rumbling tum, too distracted by the littles to realise I haven't eated yet. He's lining up the sterilised bottles ready to go as I realise I've just used the last one and hadn't had enough sleep to allow for any forethought. He's amusing Crazy whilst I tend to poorly Pip. Even on work days, as he walks through the door he's running the bath for the stinkiest child, bringing home dinner, hiding the toys behind the curtain- or tidying up, whatever- so I don't have to do it. He's there too, we're a team.
I didn't realise when I said my vows that in sickness and in health applied to so many people. Ourselves, each other, family, friends. What I also hadn't realised is that it comes back to you from those very same people. I'm not alone. It sometimes feels like it at 2am when the baby is screaming, the calpol is hiding and the whole world is sleeping except me- but I am not alone.
Pip is better than yesterday and I am hopeful that tomorrow she will be better still. Crazy is... well the clue's in the name. He's bounding about, putting to use his newly found language skills. His very loud story has something to do with trains and ducks. I think. When Mr T heads out tomorrow night I won't be feeling envious, he needs a break too. I'll be looking forward to a soak in the bath (Pip allowing) and an early night (yes, I'm joking, there's no such thing!) and being happy in the knowledge that I will be turfing Mr T out of bed for the early shift the following morning because- hey, you can't have it all. You already agreed to it Mr T, there are witnesses to be called upon!
Monday, 25 May 2015
Tuesday, 28 April 2015
Wanna play?
"Can I play?" *shrug* "Yeah!"
BFFs, done. When you're small it's easy to make friends. Share your toys. Show an interest in somebody else's toys. Smile at somebody, give them a little wave. Chase somebody. "You're it!" and run away- sorted!
Try those things as an adult- I dare you!
Making friends gets a bit harder as you get older. I have some lovely ones. Ones from way back and some new ones too- I still get lonely. I love my time with Crazy and Pip but I'll be honest, I find the conversation somewhat lacking. By the time Mr T makes it home at the end of a long working day we catch up on the children's antics, his day, discuss what's for dinner (we never know and if I don't prepare something by the time we're ready for bed it will be a microwave meal for poor neglected Mr T and a packet of crisps for me. I'm not even sorry- judge away!) there's precious little time or energy for anything more. Sometimes Mr T will try. He will ask what I think of whatever has been in the news that day, or my opinion on an article he has sent me, or what would I like to do at the weekend but I'll be honest- unless you're asking me to name an engine from 'Thomas and Friends' the answer is usually 'I don't know'. That's my specialist subject for Mastermind alright, I could give Crazy a run for his money and that boy knows his trains! So inevitably we drag ourselves upstairs to bed, ready to begin another day before the lack of sleep drives us out of our tiny minds. Some of my friends are at home like me, with young children. Some for other reasons. Some are working, with or without children. Rarely do our schedules match up that we find ourselves bored and/or lonely at the same time. When that happens to me, I usually head out to the park. Crazy is happy to oblige and occasionally even Pip will happily go along with this plan and have a well timed snooze.
So there we are at the park, Crazy completing his twentieth circuit- climb, slide, run, repeat. Pip happily tucked up asleep in her buggy. Other children playing happily in little groups, parents gathered in cliques, watching over their charges- or not, which really riles me but I digress. I spot another Mum. Her son looks about the same age as Crazy and I can hear a crying baby. The baby sounds very young, the sound is very similar to Pip's cry and I feel the tension as she tries to divide her time and attention between the two. I want to call out, "I know! I know how hard it is! You're doing so well! Don't feel bad, babies cry!" but of course I don't. That would be weird. As I follow Crazy around the park, wishing I'd made a bit more of an effort, chosen a nicer top, at least washed my hair, we find ourselves side by side next to the climbing frame. Our boys are jostling for first turn on the slide as we both chastise them and tell them to wait their turn. We share a moment- we have similar parenting styles! Hoorah- what a relief. Maybe we could be friends. I'm feeling brave, I strike up a conversation...
"How old are your two?"
*facepalm* I've just asked the equivalent of the dating line 'Do you come here often?', now I seem needy. However, she politely replies and confirms my suspicion that our children are of similar ages.
"Do you come here often?"
Oh no. Oh I said it. I must absolutely reek of desperation. But wait- I'm saved! Her son approaches a very angry cat which makes a grab for his sleeve and she rushes to the rescue! I've never been so pleased to see an animal attack- apart from my obvious concern for the small boy, I'm not a monster! I watch helplessly as she chases the boy, who chases the cat, who chases a duck. Her baby cries. In her haste to rescue her son she left her baby right beside me- her tiny, round face turning scarlet as she searches for her escapee dummy. Do I plug her back in? Do I try and soothe the baby and risk being looked at as a child snatcher? Do I ignore the screaming baby? I think about what I would want. My precious first born- don't you dare, nobody touches my child! My second? Please- please make it stop. Cuddle her, feed her, bounce her just please make the crying stop for a minute, my son needs me and I can't stand the guilt of either of them being upset! I go for it- I plug her dummy back in, sing her a merry little tune and bounce the buggy along with Pip's while watching Crazy revelling in the glee to have sole custody of the slide.
She returns, enthusiastically reminding her son just how fun the slide is compared to a silly old, grumpy cat. She looks over panicked, remembering the baby (I've forgotten too in the past- just for a moment, when she's quiet- it's so rare an occurrence) and she smiles, a smile of relief if ever I've seen one. The baby is snoozing, just like Pip. She returns for her buggy and thanks me- good call. We did it! We helped, we reached out and helped.
Our sons part ways, we both glance in each other's directions. It's clear we both want to talk more but our fast moving males have other ideas. Pip stirs, it's time for us to leave. As we're leaving the park I take one last glance over my shoulder, toward the other Mum. She is waving, I feel happy.
Maybe next time I'll ask for a phone number- I'd better think up some better pick up lines first though. That or start travelling with a very angry cat in case the need for future distraction arises.
BFFs, done. When you're small it's easy to make friends. Share your toys. Show an interest in somebody else's toys. Smile at somebody, give them a little wave. Chase somebody. "You're it!" and run away- sorted!
Try those things as an adult- I dare you!
Making friends gets a bit harder as you get older. I have some lovely ones. Ones from way back and some new ones too- I still get lonely. I love my time with Crazy and Pip but I'll be honest, I find the conversation somewhat lacking. By the time Mr T makes it home at the end of a long working day we catch up on the children's antics, his day, discuss what's for dinner (we never know and if I don't prepare something by the time we're ready for bed it will be a microwave meal for poor neglected Mr T and a packet of crisps for me. I'm not even sorry- judge away!) there's precious little time or energy for anything more. Sometimes Mr T will try. He will ask what I think of whatever has been in the news that day, or my opinion on an article he has sent me, or what would I like to do at the weekend but I'll be honest- unless you're asking me to name an engine from 'Thomas and Friends' the answer is usually 'I don't know'. That's my specialist subject for Mastermind alright, I could give Crazy a run for his money and that boy knows his trains! So inevitably we drag ourselves upstairs to bed, ready to begin another day before the lack of sleep drives us out of our tiny minds. Some of my friends are at home like me, with young children. Some for other reasons. Some are working, with or without children. Rarely do our schedules match up that we find ourselves bored and/or lonely at the same time. When that happens to me, I usually head out to the park. Crazy is happy to oblige and occasionally even Pip will happily go along with this plan and have a well timed snooze.
