Happy 2nd Birthday – a letter to my gorgeous George.

A letter to my gorgeous George on your second birthday…..

How can it be that I love you even more than I did yesterday my precious gorgeous George. I look back on the days when I used to gaze at your newborn self and wonder what would become of you. What would your voice sound like? What kind of personality would you have? Would you love everything me and Daddy love? Well now two years have passed and I already have answers for these ponderings.

You are an adorable little man. You amuse everyone with the things you say and the conciseness with which you say it. You are my world. I would do anything to make this the best world it can be for you. Be that protecting you from the nasties, or pushing through my own limits to make your day a happy and memorable one.

I know as you grow you will continue to amaze me and teach me as much as I teach you. Your personality is becoming so quirky and cheeky. You also have an exceptional talent for repeating what you hear. From coming into the kitchen to tell Daddy he is scum (think you may have overheard Mummy and Daddy commenting on one another’s pop offs). To getting upset because the moon disappeared whilst we are driving. I love your world. You can argue that a hat is not a hat, or be mesmerised for ages by a ladybird (who we have fondly named Gaston, after a character from one of your favourite shows Ben and Holly’s little Kingdom).

I love you dots and dots (not a typo, something mummy started when you were tiny, to be different).
I hope this, being the first birthday you are fully aware of, has been as fantastic as Mummy and Daddy wanted it to be for you. And there’s still more to come.

The juggling act of being a first time mum.

I have always been fabulous at multitasking doing a million things in one day and juggling it all seamlessly without very much flapping. Ok a couple of deep breathing in the loo moments, but to the outside world, unflappable. Well that’s how I view myself anyways. Others that know me may beg to differ.
Since becoming a mum though I seem to have reduced my juggling skills from 6 balls to 2.

I’m quite good at taking care of myself whilst being a mum.

This is my first ball.

I can’t complain about not getting a chance to shower, not being able to pee by myself, or not having time to do something of a beauty routine be it moisturising, make up or a blow dry. I consider myself a master of baby distraction techniques and by using these and making things fun or allowing him to help me (so cute but in hindsight not a great idea) I have still managed these tasks. Ok I may have managed them 4 hours later than I would have pre motherhood, but I managed them none the less and felt rather guilty that I couldn’t join in with the other mums in pining for these things.

The second ball is taking care of George.

I have always managed to keep him clothed, clean, fed and watered with some entertainment and teaching thrown in for good measure.

I’ve never had the “we’ve run out of clean clothes, let’s dash out and buy more” situation. We have obviously had an emotional journey with its usual difficulties. George becoming a fussy eater not long after a successful and varied weaning process and me crying a lot about most things he frustrates me with.

But overall I feel like I’ve done a fabulous job with him and he is just amazing. He learns words and songs with ease. He’s approaching two and knows his alphabet, counts to ten and knows most of his colours. His speech is outstanding and he can hold a conversation with most adults without much ad-libbing from me.

So what’s the problem?

Well it’s all the other balls that I’ve dropped and have slowly rolled away.

I haven’t forgotten about them and I feel partly lost without them.

There’s going to work. I quit my job to become a stay at home mum when George was 13 months old. Something I’m pleased I did as it wasn’t suiting us but a ball that I miss nonetheless. This ball will hopefully be picked up again soon as I plan to retrain in a new career by enrolling on an accountancy course so I can work alongside my husband in his business.

The problem is it’s nearly George’s birthday and with Christmas around the corner and a mini break booked some time back, there isn’t much spare cash left from my husbands single income to enable me to pay the first course fee. The ball is literally at my fingertips and my frustration is growing.
Then there is the issue of my fitness.

When I worked I was dashing around a hospital for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week and this was keep me fit, trim and healthy.

Since becoming a mum I’ve gained two stone, two dress sizes, a bit of greedy and unrestrainable appetite and a rather disappointed opinion of myself.

I’ve accepted that I’ve changed due to the marvel of creating life, but there’s only so many times you can keep replacing your wardrobe and growing out of it. This ball is something I feel I should still be holding.

Surely running around after a child keeps you fit and healthy. But I don’t believe that applies to a nearly two year old. A lot of my time is spent sitting and observing him to ensure his is playing safely. I’ve tried to start going for regular daily walks but often George wants to walk rather than be in the pushchair, setting the pace at a rate that I’m sure won’t burn much fat at all. So I shall be shortly turning to some You tube videos on how to involve your toddler in your workouts.

I used to love my hobbies pre motherhood. Swimming, gardening, DIY, baking and going to watch my favourite football team.

These are all grouped together in one ball.

A ball that I occasionally get to mix into my juggling routine but I’ve probably only succeeded a handful of times post motherhood. This at times can feel inadequate. It makes me feel like life is passing by and I’m not achieving things I want to. But then as friends and family remind me, my greatest achievement at the moment is helping to raise a wonderful human being. And I share some fabulously fun days out with the Georgeous.

This aside, I know these are all things I will one day do again. I now visit my footie team again but after a few seasons away I feel a bit like a stranger. I’ve also managed to add in a few new hobbies since having George including crafting, cooking more health conscious meals and learning makaton by attending sing and sign classes with George.

What really matters is that me and my family are happy and surviving. It doesn’t matter how many balls I’m juggling.

As a side note I have always considered myself a bit of a queen of analogies. It’s the easiest way for me to learn things and explain them to others.

This post is based around the analogy of me juggling balls rather than actually referring to life as the mixed bag of activities that it is.

However for the the more filthy minded among you I realise that this post may be giving you all a little snigger as I continually used the term ‘juggling balls’. No? Just me? O-K then. (Shrinks inside hoody) Oh dear. It’s written now and it shall damn well remain (she titters to herself).

Our first family holiday – Butlins Bognor Regis

So our first family holiday has now happened!

We’ve taken George on several holidays since his birth, but these have all included other members of mine or hubbies family.

Mums, Dads, Nans, Sisters, Brothers, Cousins, Aunts and Uncles.

Whilst group holidays are a nice way to spend some quality time together, I have found since having George that these type of holidays are hard work. You would expect that they would be easier and more relaxed as the babysitting duties can be shared. This hasn’t ever happened though and to be perfectly honest I’ve never wanted it to.

I’ve just spent nigh on 30 years holidaying by myself and 16 of those with hubby and I as a couple. I love the notion of having child friendly holidays now that we are parents.

Doing all the silly activities we haven’t done since we ourself were children.

This is something I find is near on impossible when you have a extended family with you. All with their own needs, wishes and desires. Overall, since I became a mum I find myself becoming exasperated with trying to fit in with everyone else’s requirements.

So imagine my extreme excitement when myself and hubby booked a tots week to Butlins, Bognor Regis for our first holiday as just the three of us, just a few weeks shy of George’s second birthday. It also included Thomas and Friends as the live show, which I knew he would love. (One of the reasons I booked this specific week.)

We arrived on a Monday and was greeted with a friendly reception team and directed towards our children’s themed hotel room. The corridor leading to the room was carpeted with fish pools and life saving rings printed onto the carpet.

Your entrance and exit to the elevator was via a ‘walk the plank’ effect vinyl flooring. Each room had a pirate ship steering wheel and navigation board as well as a large octopus cushion and octopus feet sofa.

George’s bedroom was a double bunk room complete with porthole effect lights as well as a soothing soft coloured night light built into the shelf above the wardrobe. The room also had a small flat screen TV.

The ship/sea theme continued throughout the room with smart captions on the drawers and a fishy poem with pictures printed on the the bath area wall. We were impressed. It was clean, comfortable for us and exciting and novel for George.

 

After unpacking our luggage we decided to go on a quick walk around the Butlins site to check out the facilities. We had been previously but not for three years and hadn’t stayed during a Tots week before.

As we walked around we made a note of all the shows and activity timings that we would be interested in throughout the week. George was running around at high speed in complete awe of everything on offer, including the huge expanse of amusement arcades.

We did note however that there were quite a few older people without children, as well as a very large group of adults with carers. Many had a mental disability or cognitive disorder and it was apparent they needed an intense level of care. Their family didn’t appear to be with them, they all had a minimum of one to one care. I thought it strange they was on a Tots week but mentally and emotionally many of them were behaving as children do so thought this may be why.

We also couldn’t find anywhere advertising the live Thomas show.

Arriving back at our hotel reception we were informed that it wasn’t Just For Tots week and it wasn’t the Thomas live show week.

Feeling deflated, we got the reception staff to check for us.

One call to the manager later and we were informed that it wasn’t our mistake. The website clearly had sold us a Just for Tots weeks but it wasn’t in fact on until the end of the month. The manager gave us complimentary tickets to a 3D Dino babies cinema experience to the value of £10 but given we had spent £262 on a break that was meant to be specifically aimed at toddlers we were less than impressed but felt helpless as really there was nothing anyone could do.

Seeing George’s excitement continuing to build and the amazing smile he had on his face helped us to realise that in the grand scheme of things it didn’t matter. He was completely oblivious to what could have been.

We chose to plough head on into our week of fun, despite the fact I couldn’t shake the feeling of disappointment. Having informed all our friends and family of our plans to commemorate George turning two, I felt a bit foolish realising it wasn’t going to fully be the experience we had hoped.

 

Hubby, aware of how easily my mood shifts (we suspect I’m suffering a mild bout of depression) tried to boost my spirits by pointing out continually how happy and unaware George was.

We threw ourselves into making it as memorable week as possible for us all. Clapping, singing, dancing and just generally being as silly and enthusiastic as the entertainment team on site as we went. George fell absolutely head over heels with the two star characters featured at Butlins, Billy Bear and his girlfriend Bonnie Bear. We watched and got involved in so many shows, we really did have a blast and the shows are really high quality.

Unlike other holiday camps there are regular children’s shows and activities from 10am through to late at night including puppet shows, putting Billy Bear to bed, and live shows of their favourite TV characters. This week features angelina ballerina, bob the builder and fireman sam.

 

The biggest negative of the week was the attitude and terrible customer service we experienced at some of the onsite food establishments and bowling alley. In the first day alone we walked out from the Papa Johns after being seated but no service.

Three places couldn’t make the cocktails I requested from the menu due to lack of ingredients or “technical difficulties” as I was told.