So there we are at the park, Crazy completing his twentieth circuit- climb, slide, run, repeat. Pip happily tucked up asleep in her buggy. Other children playing happily in little groups, parents gathered in cliques, watching over their charges- or not, which really riles me but I digress. I spot another Mum. Her son looks about the same age as Crazy and I can hear a crying baby. The baby sounds very young, the sound is very similar to Pip's cry and I feel the tension as she tries to divide her time and attention between the two. I want to call out, "I know! I know how hard it is! You're doing so well! Don't feel bad, babies cry!" but of course I don't. That would be weird. As I follow Crazy around the park, wishing I'd made a bit more of an effort, chosen a nicer top, at least washed my hair, we find ourselves side by side next to the climbing frame. Our boys are jostling for first turn on the slide as we both chastise them and tell them to wait their turn. We share a moment- we have similar parenting styles! Hoorah- what a relief. Maybe we could be friends. I'm feeling brave, I strike up a conversation...
"How old are your two?"
*facepalm* I've just asked the equivalent of the dating line 'Do you come here often?', now I seem needy. However, she politely replies and confirms my suspicion that our children are of similar ages.
"Do you come here often?"
Oh no. Oh I said it. I must absolutely reek of desperation. But wait- I'm saved! Her son approaches a very angry cat which makes a grab for his sleeve and she rushes to the rescue! I've never been so pleased to see an animal attack- apart from my obvious concern for the small boy, I'm not a monster! I watch helplessly as she chases the boy, who chases the cat, who chases a duck. Her baby cries. In her haste to rescue her son she left her baby right beside me- her tiny, round face turning scarlet as she searches for her escapee dummy. Do I plug her back in? Do I try and soothe the baby and risk being looked at as a child snatcher? Do I ignore the screaming baby? I think about what I would want. My precious first born- don't you dare, nobody touches my child! My second? Please- please make it stop. Cuddle her, feed her, bounce her just please make the crying stop for a minute, my son needs me and I can't stand the guilt of either of them being upset! I go for it- I plug her dummy back in, sing her a merry little tune and bounce the buggy along with Pip's while watching Crazy revelling in the glee to have sole custody of the slide.
She returns, enthusiastically reminding her son just how fun the slide is compared to a silly old, grumpy cat. She looks over panicked, remembering the baby (I've forgotten too in the past- just for a moment, when she's quiet- it's so rare an occurrence) and she smiles, a smile of relief if ever I've seen one. The baby is snoozing, just like Pip. She returns for her buggy and thanks me- good call. We did it! We helped, we reached out and helped.
Our sons part ways, we both glance in each other's directions. It's clear we both want to talk more but our fast moving males have other ideas. Pip stirs, it's time for us to leave. As we're leaving the park I take one last glance over my shoulder, toward the other Mum. She is waving, I feel happy.
Maybe next time I'll ask for a phone number- I'd better think up some better pick up lines first though. That or start travelling with a very angry cat in case the need for future distraction arises.
Tuesday, 21 April 2015
Behind closed doors
I always try to find the humour in situations, particularly when writing my blog. I'll warn you now that I'm struggling to see the funny side of this one- feel free to just resume the fun next time if this makes for uncomfortable reading- I promise not to be offended!
Today, an app showed me some pictures of a time long ago. A night out with friends- my best friend's hen do, in fact. I was surprised to find that the feelings associated with these pictures were very much bittersweet. There I was having a great night out, with the very best company for an unbelievably joyous occasion- but there it is, the fear in my eyes. Despite some serious levels of inebriation I can remember those photos being taken. I can remember because I knew the problems they would cause when I returned to reality. I knew what would follow when I left the safety of my friends and returned 'home'.
I know now that 'home' is sanctuary. Home is my absolutely favourite place to be- with Mr T and the small people, its where I belong. The time we're discussing here is before the time of Mr T. It feels very much as though I'm looking in on someone else's life. I was trapped in a very unhealthy relationship, I just couldn't see it.
I can remember the day I received the phone call from my bestie. "I'm getting marriiiiiiiiiiiiieeeed!!" followed by much squealing and excitement.
"Will you be my bridesmaid?" "Of course!!! EEEEEEeeeeeekkk!", grins all round. Then I hung up and turned around to an icy stare. My (then) boyfriend (and I hate that term but he was very much just a boy and in no way my 'partner' so its all I've got to work with!) was not so elated. The conversation went something along the lines of
"So are you even going to ask me if it's ok? You're going to stand up in a room and be leered at in a tight dress and I'm supposed to be alright with that?"
"Wait, what? I'll be wearing a nice bridesmaids dress and it will be a room full of family and friends that I've known forever, not a nightclub!"
"Oh, so you're laughing at me now? You know how I get, I can't believe you'd do this to me, its like you don't even care. I feel sick at the thought of you all done up like that being looked at and what about me? Where will I be, just sitting there by myself? Cheers! I can see how much I mean to you..."
And that was just the start. That was before things got really bad. When I think of an abusive relationship I think of bruises and broken bones. Let me tell you- this relationship caused me so much harm, but very little of it could be seen on the surface. I always used to think 'how and why do these people stay in such an awful relationship? Why don't they just walk away?', but now I know. In the beginning it was little things, a snappy comment about something I was wearing or assuming I was flirting with other men but swiftly followed by an apology and then an explanation as to how past girlfriends had always let him down and nobody had ever been faithful or stuck by him. I wanted to be different, I wanted to heal those wounds and be the one that he could trust- so I tried harder. I made an effort not to talk to other men alone and to dress a bit more conservatively so I didn't cause him undue worry. He was everyone's friend, a real nice guy so nobody ever suspected a thing. The thing with closed doors is, you never really know what's happening behind them. By the time things got serious it felt too late. I couldn't leave him after saying I loved him and be like all the others, he needed me. He didn't mean the things he was saying, he was just afraid of losing me. When friends and family tried to raise their concerns I grew defensive- he had told me they wouldn't understand and would try to tell me to leave him and he was right, nobody understood.
Whilst he never openly hit me, I felt tortured nevertheless. Little digs about my weight and how my clothes were all too tight. Knock after knock to my already fragile self confidence. He would keep me awake night after night with endless questions about whether or not I was going to let him down like the others, questioning me over and over about my day and conversations I'd had and people I'd seen, trying to catch me out and if I dared try to sleep anyway I was most definitely hiding something and lying and he would speak of harming himself. So I stayed awake and reassured him, hour after hour, day after day. I became run down and very ill but that just served to keep me indoors and away from everybody else and his hold over me grew more and more intense. There are so many things I could tell you but I still don't believe you would understand unless you too have experienced an unhealthy relationship. I truly believe that you cannot help or persuade someone to leave a relationship like this until they are ready, until they can see it for what it is. But you can be there, waiting for when that time comes.