One restaurant charged us £22 per adult for an all you can eat buffet, failing to tell us they were stopping it no more than 10 minutes after we arrived. Realising they were clearing the food away whilst we were eating our dinner, we had jump up and grab deserts mid way through our dinner. The waitresses also didn’t ask if you were finished before they cleared your plate and had already made George cry when we visited for breakfast as they removed his food before he had finished.

After complaining to management they couldn’t offer any compensation or refund. We also visited the bike hire to enquire if we George was suitable to sit on the front of a family bike, which he was. As we left we said we would return the following day as we had a show scheduled. We returned the following day to find they only had two bikes and they have to be booked in advance so none were available.

Probably things that are common sense to some but we didn’t realise and wasn’t informed. The bowling alley didn’t appear to be manned when we visited and it was a huge effort just to try to track someone down to enable us to book a game. Overall though we had a fabulous week and George fell in love with the place and we are crazily considering returning next year.

I would recommend it as a concept but I’m eager to try one of their other resorts.  And I can’t reiterate enough that the shoreline hotel staff and all the entertainment crew were incredibly friendly and always gave us a warm welcome. And I will say that if you went self catering and didn’t visit any of the restaurants then you would probably write a rave review.

Having now tried a bog standard mid week break, as well as an adults only themed weekend, I am eager to try a just for tots week (although obviously this would be ticked off my list by now had the booking website not been inaccurate!) I would recommend booking over the telephone as the website is quite evidently poor.
Just to top the week off nicely we were surprised with a massive load of vomit from George on the car journey home. Something I wasn’t expecting as it’s only the third time in his life he’s ever been sick and I hadn’t experienced the previous two times as they happened at nursery. Thankfully we had a car full of spare clothes and towels but I have a car seat to deep clean now. Oh the joys of going on holiday! (She’s says gleefully).

This is my church – football from a woman fans perspective

I’ve been a fan and regular season ticket holder of my ‘local team’ (despite relocating 30 miles away) for at least 14 years. Given this, I feel I just about qualify enough to be able to give my perspective of the wonderful game. 

Now please don’t mistake me for a fan of all football. Unless hubby is playing or its my beloved team then I am more or less clueless. Or rather I don’t give a shit! I’m happy to also admit that despite spending almost every Saturday for the past 14 years watching the mighty Daggers, I am still often none the wiser as to what is going on. Often spending most of the games unashamedly admiring the players and not for their footwork. But my favourite football match pastime is to actually watch the fans. I love nothing more than a bit of people watching. Something my son seems to have inherited, the telltale sign being we regularly frequent toddler play places only for him to want to sit and watch what everyone else is doing and comment on it, rather than participating himself. 

Please don’t get the impression I’m some pathetic woman that doesn’t know what she’s talking about when it comes to football. I don’t always feel confident enough to argue my case with hubby, but I like to think (and many silently agree I’m sure) that I view the game clearer than most of my fellow fans of the male variety. And why is this? Well for starters I refuse to accept the pair of rose tinted glasses invisibly offered to me at the entrance gate. I see the game for what it is and not what I believe it is. 

Week after week I listen to these silly boys…… yes boys, as soon as they enter those gates they checkout from manhood and revert to being eleven year old boys again! …..So I listen to these silly boys goading the lino and the referee…. 

Sorry let’s pause for a moment. If you are reading this and have no clue what these terms are then sorry this is not a “How to understand what happens at a football match” post. Maybe you should opt out of reading this post if that’s the case. 

(Fellow bloggers shudder in horror!)

“Did you see? She just told readers to stop reading her post!”

Anyways getting back to what I was saying….these silly boys, wearing their rose tinted glasses, standing there telling the lino’s and the ref and the bloody players how to do their jobs! Yeah, yeah I get that because you paid your entrance fee you feel it gives you the right to do this but no! You are paying to spectate! You wouldn’t pay for a plumber and then stand there screaming that he’s unplugging your blocked drain incorrectly. Or pay to watch a show where you don’t think much of the acting so you decide to start screaming that they should be acting in a different manner! So who agreed this is what should be acceptable at a football match? And it’s not just friendly advice, you actually believe you are experts on the matter. Though your fickleness fails you as I am there watching you taunting a player….
“You’re supposed to jump! That’s why it’s called a header” “Shoot!” “Chase it!” “Oh your crap!”
Only for me to find you minutes later clapping and cheering the same player as he celebrates the goal he just scored! I have no words (places head in hands).

I actually wanted to be a female footballer but my body let me down. Despite knowing what I should be doing and understanding the game, I couldn’t get my body to be any good at it. I remember trying out for the after school girls football club. The tutor, exasperated by my lack of skill, decided to try me in goal. I was pretty good in that I saved the goals, but usually with my face. Ending up laying flat on my back with everyone cheering around me, my face throbbing from the ball I’d just saved. No I’m much safer in the terraces sadly. 