What made me get out? I'm sad to say I actually decided to move in with this man, further isolated and away from the safety of my family. When things finally got physical and I came to harm, however minor- I could see where it was headed. I could see what lay ahead and I knew I couldn't be that person. At its very worst, I sat alone in a kitchen after the worst 'outburst' yet, believing I'd had a very narrow escape. I contemplated hurting myself to make it all stop and what a wake up call. I thought about my family, my parents- what would they think and feel if they could see me at this minute? I'd long since cut all ties with my friends and wasn't even 'allowed' to use the internet or my own mobile, but my parents would be ashamed of who I had become and that hurt more than any pain he could ever inflict. That was my turning point, that was the moment he lost power and I could see what was really going on. I stopped cowering from threats and even provoked an outburst at inopportune moments, where he couldn't manipulate me the way he had. I could finally see the emotional blackmail for what it was and the change was dramatic. I'll admit I was scared to tell him it was over- but he knew. He knew he had lost control of me and didn't even put up a fight.
It was at this point I sent out an apology to all of my friends for being so rubbish and hoped that some would come back. I soon found that the real ones, they hadn't actually gone anywhere- they were just waiting, where they had always been, with open arms. This is the point where Mr T entered my life as so much more than just a friend and helped me rebuild myself- but with a difference. He helped me be who I was supposed to be, who I am, not who he wanted me to be- but that's a whole blog in its own right!
My dearest friends, my L's, welcomed me back into the circle without a second thought. The good times really were good again and we managed to make up for a lot of lost time. They never judged me or punished me for being so crap, they just picked me up. I'm sad to say I let my dearest friend down on her wedding day all those years ago and I wasn't a bridesmaid and I'm so very sorry. I was there, in the room, wishing them all the happiness in the world but I will always be sorry that I didn't figure things out sooner and be there for the people who deserved me. I hope this goes some way to explaining all those times when I let people down without much explanation- but I'm here now and I can promise that I always will be, all the more stronger- whenever you need me.
Today, an app showed me some pictures of a time long ago. A night out with friends- my best friend's hen do, in fact. I was surprised to find that the feelings associated with these pictures were very much bittersweet. There I was having a great night out, with the very best company for an unbelievably joyous occasion- but there it is, the fear in my eyes. Despite some serious levels of inebriation I can remember those photos being taken. I can remember because I knew the problems they would cause when I returned to reality. I knew what would follow when I left the safety of my friends and returned 'home'.
I know now that 'home' is sanctuary. Home is my absolutely favourite place to be- with Mr T and the small people, its where I belong. The time we're discussing here is before the time of Mr T. It feels very much as though I'm looking in on someone else's life. I was trapped in a very unhealthy relationship, I just couldn't see it.
I can remember the day I received the phone call from my bestie. "I'm getting marriiiiiiiiiiiiieeeed!!" followed by much squealing and excitement.
"Will you be my bridesmaid?" "Of course!!! EEEEEEeeeeeekkk!", grins all round. Then I hung up and turned around to an icy stare. My (then) boyfriend (and I hate that term but he was very much just a boy and in no way my 'partner' so its all I've got to work with!) was not so elated. The conversation went something along the lines of
"So are you even going to ask me if it's ok? You're going to stand up in a room and be leered at in a tight dress and I'm supposed to be alright with that?"
"Wait, what? I'll be wearing a nice bridesmaids dress and it will be a room full of family and friends that I've known forever, not a nightclub!"
"Oh, so you're laughing at me now? You know how I get, I can't believe you'd do this to me, its like you don't even care. I feel sick at the thought of you all done up like that being looked at and what about me? Where will I be, just sitting there by myself? Cheers! I can see how much I mean to you..."
And that was just the start. That was before things got really bad. When I think of an abusive relationship I think of bruises and broken bones. Let me tell you- this relationship caused me so much harm, but very little of it could be seen on the surface. I always used to think 'how and why do these people stay in such an awful relationship? Why don't they just walk away?', but now I know. In the beginning it was little things, a snappy comment about something I was wearing or assuming I was flirting with other men but swiftly followed by an apology and then an explanation as to how past girlfriends had always let him down and nobody had ever been faithful or stuck by him. I wanted to be different, I wanted to heal those wounds and be the one that he could trust- so I tried harder. I made an effort not to talk to other men alone and to dress a bit more conservatively so I didn't cause him undue worry. He was everyone's friend, a real nice guy so nobody ever suspected a thing. The thing with closed doors is, you never really know what's happening behind them. By the time things got serious it felt too late. I couldn't leave him after saying I loved him and be like all the others, he needed me. He didn't mean the things he was saying, he was just afraid of losing me. When friends and family tried to raise their concerns I grew defensive- he had told me they wouldn't understand and would try to tell me to leave him and he was right, nobody understood.
Whilst he never openly hit me, I felt tortured nevertheless. Little digs about my weight and how my clothes were all too tight. Knock after knock to my already fragile self confidence. He would keep me awake night after night with endless questions about whether or not I was going to let him down like the others, questioning me over and over about my day and conversations I'd had and people I'd seen, trying to catch me out and if I dared try to sleep anyway I was most definitely hiding something and lying and he would speak of harming himself. So I stayed awake and reassured him, hour after hour, day after day. I became run down and very ill but that just served to keep me indoors and away from everybody else and his hold over me grew more and more intense. There are so many things I could tell you but I still don't believe you would understand unless you too have experienced an unhealthy relationship. I truly believe that you cannot help or persuade someone to leave a relationship like this until they are ready, until they can see it for what it is. But you can be there, waiting for when that time comes.
What made me get out? I'm sad to say I actually decided to move in with this man, further isolated and away from the safety of my family. When things finally got physical and I came to harm, however minor- I could see where it was headed. I could see what lay ahead and I knew I couldn't be that person. At its very worst, I sat alone in a kitchen after the worst 'outburst' yet, believing I'd had a very narrow escape. I contemplated hurting myself to make it all stop and what a wake up call. I thought about my family, my parents- what would they think and feel if they could see me at this minute? I'd long since cut all ties with my friends and wasn't even 'allowed' to use the internet or my own mobile, but my parents would be ashamed of who I had become and that hurt more than any pain he could ever inflict. That was my turning point, that was the moment he lost power and I could see what was really going on. I stopped cowering from threats and even provoked an outburst at inopportune moments, where he couldn't manipulate me the way he had. I could finally see the emotional blackmail for what it was and the change was dramatic. I'll admit I was scared to tell him it was over- but he knew. He knew he had lost control of me and didn't even put up a fight.
It was at this point I sent out an apology to all of my friends for being so rubbish and hoped that some would come back. I soon found that the real ones, they hadn't actually gone anywhere- they were just waiting, where they had always been, with open arms. This is the point where Mr T entered my life as so much more than just a friend and helped me rebuild myself- but with a difference. He helped me be who I was supposed to be, who I am, not who he wanted me to be- but that's a whole blog in its own right!
My dearest friends, my L's, welcomed me back into the circle without a second thought. The good times really were good again and we managed to make up for a lot of lost time. They never judged me or punished me for being so crap, they just picked me up. I'm sad to say I let my dearest friend down on her wedding day all those years ago and I wasn't a bridesmaid and I'm so very sorry. I was there, in the room, wishing them all the happiness in the world but I will always be sorry that I didn't figure things out sooner and be there for the people who deserved me. I hope this goes some way to explaining all those times when I let people down without much explanation- but I'm here now and I can promise that I always will be, all the more stronger- whenever you need me.
Sunday, 15 March 2015
Mum's the word
What makes a person a 'Mum'? For me, it's about selflessly putting another person's needs before your own. It's about loving someone with your whole heart and doing anything possible to make them safe and happy. It's about listening more than talking, guiding rather than pushing, providing and not wanting. It's eating chocolate in secret because you don't want to share it... come on now, we all do it!