My beloved George was equally content in his first year at football matches. Snoozing, having his milk and clapping along whilst people watching during the 90 minutes. This was when we paid extra to be in the seated area of course.  As the new season approached along with George’s impending second birthday, we decided to take advantage of the special offer for standing terrace tickets. Taking George to his first terrace game, we stood at the far end so he had his own play space and escape from the crowds if he so wished. Within 5 minutes the first chants and goads began. I hadn’t quite realised how aggressive these men can sound to a young toddler and being a hot day we thought his ear defenders would make him too sweaty so had left those at home. After 10 minutes of trying to move him away from the noise and him still being completely inconsolable, I left and haven’t returned with George since.  Hence why he now stays at Nanny’s house whilst me and hubby have some quality couple time, at a grubby football ground, surrounded by smelly shouty men (rolls eyes, yes I’m an easy to please date). George’s preference of sitting in the quieter, pricier seated area of the stadium just goes to prove he has inherited mummy’s expensive taste. 

So getting back to he wonderful game, if you are one of the poor souls I get chatting to over there (mainly because my husband doesn’t talk during the game, fabulous date I know) then you will know that players tend to become my favourite if they have an obvious haircut/colour. This allows me to identify them easier. I knew our team backwards and forward years ago but having missed a few seasons due to George’s arrival I now struggle to get to grip with who’s who. Why won’t they just stand still for 5 minutes! (Laughs whilst all the ‘fans’ shake their heads in dismay). Football matches are great places to learn about Geographical facts too. For instance, I recently discovered that Wrexham is in fact in Wales! I mean I would have never have guessed. Places like Maesteg, Caernarfon, Aberystwyth….they all sound Welsh. Wrexham! Well it just doesn’t does it! Sorry. 

There’s no knowing how much longer I’ll continue to be a season ticket holder but what is always a given is that I shall always be a Dagger. I’ve been there through promotions, relagations, cup ties and end of season fancy dress piss ups. It’s a part of mine and hubbies history together and something we will always speak fondly of together no matter who plays for us, who owns us, who stands next to us or puts us down. They are our team and nothing will ever change that. 

What love do you and your partner share? Are you footie fans? Would love to hear. 

Until next time…….

The week we all felt sorry for ourselves.

Let us flashback to just over three weeks ago and after a neighbourhood cat had been terrorising our house for some time, the long  war came to a head. With Sockies being the absolute definition of territorial, she hadn’t taken kindly to this ginger tom named Charlie, recently attempting to make himself known in and around our garden. I caught the pair of them, one big ball of ginger and black fur, rolling around screaming and growling at each other. Sustaining some scratches myself, I managed to quickly separate them by hand before sending Charlie a clear message to bugger off by soaking him with water. It wasn’t until the end of said week of the aforementioned fight, that I realised she had sustained an injury during her altercation. The likes of which had left her with a nasty looking, slightly pus exuding tooth shaped wound on her side. Having noticed this with less than 24 hours to go until we put them in the care of a cattery for 4 days, I began to bathe the wound hourly with warm salty water. 

We hadn’t used this cattery previously and so I was already a little nervous about what to expect. Now I had the added worry of whether the owner would care for the wound and take her to the vets if necessary. I myself didn’t have the time as it was a bank holiday and I didn’t feel it warranted using a valuable slot with the emergency vet. Thankfully I needn’t have worried as the cattery owner was an expert. She made me feel confident we had left Sockies in safe hands whilst we went and enjoyed 4 fun filled, and blissful days at a British all inclusive resort with the in-laws. On our return, both wounds (very close to each other) had healed and as I parted the fur, the scabs came loose leaving only a scar as evidence.

Bringing you forward to the start of this week, exactly 7 days ago around the same time last Sunday, we arrived home from a relatively lovely afternoon at the beach. (Why it wasn’t completely lovely is another story). On reaching the upstairs landing I found blood on the carpet. I instantly sought out Sockies and as I parted her fur, to my horror, the wound had reopened and was now double the size. Almost as though both wounds had reopened and merged. Immediately I fitted her with a buster collar to prevent her from licking it. Typically it was a Sunday evening so the vets were closed. First thing Monday morning I called the vets to arrange an appointment. Making my way down there with a fat heavy cat in one hand and leading a bewildered toddler to his first trip to the vets in another, we arrived and were promptly taken to the examine room. The vet was relatively happy with the wound and explained it was likely that it had healed with the infection trapped under the surface of the skin which had eventually reopened the wound. The fur around the wound was technically dead and just came away in the vets hand. Whilst I was horrified with it’s appearance, the vet was happy it would heal nicely and gave Sockies some immediate pain relief and an antibiotic injection. George merrily cleared the vets window sill of any diagrams, booklets and information leaflets she had on there whilst I comforted Sockies. Although to be fair she appeared not to be suffering and was fine in herself.

Arriving home £140 lighter and with George now having had an education in ‘cat doctors’ and Sockies feeling wholly sorry for herself in the buster collar, we stayed out of her way as I explained to George to leave her alone as she had an ‘ouchie’ and didn’t feel well. Sockies in the meantime wandered around bumping into toys and furniture, attempting to use them as an accomplice to remove the collar. She has now healed well and hopefully that is the end of it, until the next battle!