My Mum has always put us first. I'm the middle of three girls (poor Dad!). That's a lot of hormonal tantrums in one house, right there. We have never gone without. My parents have always worked hard for us- far too many hours than they should ever have had to and often more than one job at a time. Despite all the pressures of life, my Mum has remained a role model to us. She is a strong, capable lady. She always has time for someone in need and will always go out of her way to help a friend. She is smart and funny and brave. When I was young, I knew I wanted to grow up to be like my Mummy. The funny thing is, now I have children of my own I have become my mother at times. I can't help it- her voice just falls out of my mouth unannounced- "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all!" woah... when did that happen? To be honest, it started about when the goblins came into my life courtesy of Mr T. The words and phrases were just in there, rattling around my noggin awaiting a small person in need of guidance. I'd say, Mum, that's a job well done. The lessons in life you have taught me remain ingrained. Your shared wisdom, just like your love, is etched into us forever. You did great Mum, we will never be able to thank you enough.
I'm now in my thirties- a 'proper' grown up. I have children of my own. When my son, Crazy, was born I realised a capacity for love that I hadn't thought possible. Little over two years on and my daughter, Pip-squeak, is proving that love is limitless. Whilst I may have to share my time and attention there is more than enough love to go around. It's the sort of love that enables you to wipe stinky little bottoms, pick gross boogers obstructing tiny nostrils and catch sick in your bare hands- that, ladies and gents, is parenthood. It's wanting the last piece of cake but giving it to your toddler and watching him decide he doesn't like it after all and mushing it into the carpet. It's cooking three different dinners for three different tastes because it's worth it for full tummies. It's needing desperately to sleep but watching her for just a minute longer because- well, look at her... she's incredible. It's just wanting half an hours peace to watch a programme and zone out without being pestered, but instead listening to a teenager waffling on because hey- he has ventured from the darkness of his room to make human contact, so whilst it sounds like pointless drivel there is something important hidden in there, something that he's sharing with me. It's so many things that I thought I was too selfish to ever do until my children came along and changed me for the better. It's more rewarding than you can imagine or I can describe. Its a tiny hand holding yours. It's your child becoming a person in their own right and making decisions with confidence. It's a card with just a few words from a sullen teen that speak volumes. It's a happy heart and a happy home.
I will always be grateful to Mr T, the wonderful man that has given me wonderful, beautiful children. I will always be grateful to my parents for showing me what it means to be a good parent. To my friends and family for their ongoing support during the tough times. I'm also lucky enough to have married into an amazing, caring family and my support team just keeps growing. I hope to make you all proud.
Happy Mother's Day to all- if you're lucky enough to be able, give your Mum a big squeeze and tell her how much you love her. If today is a difficult day and you can't be with yours, think of the good times and know- even from my limited experience as a mother- that she would want you to be happy and she will be proud of the person you are if you are just being true to yourself.
Mum- I love you, I will always need you and when things get tough I ask myself what you would do. Thank you for everything you have sacrificed for me (I'm guessing sleep more that anything, right?). Each passing day, now that I too am a mother, shows me just how much you love me. I hope you can be as proud of me as I am of you xx
My Mum has always put us first. I'm the middle of three girls (poor Dad!). That's a lot of hormonal tantrums in one house, right there. We have never gone without. My parents have always worked hard for us- far too many hours than they should ever have had to and often more than one job at a time. Despite all the pressures of life, my Mum has remained a role model to us. She is a strong, capable lady. She always has time for someone in need and will always go out of her way to help a friend. She is smart and funny and brave. When I was young, I knew I wanted to grow up to be like my Mummy. The funny thing is, now I have children of my own I have become my mother at times. I can't help it- her voice just falls out of my mouth unannounced- "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all!" woah... when did that happen? To be honest, it started about when the goblins came into my life courtesy of Mr T. The words and phrases were just in there, rattling around my noggin awaiting a small person in need of guidance. I'd say, Mum, that's a job well done. The lessons in life you have taught me remain ingrained. Your shared wisdom, just like your love, is etched into us forever. You did great Mum, we will never be able to thank you enough.
I'm now in my thirties- a 'proper' grown up. I have children of my own. When my son, Crazy, was born I realised a capacity for love that I hadn't thought possible. Little over two years on and my daughter, Pip-squeak, is proving that love is limitless. Whilst I may have to share my time and attention there is more than enough love to go around. It's the sort of love that enables you to wipe stinky little bottoms, pick gross boogers obstructing tiny nostrils and catch sick in your bare hands- that, ladies and gents, is parenthood. It's wanting the last piece of cake but giving it to your toddler and watching him decide he doesn't like it after all and mushing it into the carpet. It's cooking three different dinners for three different tastes because it's worth it for full tummies. It's needing desperately to sleep but watching her for just a minute longer because- well, look at her... she's incredible. It's just wanting half an hours peace to watch a programme and zone out without being pestered, but instead listening to a teenager waffling on because hey- he has ventured from the darkness of his room to make human contact, so whilst it sounds like pointless drivel there is something important hidden in there, something that he's sharing with me. It's so many things that I thought I was too selfish to ever do until my children came along and changed me for the better. It's more rewarding than you can imagine or I can describe. Its a tiny hand holding yours. It's your child becoming a person in their own right and making decisions with confidence. It's a card with just a few words from a sullen teen that speak volumes. It's a happy heart and a happy home.
I will always be grateful to Mr T, the wonderful man that has given me wonderful, beautiful children. I will always be grateful to my parents for showing me what it means to be a good parent. To my friends and family for their ongoing support during the tough times. I'm also lucky enough to have married into an amazing, caring family and my support team just keeps growing. I hope to make you all proud.
Happy Mother's Day to all- if you're lucky enough to be able, give your Mum a big squeeze and tell her how much you love her. If today is a difficult day and you can't be with yours, think of the good times and know- even from my limited experience as a mother- that she would want you to be happy and she will be proud of the person you are if you are just being true to yourself.
Mum- I love you, I will always need you and when things get tough I ask myself what you would do. Thank you for everything you have sacrificed for me (I'm guessing sleep more that anything, right?). Each passing day, now that I too am a mother, shows me just how much you love me. I hope you can be as proud of me as I am of you xx
Tuesday, 10 March 2015
Then there were 4
My good intentions of regular blogging throughout pregnancy fell by the wayside when the demands of Crazy and lack of sleep took their toll- sorry about that. But here we are, Baby Pipsqueak is 17 days old already, time flies when *you're having fun!
*every day morphs into the next and there is no such thing as sleep
So let me begin by telling you that I absolutely love my daughter. She is a real beauty (if I do say so myself) and I feel truly blessed to have Pip and Crazy in my life. Mr T gave me these beautiful creatures and has been my hero during paternity leave helping with such a huge adjustment. Super-Daddy to the rescue. When we brought Pip home from the hospital that same day she was born, Crazy was in bed so they met the following morning. He greeted her with a 10 second tantrum, took himself away to his room to have a good old chat to his pal 'Froggy', returned downstairs to give Pip a sloppy kiss and to bestow upon her his favourite 'Thomas and Friends' book (bestowed it right into her eye socket, bless him). Cute. That was it then, job done. There's another person in the family, there she is- right there. This is us then, a new family unit. Crazy had taken it in his stride, on with the game of trains at hand. What about me? Why am I struggling and why can't I say so?
Pip was overdue. 8 long days. There are more hours in an overdue day than an average one- ask any post due date fed up Mumma. I was induced on the Saturday, by Sunday morning we were rushing back to the hospital to have a baby. It all happened pretty quickly. So quickly, in fact, that there wasn't time for the epidural I so desperately needed. Crazy arrived early, but the labour was slow and steady and I felt calm and in control. Pip was arriving, ready or not- I was very much not ready, despite the extra days cooking her. Whilst I don't want to scare off any potential baby-makers or even more so, those already cooking a fresh one- I need to be honest, so now might be a good time to skip the rest of this paragraph. I have never known pain like it. I did not feel in control and I did not feel like the professionals delivering my baby were in control. There was an air of panic as Pip's heart rate couldn't be traced and they tried and failed to fit a trace to her fragile little head. The anaesthetist had left in tears because she couldn't help me and I was in distress. Poor Mr T was helpless and his face told me so. Nobody would talk to me or answer my questions and I was angry. Boy was I angry. I had requested an epidural in plenty of time, yet here we were. I know hospitals are very busy places and needs must be prioritised- but there and then I felt cheated. At it's worst, I begged Mr T to tell Crazy every day how much I loved him as the panic and pain made me feel like I might not make it through. I begged the midwives to put me under and cut her out- right now, I can't take another minute- please, somebody help me. My pleas were ignored and the panic rose. Somehow, thankfully, we made it through and baby Pip was born healthy- if very grey- and a decent 8lb 9oz. I waited for the exhilaration I felt with Crazy. It didn't happen. I felt relief. Relief that she was ok. Relief that Mr T could relax. Relief that I wouldn't have to do that ever again. I did feel love for little Pip as she snuggled in, wondering what on earth had happened and where she was. But I felt angry. I felt empty. But I said and did all the right things- the first feed, skin to skin, told everybody how wonderfully ecstatic I am. Hey- I did it with gas and air! Way to go me! I could just stare at her forever! That's how I wanted to feel and should have felt.
Now don't get me wrong- I'm so thankful for my children. I have a son and a daughter, they are both perfect and I am beyond lucky. I had read about how a second baby is different to the first. I always like to read up and be prepared- but I wasn't prepared. I was underwhelmed. I felt unimportant. Like the trauma I had been through didn't really happen or at least didn't really matter. I didn't feel that urgent sense of 'I must hold my baby and never put her down' and when other people held her I didn't think 'I need her back!'. Instead I thought- she's happier there. You're doing a better job than me, you keep her. I was happy to pass her around because it was better for her.
I breastfed for the first four days. This kid was insatiable. I didn't sleep for more than an hour at a time, day or night and as much as Mr T was around to help- and help he did- he couldn't do the feeds for me. Crazy still demanded from his Mumma- and I was grateful for that. I could make him happy at least. Except I didn't have the time because I couldn't put Pip down. She was always hungry and her shrill scream cut through my soul. Urgent neediness, not soon, now- you're failing me. I wasn't enjoying feeds like I did with Crazy, when I had all the time in the world to gaze at him and imagine our future together as a family. Now there was no time- no time for Crazy's bedtime story, bathtime, snuggles- all my favourite things. No time for Pip, to bond, to learn her noises, her smell. No time for Mr T, despite all his efforts I just didn't have the time or patience to even thank him properly. What I did have was guilt and lots of it. Guilt for all those things, all those feelings- or lack of. In desperation we tried Pip with a bottle of formula and she slept for three long hours. The decision was made, she was happier and I was happier. She finally had a full tummy and was content. We could put her down and she didn't scream. I felt relieved that the pain would stop and I could rest. Which brought more guilt.
These days things are getting better, but there are still moments. I find myself in tears, both children demanding at the same time. This morning I opened up to a friend. A friendship that is based on absolute honesty, no matter how brutal. I said "I don't feel like I should". Her reply- "I didn't either". I felt better. Just like that, I felt hopeful. We chatted, she identified with a lot of what I had to say and I wasn't alone. Why wasn't this stuff in the books? The real grit? Not the glossy stuff. Already when she won't settle I can now think- it's not my fault. My children are different people, already they need different things from me. My relationship will be different with both of them and that's ok. It's ok that I didn't enjoy breastfeeding this time- I'm also raising another little person at the same time. It's ok that I didn't feel overwhelmed with joy and high on adrenalin when she arrived- I had been through an immeasurable amount of pain and I had already experienced birth before, of course it was never going to be the same. That doesn't mean I'm not attached to my daughter as I should be. It doesn't mean I'm doing it wrong- its just different. When I see her snuggling her Daddy, content and quiet, or snoozing in her Aunty's arms without a whimper I don't need to feel like I'm failing. I need to feel happy that she is happy. I need to use that time to steal back the moments I miss with Crazy. There are times when she is content in my arms but I'm so wracked with guilt that I don't recognise them. All I'm guilty of is guilt itself and I'm going to make a conscious effort to stop.
I hope my honesty can help somebody that might find themselves in my position, Or maybe somebody who once was but is still harbouring that guilt. To see it from another perspective is so easy- to say 'but you're doing great!' doesn't always help if you really don't feel like you're doing great. Sometimes you need to hear- I struggled too and that's ok.
Apologies for the heavy stuff- on a brighter note, Crazy has just gone for a nap and Pip is currently snoozing in her hammock so I shall take this opportunity to close my eyes. I won't say nap, because Pip has a sixth sense for my napping and knows it's time to 'Squeak' once again to keep me busy. She so hates to see me bored, this one... Maybe if I learn to sleep with one eye open I can fool her! Or maybe I shall just resume with the chores. The bottles won't sterilise themselves and I kid myself that the steam is good for my skin whilst I hastily make up bottles so hot to handle that I probably have no fingerprints left whilst simultaneously load the washing machine with one foot, precariously balanced on the other in haze of sleep deprivation. Multitasking- I've got that shizzle down.
*every day morphs into the next and there is no such thing as sleep
So let me begin by telling you that I absolutely love my daughter. She is a real beauty (if I do say so myself) and I feel truly blessed to have Pip and Crazy in my life. Mr T gave me these beautiful creatures and has been my hero during paternity leave helping with such a huge adjustment. Super-Daddy to the rescue. When we brought Pip home from the hospital that same day she was born, Crazy was in bed so they met the following morning. He greeted her with a 10 second tantrum, took himself away to his room to have a good old chat to his pal 'Froggy', returned downstairs to give Pip a sloppy kiss and to bestow upon her his favourite 'Thomas and Friends' book (bestowed it right into her eye socket, bless him). Cute. That was it then, job done. There's another person in the family, there she is- right there. This is us then, a new family unit. Crazy had taken it in his stride, on with the game of trains at hand. What about me? Why am I struggling and why can't I say so?