Just to make life that little bit more of a challenge this week, George started coughing in his sleep last Sunday night. By Tuesday myself and hubby were quite concerned by the sound of the cough as it wasn’t dissimilar to when he had had croup. Although throughout the day aside from being slightly off his food and a bit snotty, the cough wasn’t there. I took him to see the doctor Tuesday who actually managed to get a look in his mouth after he found his chest to be clear. Seeing spots on his throat, coupled with a supposedly high temperature, (something I couldn’t feel to touch his skin), he was diagnosed with tonsillitis and we went home with antibiotics. Aside from the paracetamol for his temperature making him sleepy, George was still relatively energetic and playful, and such an enthusiastic little boy when it came to taking his medicine. We had some chill time watching this rather unusual film below. Animal Kingdom: Let’s go Ape. 

The day of Georges diagnosis, I slowly found myself struggling to find the energy to do simple tasks needed to run the home and care for George. I have recently started some new medication to help prevent recurring migraines and these in turn can make me feel a bit drained and tired without caffeine. However, waking neck ached and I knew it because my glands were swollen. So I was totally unsurprised to find my tonsils swollen and full of pus. Niiiiice! One trip to the doctors later and I returned with a course of antibiotics.

Having become complete social lepers, no one wanting to be in our company for fear of catching something, we spent the majority of the week doing activities at home. I am now pleased to say that despite our antibiotic courses still incomplete, we are feeling much better. The ex pharmacy technician in me feels compelled to state at this point that all antibiotic courses should be completed as prescribed and not stopped simply because you feel better.

Everyone more or less fighting fit again, hubbie having yet again escaped the germs, we decided today to go for an afternoon walk to the woods. Having never visited these woods before but having seen recent recommendations from friends, we ventured to one of the entrances. Only to find this was the obvious dog walkers trail. The hills and large steps became too much for George and he’s quite tiring to carry now so we hoped back in the car and headed to another car park entrance. This began with a narrow pebbled path with high stinging nettles either side. As George travelled on hubbies shoulders to escpae the nettles, we made our way down the steep pebble path rather pessimistically thinking our ideas for an adventurous afternoon where not being met. Finally the path opened out into some woods. We began to enjoy a lovely autumnal walk, collecting sticks and discovering acorns when suddenly we encountered a strange, and rather large looking red insect. As we introduced the insect to George as being Gaston’s cousin (all non Ben and Holly fans look on bewildered), myself and hubby suddenly realised that this was no large insect. It was in fact two strange red insects mating. We quickly explained to George that Gaston’s cousin wanted to go to bed so we should leave him in peace and continue on our walk. As I continued down the path, I foolishly scoured the trees, looking for another exciting creature to show to George. My eyes were completely oblivious to the massive tree root I was about to trip on and turn into some crazy parachutist style drop and roll. One ouchie shin later and back on my feet, hubby decided he couldn’t carry the both of us, so we headed home rather mournfully. I think hubby was a bit too easily reminded of just how easily your life can be limited by a simple fall, having witnessed me slip on a wet floor just over a year ago and damage my elbow. See our previous post here.

Until next time…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Confession of a proverbial fuck up

I don’t know what people like to hear in this world of parenthood, in life even!? It’s very easy to only share the nice parts and portray a life of perfection. Or stray into the facetious take on misery as you rant about sleepless nights and lack of peeing by yourself. (Something I feel guiltily ashamed to say I’ve never needed to complain about!) Personally, unless you are extremely blinkered or living in a cloud of doom then your life will be neither one or the other but more a balance in between.
“Where is this leading?” I hear you yell at your screen. It’s leading to a revelation. Despite my posts being more focused on the fun and beautiful side of being a new mummy, it’s time to come clean and admit that

“I too am as fucked up as the rest of them”

I like to be honest with people but in reality I do like to live on a wispy cloud of imaginary fairytales. As a result I tend to share more lighthearted details of my life. Yes there’s the occasional whine of “woe is me, this health condition and that ailment is bothering me again”. Blimey when I look at my time hop feed it makes me realise just how many years I’ve been moaning about bad backs, migraines, vertigo, gammy toenails, hangovers, viruses and all the rest of it. And it’s boring to be perfectly honest but I’m pretty sure that people like to hear that sometimes people feel as shit as they do. I know it comforts me when I realise that there are people worse off or in the same boat as me, even if the majority of the time it’s no consolation.

I’ve been secretly fighting my own mental battle, brought about I believe by struggling to adjust to life as not only a new mum but a stay at home mum. Whilst I am wholeheartedly happy to count my blessings and commit my life to my son, I know society feels you should do this with a huge sense of gratitude and no complaints. After all, until you try it, it’s easy being a mum isn’t it!? Just sitting on ya bum all day watching a child play. How hard is it!
Recently though, I finally admitted defeat and went to the doctors and confessed that I too am as fucked up as the rest of them. Something I didn’t want to admit.

I AM fucked up. I DIDN’T fuck up!

I’m a great mum and I know it! But it’s no comfort when there’s a strange dark cloud looming over you. I’m a care bear. I live on a beautiful white cloud and always smile, I see positive in everything. So this dark cloud took me completely by surprise and as much as I pretended it wasn’t there it just got heavier and heavier until I couldn’t even feel my white cloud anymore. I had been bounced off of it and was now travelling on this dark grey cloud into a place I’d never been and didn’t want to be in. Fully conscious of this happening but unable to stop it I felt trapped and it upset me to feel a way that I knew I didn’t want to.