Pip was overdue. 8 long days. There are more hours in an overdue day than an average one- ask any post due date fed up Mumma. I was induced on the Saturday, by Sunday morning we were rushing back to the hospital to have a baby. It all happened pretty quickly. So quickly, in fact, that there wasn't time for the epidural I so desperately needed. Crazy arrived early, but the labour was slow and steady and I felt calm and in control. Pip was arriving, ready or not- I was very much not ready, despite the extra days cooking her. Whilst I don't want to scare off any potential baby-makers or even more so, those already cooking a fresh one- I need to be honest, so now might be a good time to skip the rest of this paragraph. I have never known pain like it. I did not feel in control and I did not feel like the professionals delivering my baby were in control. There was an air of panic as Pip's heart rate couldn't be traced and they tried and failed to fit a trace to her fragile little head. The anaesthetist had left in tears because she couldn't help me and I was in distress. Poor Mr T was helpless and his face told me so. Nobody would talk to me or answer my questions and I was angry. Boy was I angry. I had requested an epidural in plenty of time, yet here we were. I know hospitals are very busy places and needs must be prioritised- but there and then I felt cheated. At it's worst, I begged Mr T to tell Crazy every day how much I loved him as the panic and pain made me feel like I might not make it through. I begged the midwives to put me under and cut her out- right now, I can't take another minute- please, somebody help me. My pleas were ignored and the panic rose. Somehow, thankfully, we made it through and baby Pip was born healthy- if very grey- and a decent 8lb 9oz. I waited for the exhilaration I felt with Crazy. It didn't happen. I felt relief. Relief that she was ok. Relief that Mr T could relax. Relief that I wouldn't have to do that ever again. I did feel love for little Pip as she snuggled in, wondering what on earth had happened and where she was. But I felt angry. I felt empty. But I said and did all the right things- the first feed, skin to skin, told everybody how wonderfully ecstatic I am. Hey- I did it with gas and air! Way to go me! I could just stare at her forever! That's how I wanted to feel and should have felt.
Now don't get me wrong- I'm so thankful for my children. I have a son and a daughter, they are both perfect and I am beyond lucky. I had read about how a second baby is different to the first. I always like to read up and be prepared- but I wasn't prepared. I was underwhelmed. I felt unimportant. Like the trauma I had been through didn't really happen or at least didn't really matter. I didn't feel that urgent sense of 'I must hold my baby and never put her down' and when other people held her I didn't think 'I need her back!'. Instead I thought- she's happier there. You're doing a better job than me, you keep her. I was happy to pass her around because it was better for her.
I breastfed for the first four days. This kid was insatiable. I didn't sleep for more than an hour at a time, day or night and as much as Mr T was around to help- and help he did- he couldn't do the feeds for me. Crazy still demanded from his Mumma- and I was grateful for that. I could make him happy at least. Except I didn't have the time because I couldn't put Pip down. She was always hungry and her shrill scream cut through my soul. Urgent neediness, not soon, now- you're failing me. I wasn't enjoying feeds like I did with Crazy, when I had all the time in the world to gaze at him and imagine our future together as a family. Now there was no time- no time for Crazy's bedtime story, bathtime, snuggles- all my favourite things. No time for Pip, to bond, to learn her noises, her smell. No time for Mr T, despite all his efforts I just didn't have the time or patience to even thank him properly. What I did have was guilt and lots of it. Guilt for all those things, all those feelings- or lack of. In desperation we tried Pip with a bottle of formula and she slept for three long hours. The decision was made, she was happier and I was happier. She finally had a full tummy and was content. We could put her down and she didn't scream. I felt relieved that the pain would stop and I could rest. Which brought more guilt.
These days things are getting better, but there are still moments. I find myself in tears, both children demanding at the same time. This morning I opened up to a friend. A friendship that is based on absolute honesty, no matter how brutal. I said "I don't feel like I should". Her reply- "I didn't either". I felt better. Just like that, I felt hopeful. We chatted, she identified with a lot of what I had to say and I wasn't alone. Why wasn't this stuff in the books? The real grit? Not the glossy stuff. Already when she won't settle I can now think- it's not my fault. My children are different people, already they need different things from me. My relationship will be different with both of them and that's ok. It's ok that I didn't enjoy breastfeeding this time- I'm also raising another little person at the same time. It's ok that I didn't feel overwhelmed with joy and high on adrenalin when she arrived- I had been through an immeasurable amount of pain and I had already experienced birth before, of course it was never going to be the same. That doesn't mean I'm not attached to my daughter as I should be. It doesn't mean I'm doing it wrong- its just different. When I see her snuggling her Daddy, content and quiet, or snoozing in her Aunty's arms without a whimper I don't need to feel like I'm failing. I need to feel happy that she is happy. I need to use that time to steal back the moments I miss with Crazy. There are times when she is content in my arms but I'm so wracked with guilt that I don't recognise them. All I'm guilty of is guilt itself and I'm going to make a conscious effort to stop.
I hope my honesty can help somebody that might find themselves in my position, Or maybe somebody who once was but is still harbouring that guilt. To see it from another perspective is so easy- to say 'but you're doing great!' doesn't always help if you really don't feel like you're doing great. Sometimes you need to hear- I struggled too and that's ok.
Apologies for the heavy stuff- on a brighter note, Crazy has just gone for a nap and Pip is currently snoozing in her hammock so I shall take this opportunity to close my eyes. I won't say nap, because Pip has a sixth sense for my napping and knows it's time to 'Squeak' once again to keep me busy. She so hates to see me bored, this one... Maybe if I learn to sleep with one eye open I can fool her! Or maybe I shall just resume with the chores. The bottles won't sterilise themselves and I kid myself that the steam is good for my skin whilst I hastily make up bottles so hot to handle that I probably have no fingerprints left whilst simultaneously load the washing machine with one foot, precariously balanced on the other in haze of sleep deprivation. Multitasking- I've got that shizzle down.
Monday, 29 September 2014
Growing up
My 'baby', Crazy, celebrated his 2nd birthday last week. That came around quickly, it feels like only a month or so ago I was cooing over this teeny tiny being, grasping my finger and making scrumptious snuffly noises in his still-too-big, newborn sized onesie. Yet, at the same time it feels as though he has always been around. He has his very own personality and little quirks and I'm so very proud of him. He is stubborn, energetic, funny, alert, peculiar in an endearing way- I'm his biggest fan. Whilst he is my world, I will ensure that he grows to learn that the world does not revolve around him. He will learn to take turns, to share, to be polite and thoughtful and to work hard- he is not owed, he must earn. With his baby sister due in February he may have to learn to share sooner than he likes. My time and attention will be split with another, which seems almost incomprehensible to me, never mind a toddler.
Today Crazy spent his first morning in preschool. We have been for a few visits and he has always very much enjoyed his time there but I was always around, in the background, for whenever he felt the need to check in. On our last visit he barely looked my way more than twice so I was fairly confident that he would be just fine today... I'd almost started to look forward to a bit of time to myself. We arrived at drop-off time to an excited 'Yay!' from Crazy, said our goodbyes and left him playing happily with a train set. After a blissful breakfast in a café as a grown-up (for those unfamiliar with toddler life, any meal out usually requires entertaining a demanding smaller person that becomes bored and vocal about said boredom within minutes, they will seek and destroy anything within reach and when food arrives, at least half of this will be thrown on the floor/at fellow diners, wiped on chairs/clothes/anyone within reach and as much time is spent clearing up the mess as is spent eating your own -cold- meal) I headed home. Home was simply, 'house'. The heart was missing. The mess was there, so I put it away. Then I cleaned and polished and steamed. I continued doing these things in an attempt to stop the clock from shouting at me. 'Tick-tock! Tick-tock! Your son is with strangers! You are not in control! Tick tock! You still have an hour to go!'. This exciting child free time sucks!