The cause? I have an inkling. When I finally plucked up the courage to confide my feelings in my mum and sisters, they were surprised I hadn’t had a melt down sooner. Hormones, too many ailments, my entire life, world and persona changing, loosing loved ones, hubby having his own fucked up experience, it all contributed.
I’ve still told very few people how I felt. The doctor trialled me on some ‘prozac’ but after just over two weeks the nausea (a common side effect) was becoming too much. Despite the fact I was happy it had helped me to lose weight, I love food and didn’t like having no enthusiasm for mealtimes and a complete lack of appetite. When I started to have negative thoughts again I decided they wasn’t the right medication for me and the doctor agreed. I’m currently managing myself and the doctor is reviewing me every three weeks. I have recently started some new medication for migraines and migraine associated vertigo that I suffer with. This alone, having improved my health, has immensely improved my mood and I’m feeling a lot happier and content.

My reason, as scared as I am, for sharing this is that I felt so much like I shouldn’t be complaining. There are so many people out there struggling with terrifically worse problems than mine. I have a comfortable roof over my head, a happy marriage and a wonderful and easy going son, as well as a loving and supportive family of my own and hubby’s. But none of this could prevent how I felt and how motherhood had made me feel. I tried to deal with it myself for over 19 months. Confining in no one until recent months when I told Bob and some close friends. With their encouragement I sought help but it was difficult. Despite having worked in a mental health hospital pharmacy service for over 8 years, where I encountered many situations and conditions that people suffered with. None of this stopped me from thinking that if I admitted to a health professional how I felt, that my child would be removed from me. This so wasn’t the case (unless obviously you are in the situation where you feel you may harm your child) I wasn’t. My local GP and neurology consultant were both simply concerned for my happiness and wellbeing and to help me improve my mood and energy levels in order to maintain a happy lifestyle and be a good mum.

So what I’m saying to you is, whether you are a man or a woman, parenthood is a big change to your life and it can leave you feeling so many different emotions. Many of which you may have never experienced. If you are struggling in any way, no matter how little or much, then just ask for help. Whether it’s someone doing some wishing for you. Or just being there to chat to. Giving you an hour of time to yourself. Or offering their constructive (not judgemental) advice and support. There are people out there to help you. Whether it’s your own family, friends, medical professional, another parent you’ve met at a group or just chatting to people online. There is always help. Never feel alone. Never struggle.

Strength and hugs.

Until next time…….

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Losing my mojo!

First time mummy to a nearly 22 month old I’m feeling like I’ve fallen a little too far into the deep chasm of motherhood. Having recently made an attempt at clambering out of the abyss of nursery rhymes,toys, and all things toddler, I have discovered it isn’t as easy to go back to the old me as I thought. 

On recent child-free evenings out, I have come to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter how nice my dress is, how much time I spend preening myself, how much alcohol I do or don’t consume, I still can’t find her, he old me, the fun silly side of me that is more affectionately referred to as Trig. Refer to my previous post  to find out why.  
This Sunday just gone, at a birthday meal for one of my ex work colleagues (and now good friends), I met two lovely new girls who have started working in the pharmacy department since my departure. Myself and two of my other friends/ex colleagues, found ourselves reminiscing about the good old times and detailing the fun nights out we had enjoyed. The new girls took this on board and shared tales of their drunken exploits also. 

It was at this point I realised that this crazy, fun gal that we were talking of, had not been present at any event since George’s birth. I’d been on several hen nights, girls nights and wedding receptions since becoming a mum, but had either felt ill from the effect of the alcohol before it achieved any level of merriment. Otherwise I had yawned my way through the event, pining after my bed. I just couldn’t shake that feeling of being too sensible and was unable to switch off from my role as the rule enforcing mummy. 

As I pondered this thought it was then that the revelation hit me, I’ve lost my mojo! Feeling rather empowered but confused by this realisation, I felt the need to announce to the new girls that they mustn’t look forward to a night out with me as I’m no longer this fun person.

I’m known for telling it like it is, but when I used this opportunity to declare that my mojo must’ve fallen out of my vagina when I gave birth to George, I feel that the Archers and lemonade had maybe got the better of me. Back tracking (after I realised I actually gave birth via an emergency c section) ,I then proclaimed that my mojo cannot have possibly escaped in this way and rather it must’ve been taken during the section. After all, they inserted an ibuprofen suppository into my bum hole without my knowledge. 

As the table of 14 (thankfully all women) did a double take, it was at this point I realised that the old ‘Trig’ was still inside me. She just needed to shout a little louder to be noticed now the Georgeous has taken over her life. I have since felt  determined to “find my mojo”, embrace it, and proudly raise my son without letting the easy going, fun loving side of me disappear. 

We undoubtedly change when we become parents but the key is to be happy with who we are regardless and enjoy life. It can be over before you know it so be as silly or as sensible as you please. 

Until next time……

Not last night but the night before, two tom cats came knocking at the door.