I hurried back to collect him- I was the first at the door of course. I was closely followed by a second timer. The second timer knows how you feel, they were a first timer just the other day. They know it is worse the second time because your small people know of your betrayal, leaving them in this new place with these new people. The second timer has endured the meltdown at drop off and pities your hopefulness and false confidence that your own small person has been playing busily without even noticing you've slipped away. The old-schoolers arrived. Their small people are into a routine, they know the score. They've gone through the tears and tantrums and their children really do play happily whilst they enjoy doing grown up things. They don't mingle with the first and second timers, the old-schoolers have their own clique. The door opens, we hurry inside to find our small people. Crazy is sad, his eyes are red and puffy and he is snotty and hiding in the corner. The second timer is relieved to spot her small person engrossed in a book- I notice there is no sign of this morning's drop-off tears for their small person. They are already transitioning to old-schoolers. Maybe there is hope. But right now I feel incredible guilt. Crazy is clinging to me, wondering how and why I left him and he is marching me to the door- we must leave this place immediately before I disappear again and he is made to do fun things like drawing and playing with toys. The lovely preschool people tell me about his morning, that he has been tearful on and off, that he didn't want to participate in snack time but he did like to play with the train set. They presented me with his first drawing to be displayed proudly on my fridge and they reassure me that it was only his first day and that eventually he will learn that I always come back. We scuttle off to the car and whilst Crazy is happy once again- and I'm pretty sure he has forgotten the whole ordeal already- I am holding back tears and already thinking about how much harder it will be leaving next time knowing that he needs me and I won't be there. I am reminding myself that it is good for all of us that he has a couple of mornings a week at preschool. He is learning to socialise independently, to build confidence in being a person in his own right and not being directed by Mummy. I am making time to rest until the new baby is here and then to devote my whole attention, for a short while, only to her. It is good for us all and once Crazy has settled, he will happily go in to play just like the old-schoolers.
My little 'baby', Crazy, is his very own person. He is out there being himself and making his own decisions, however small they may be. His path in life has started and the lessons I want to teach him are already underway. He is learning and I am proud. I have kept the first promise I ever made him- that we would both learn along the way. What I didn't realise is that he would be teaching me every bit as much as I am showing him the way.
Today Crazy spent his first morning in preschool. We have been for a few visits and he has always very much enjoyed his time there but I was always around, in the background, for whenever he felt the need to check in. On our last visit he barely looked my way more than twice so I was fairly confident that he would be just fine today... I'd almost started to look forward to a bit of time to myself. We arrived at drop-off time to an excited 'Yay!' from Crazy, said our goodbyes and left him playing happily with a train set. After a blissful breakfast in a café as a grown-up (for those unfamiliar with toddler life, any meal out usually requires entertaining a demanding smaller person that becomes bored and vocal about said boredom within minutes, they will seek and destroy anything within reach and when food arrives, at least half of this will be thrown on the floor/at fellow diners, wiped on chairs/clothes/anyone within reach and as much time is spent clearing up the mess as is spent eating your own -cold- meal) I headed home. Home was simply, 'house'. The heart was missing. The mess was there, so I put it away. Then I cleaned and polished and steamed. I continued doing these things in an attempt to stop the clock from shouting at me. 'Tick-tock! Tick-tock! Your son is with strangers! You are not in control! Tick tock! You still have an hour to go!'. This exciting child free time sucks!
I hurried back to collect him- I was the first at the door of course. I was closely followed by a second timer. The second timer knows how you feel, they were a first timer just the other day. They know it is worse the second time because your small people know of your betrayal, leaving them in this new place with these new people. The second timer has endured the meltdown at drop off and pities your hopefulness and false confidence that your own small person has been playing busily without even noticing you've slipped away. The old-schoolers arrived. Their small people are into a routine, they know the score. They've gone through the tears and tantrums and their children really do play happily whilst they enjoy doing grown up things. They don't mingle with the first and second timers, the old-schoolers have their own clique. The door opens, we hurry inside to find our small people. Crazy is sad, his eyes are red and puffy and he is snotty and hiding in the corner. The second timer is relieved to spot her small person engrossed in a book- I notice there is no sign of this morning's drop-off tears for their small person. They are already transitioning to old-schoolers. Maybe there is hope. But right now I feel incredible guilt. Crazy is clinging to me, wondering how and why I left him and he is marching me to the door- we must leave this place immediately before I disappear again and he is made to do fun things like drawing and playing with toys. The lovely preschool people tell me about his morning, that he has been tearful on and off, that he didn't want to participate in snack time but he did like to play with the train set. They presented me with his first drawing to be displayed proudly on my fridge and they reassure me that it was only his first day and that eventually he will learn that I always come back. We scuttle off to the car and whilst Crazy is happy once again- and I'm pretty sure he has forgotten the whole ordeal already- I am holding back tears and already thinking about how much harder it will be leaving next time knowing that he needs me and I won't be there. I am reminding myself that it is good for all of us that he has a couple of mornings a week at preschool. He is learning to socialise independently, to build confidence in being a person in his own right and not being directed by Mummy. I am making time to rest until the new baby is here and then to devote my whole attention, for a short while, only to her. It is good for us all and once Crazy has settled, he will happily go in to play just like the old-schoolers.
My little 'baby', Crazy, is his very own person. He is out there being himself and making his own decisions, however small they may be. His path in life has started and the lessons I want to teach him are already underway. He is learning and I am proud. I have kept the first promise I ever made him- that we would both learn along the way. What I didn't realise is that he would be teaching me every bit as much as I am showing him the way.
Monday, 4 August 2014
Sing like nobody can hear you...
Anyone who knows me from my days as a youngster will know that I was painfully shy. In fact, even as recent as a few years ago I was still shy! I struggled to talk to people I didn't know, I didn't even feel particularly comfortable talking at all and often kept a hand close to my mouth, self conscious of my teeth and generally feeling very awkward.
There aren't an overwhelming amount of photos of me as a child because I avoided the camera most of the time. The ones that are about (and my Dad likes to post these publically for a laugh) used to make me cringe and despair. I remember being so completely terrified of being embarrassed by any of these pictures that, when I came across a picture in the recycling bin on the family computer of me when I was little, I completely freaked out and demanded to know what humiliating poster my Dad was creating. It turned out he had put together a little slide show of my older sister and I growing up as we share a birthday (she is exactly 3 years older so 18th & 21st was a big deal!). It was beautiful. It wasn't humiliating at all, he had been very kind with his choice of pictures and I felt awful that I had ruined the surprise. Sorry Dad- it really was wonderful.
Am I shy now? Nope! What changed? I met my soul mate. When Mr T came into my life I was at a pretty low point- a story for another day maybe, or perhaps just best forgotten. I was a little more confident than previously in that I had been forced to face the unknown by joining the work force and moving out of home, but socially I was still lacking. When on a night out and fuelled by alcohol, no bother. Suddenly I had a mask to hide behind and everything could be blamed on the booze, not me, so all was well. But introduce me to new people in an unfamiliar setting and I'm back to square one. So what did Mr T do to change things? He loved me. For exactly who I am, just the way I am. He made me believe in myself and be comfortable in my own skin. These days I sing in a band, The Haze (www.thehazeband.co.uk shameless, I know). If you had told me as little as four years ago I would be in a band there is no way I would believe you- absolutely not, no way, never ever, even drunk I'm not doing karaoke so why would I ever humiliate myself like that?! One day, Mr T came home early to find me warbling away in the kitchen with the door shut whilst I was cooking. When he opened the door I turned beetroot red- you see, Mr T is a musician, from a family of musicians so I was completely ready to be mocked for my cat wailing noise! But he didn't laugh, he said "why didn't you tell me you can sing?"