What a night! After a wonderful day spent in the company of my friend and her two gorgeous boys, my body decided to add something else to the list of ailments I suffer with. Whilst my friend got herself together, ready to head home, I entertained her youngest in his car seat by squatting down and doing row row the boat. He was loving it and smiling away. Then as my friend reappeared I went to stand up and it felt like something snapped in the back of my right foot. I could still walk on it but was aware of it. As they day went on it became more painful to weight bare on that foot. I tried to rest it and sit with and ice pack on it, but dinner and tidy up duties still beckoned. Life can’t just come to a rest when you have a 21 month old. When hubby came home I explained and he said it sounds like the tendon. We decided there’s nothing anyone can do so I just need to rest it and keep it moving as it hurts more when it stiffens up.

Dinner and tidying all done, it was time to put the Georgeous to bed. We gathered his favourite teddies and blanket and milk and I read him his obligatory three stories and he promptly fell to sleep. He’s always, since the day he was born, preferred to hold my finger when he falls to sleep and I usually wait a few minutes before I gently take my finger and slip his favourite teddy in its place. As he started to drift though I heard my body say,
“how you doing mummy, coping alright hobbling on your sore foot? How abouts we throw some diarrhoea into the mix just to make things interesting”.
Taking a chance and removing my hand only seconds after he closed his eyes, I hurriedly hobbled to he bathroom where I remained for quite some time. By this point I was starting to think I had been someone terrible in a past life and this was my comeuppance. Tucking myself rather sorrowfully into bed, I called on hubbie to provide me with some water and tablets and to remember to bring George’s nighttime milk to bed. After watching celeb big brother, I fell asleep. 

Waking at 1, I heard George from his room next door, asking for his milk. Climbing out of bed and painfully hobbling towards his room, hubbie, still awake and watching comedy shows on his iPad, asked me what I was doing. 

“George is asking for his milk” I replied

“No he isn’t” he responded. “You must’ve dreamt it”.

I suffer with quite loud tinnitus so I don’t always trust my hearing so I hobbled back to bed. No sooner had I laid down though than I heard George asking for his milk. I was right. Milk run done. Back in bed. Foot throbbing now. Stomach rumbling after the previous few hours undesired evacuation. Hubbies iPad noise distracting me. I lay there frustrated. I have just started some new tablets which are listed as causing insomnia and they are preventing me from falling back to sleep quickly once I’m disturbed. Something I usually have no trouble with. Hubbie said he had been trying to get to sleep for over an hour and so resorted to watching a show and the volume was already very low. Trying to ignore it I suddenly realised that hubbie had fallen asleep. The loud snoring gave it away. Sigh. 

At some point in time, unknown to any man or woman, I fell back to sleep. Only to be woken at 4:30 by the most almighty crashing and banging downstairs. Convinced someone was breaking in (although my cats often cause me to believe this), I grabbed hubbie by the shoulders and started violently shaking him to try and wake him. All the while telling him “there’s loads of noise downstairs, I think someone is breaking in!” Nothing! Shaking him as much my strength would allow I gave up as he stayed fast asleep.  
As I hobbled downstairs it quickly became apparent that our ‘intruder’, was actually the neighbours cat, Charlie. I used the term neighbour very loosely, as, after some inquiring on the local Facebook page, I found he lives across the fairly main road and two streets away! Having only started to let our cats out several weeks ago, their scent has attracted our rather unwanted admirer. I’m a huge cat fan, so I can’t help but find him adorable. But in this instance, adorable was the last word I would use to describe him!

Kitchen sealed off and cats calmed down, I hobbled back to bed. And this is where I lay, wide awake until 5:30 when George woke again for more milk. Climbing into his toddler bed with him I thought I’d see if I could settle any better with him. We’ve only recently stopped co sleeping so I wondered if this could also be contributing to my restlessness. I eventually gave up on this plan and retired back to my own bed, now flooded with daylight. I managed to grab another hour before George woke just before 7 and it was time to start the day. Oh well. As they say, I’ll sleep when I’m dead. 

Until next time……..

Kids say the funniest things

It’s been a really comical week. George is turning into this fabulous mini comedian. I may have stimulated his little imagination too much with our games that we play and he is coming out with the most bizarre and often comical things. They might not be side splitting for some but for me I am just in awe of him and marvel at what wonderful tales he will come to me with next. 
We are raising George to try and be a well spoken, well mannered little man but no ones perfect and as much as we would never condone or teach him to say obscenities he has this week picked up a few choice phrases. Some of these phrases being more how you hear them rather than what he is intending to say but funny nonetheless. George lives counting when he is playing and observing things and his favourite pastime at the moment when we are out is to count each car that goes past us. However for each car that passes us he states “there’s one car”. Now if you say this out loud it can quite easily be perceived that he is saying wanker. Something that a fellow patient in the doctors surgery waiting room clearly thought she heard. As I liked her way whilst George was pointing out the window as each car went past, I felt the need to explain what he was actually saying. She found it quite funny and stated that she had actually been believing him to count wankers in the street below. Now I have a few choice phrases I shout at times of frustration, usually when I’m cooking or falling over something, both of which are a daily occurance. I’ve tried to make these child friendly since George was born but in the heat of the moment sometimes naughty words come out. As a result my child has now taken to occasionally repeating my blasphemous cursing. Whilst in the library, of all places, where you could hear a mouse sneeze, my child is scrambling around on the floor trying to gather up a pile of books he wants to bring home, whilst I peruse the children’s DVD’s. Struggling, and before I can offer assistance I hear him saying what sounds very much like “fucks sake”. Something I unfortunately use quite often. I tried to pretend he wasn’t but as people in the library began to look at us, I gathered our stuff quickly, checked it out and left. It wasn’t until a few days later when he was clambering out of our bed after snoozing with us a few extra hours in the morning, that he was walking over the duvet and blanket that had been pushed off during that night saying “oof, oof, fucks sake”. My sides were hurting I was laughing so much. I couldn’t possibly reprimand him as it was my potty mouth he had heard it from. Needless to say hubbie was not amused. 