I was genuinely surprised by this question and assured him that I can't. As he didn't torture me, I gradually relaxed a little bit and sang in the shower when he was home, and in the car along to the radio, where previously I would only sing alone. On a holiday in Tenerife, before the days of Crazy, we were very drunk on cheap beer one evening when the cabaret turned out to be karaoke. I could barely walk, was bouncing off of the walls quite literally and somehow, Mr T persuaded me to get up and sing a song with him. I couldn't tell you what we sang, I just know it was utterly terrifying. My legs were wobbly, I felt sick, my face was hot with embarrassment but we got through it. I made a swift exit from the bar to find people outside that had been listening. "That was pretty good! Do another one!" Whaaat? No way! Actually... that was pretty fun. But no.
Anyway, that was it for a long time, but as I said earlier- Mr T is a musician and was in a band. I often accompanied him to rehearsals and never missed a gig. As I relaxed and started to believe Mr T's constant reassurance and kind words about my vocal abilities I somehow joined in the odd track with some backing vocals- it was very kind of them to let me participate! I was extremely nervous if ever I got up on stage at an actual gig (very rarely) and even rehearsals left me with wobbly knees even though they were a really nice bunch of fellas. Eventually Mr T's time with the band came to an end and on parting he decided to start a new band. He asked me to join and although I was really nervous, I wanted to do it! I wanted to get past my fears and do something I would never have believed I could do. Somebody once told me I had no talent, that I couldn't do it and for too long I believed that. Now I know I can- and I do. Why are the negatives always so much easier to take on board than the positives? For every person that told me I could, I was deafened by the one voice that told me I couldn't- lesson learned!
I love singing. Not a day goes by that I don't sing something. I love rehearsals- a gathering with my favourite people, doing something we love. I love gigs- we get share the thing we love with people that are interested in hearing us! It makes it so worthwhile to see people joining in and having a good time. It's flattering when people come to see us on more than one occasion. People say some truly kind things about what we do and it genuinely means a lot. These days I hear the positives and they stay with me. Each gig leaves me feeling that little bit more confident and buzzing for the next one. Although its exhausting, its so very rewarding.
So now, friendly banter with new people is not so scary after standing on a raised platform, my voice amplified to a room full of strangers doing something that used to terrify me. Now I'm comfortable in my skin. I am what I am, take me or leave me. I only hope that anyone that doubts themselves can come out the other side and be proud of themselves too. I'll be forever grateful for Mr T for showing me who I really am... but don't tell him, it's our secret.
There aren't an overwhelming amount of photos of me as a child because I avoided the camera most of the time. The ones that are about (and my Dad likes to post these publically for a laugh) used to make me cringe and despair. I remember being so completely terrified of being embarrassed by any of these pictures that, when I came across a picture in the recycling bin on the family computer of me when I was little, I completely freaked out and demanded to know what humiliating poster my Dad was creating. It turned out he had put together a little slide show of my older sister and I growing up as we share a birthday (she is exactly 3 years older so 18th & 21st was a big deal!). It was beautiful. It wasn't humiliating at all, he had been very kind with his choice of pictures and I felt awful that I had ruined the surprise. Sorry Dad- it really was wonderful.
Am I shy now? Nope! What changed? I met my soul mate. When Mr T came into my life I was at a pretty low point- a story for another day maybe, or perhaps just best forgotten. I was a little more confident than previously in that I had been forced to face the unknown by joining the work force and moving out of home, but socially I was still lacking. When on a night out and fuelled by alcohol, no bother. Suddenly I had a mask to hide behind and everything could be blamed on the booze, not me, so all was well. But introduce me to new people in an unfamiliar setting and I'm back to square one. So what did Mr T do to change things? He loved me. For exactly who I am, just the way I am. He made me believe in myself and be comfortable in my own skin. These days I sing in a band, The Haze (www.thehazeband.co.uk shameless, I know). If you had told me as little as four years ago I would be in a band there is no way I would believe you- absolutely not, no way, never ever, even drunk I'm not doing karaoke so why would I ever humiliate myself like that?! One day, Mr T came home early to find me warbling away in the kitchen with the door shut whilst I was cooking. When he opened the door I turned beetroot red- you see, Mr T is a musician, from a family of musicians so I was completely ready to be mocked for my cat wailing noise! But he didn't laugh, he said "why didn't you tell me you can sing?"
I was genuinely surprised by this question and assured him that I can't. As he didn't torture me, I gradually relaxed a little bit and sang in the shower when he was home, and in the car along to the radio, where previously I would only sing alone. On a holiday in Tenerife, before the days of Crazy, we were very drunk on cheap beer one evening when the cabaret turned out to be karaoke. I could barely walk, was bouncing off of the walls quite literally and somehow, Mr T persuaded me to get up and sing a song with him. I couldn't tell you what we sang, I just know it was utterly terrifying. My legs were wobbly, I felt sick, my face was hot with embarrassment but we got through it. I made a swift exit from the bar to find people outside that had been listening. "That was pretty good! Do another one!" Whaaat? No way! Actually... that was pretty fun. But no.
Anyway, that was it for a long time, but as I said earlier- Mr T is a musician and was in a band. I often accompanied him to rehearsals and never missed a gig. As I relaxed and started to believe Mr T's constant reassurance and kind words about my vocal abilities I somehow joined in the odd track with some backing vocals- it was very kind of them to let me participate! I was extremely nervous if ever I got up on stage at an actual gig (very rarely) and even rehearsals left me with wobbly knees even though they were a really nice bunch of fellas. Eventually Mr T's time with the band came to an end and on parting he decided to start a new band. He asked me to join and although I was really nervous, I wanted to do it! I wanted to get past my fears and do something I would never have believed I could do. Somebody once told me I had no talent, that I couldn't do it and for too long I believed that. Now I know I can- and I do. Why are the negatives always so much easier to take on board than the positives? For every person that told me I could, I was deafened by the one voice that told me I couldn't- lesson learned!
I love singing. Not a day goes by that I don't sing something. I love rehearsals- a gathering with my favourite people, doing something we love. I love gigs- we get share the thing we love with people that are interested in hearing us! It makes it so worthwhile to see people joining in and having a good time. It's flattering when people come to see us on more than one occasion. People say some truly kind things about what we do and it genuinely means a lot. These days I hear the positives and they stay with me. Each gig leaves me feeling that little bit more confident and buzzing for the next one. Although its exhausting, its so very rewarding.
So now, friendly banter with new people is not so scary after standing on a raised platform, my voice amplified to a room full of strangers doing something that used to terrify me. Now I'm comfortable in my skin. I am what I am, take me or leave me. I only hope that anyone that doubts themselves can come out the other side and be proud of themselves too. I'll be forever grateful for Mr T for showing me who I really am... but don't tell him, it's our secret.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)