This week has also seen the introduction of shy, smirking half hidden face as well as hands on hips pouty, grumpy I’m not getting my own way face. He swings his arm when he walks with a little spring in his step. Little things that are becoming traits of his personality and that make me smile. 

He’s also developing an imagination like mine. Coming out to the kitchen to tell me that “man get George” thinking I’ve either had an intruder or a poltergeist I got him to explain to me where the man was.  To which he told me that he was outside the front door. This wasn’t the case. 

He also told me in the doctors surgery that “ambulance come get George”. This is a world we rarely use as we refer to all emergency services as “nee nors”. 

He is most defiantly a one in a million and becoming more of a character as the days go by. I’m sure my tales just don’t do him justice but it feels greedy to not share these wonderful moments. 

Until next time……….

One step behind or one step beyond?

This weeks topic is by no means a reflection of how anyone has treated me. It’s more about how I feel. How easy it is to always feel one step behind the crowd. Not that this should influence how you live your life but it’s always nice to share similar experiences with those around you. 
Pre motherhood I was what they call a typical “binge drinker”. I didn’t go out every weekend but rather once or twice a month. This is behaviour that I wouldn’t encourage. Especially for my younger readers. At the same time though, I do believe you only live once. Sometimes you have just got to throw caution to the wind. Anyway, this type of life was great, carefree, the next piss up to look forward to, and plenty of like minded individuals around me all looking forward to the same thing. 

But then came the babies. One by one I slowly lost all my drinking buddies to the wonder that is pregnancy. Suddenly people wanted to go for chilled out meals so they could fill and nurture their ever growing baby machines and have some relaxing conversation amongst family and friends at the same time. This was all great as I consider myself a foodie so I love meals out. But what about “Wild Cassie”? She was having to quietly take a back seat through no fault of her own and watch everyone else settle into their new lives. Happily married I wasn’t exactly a wild child but I needed to know that the  once a month binge and a giggle was round the corner. All I could see was someone metaphorically packing it all away in a big box and putting it on a plane destined for “sometime in the very distant future”. 

I had no maternal instinct in me. My hubby is fabulous with kids. I knew we would have kids, because that was the done thing wasn’t it. The moment we were married we were constantly asked when the babies were coming. The pressure was growing. I was so happy for everyone around me falling pregnant, but I just didn’t have that definate feeling that I wanted it for myself. There was far too much uncertainty involved and what if it ruined what myself and hubby had together. I constantly took mental notes from those around me about what to do and what not to do as a parent and a wife that had recently become a mother. I started to think about what kind of parent I would be. And discussing it with hubby, I found out we both had the same ideals of parenthood. 

It was a very uncertain time of “we’re trying”, “no we’re not ready to try”, “let’s try” , “are we both sure” , “we’re definately trying”. To the outside world though we both mutually portrayed this picture of not wanting children for a long time so as not to put any pressure on ourselves. We had seen others tell the world their plans only for Mother Nature to not allow it to go quite as intended and for us we felt this would be too much pressure to have a captive audience waiting on our every sexual encounter. 

After 8 months of trying, and might I add becoming completely consumed by the idea, we became pregnant. Many were actually surprised and asked if it was planned being as we had put on this marvellous display of not wanting to be parents. If only they knew how obsessed we had become with the whole idea in those 8 months. 

So rather fantastically my sister who is the same age as me was also pregnant and we would literally text everyday. She was further down the line than me by 5 months but was spot on with predicting each stage I would go through. Even down to what consistency my poo would be. Both my sister in laws and three of my close friends had also not long had babies along with an abundance of people I worked with, even my hairdresser! I was suddenly part of the group again. All with the same interest, same topic of conversation and we all knew what each other was going through. My pregnancy made some of them reminisce about their own pregnancies with some broody for more.

Then when George was born although I chose some different styles and approaches to those around me, the mutual “I know what you’re going through” feeling was still there. We were still a group of mothers talking about sleep deprivation, feeding, nappies, body demolition, relationship struggles and emotional triumphs and setbacks. I still remembered wild child Cassie’s days but I didn’t miss them whilst I was part of this group. And with a new baby came a socially acceptable ticket to attend all these groups and places I had never been to. After all I didn’t have to go to work anymore so I filled my days meeting like minded mummies with similar age babies and this fabulous community started to open up around me. 

Then suddenly people started to fall pregnant again. Suddenly there were people that had two babies. Now not having two babies myself, I can’t comment on how different it is to having one but let me tell you how it appears to me. It’s very different. It’s harder. Almost instantly I was back in a minority. Surrounded by people whose lives I couldn’t join in with. I knew what it was like to be pregnant, but pregnancy with a toddler in tow is another world. I knew what it was like to have a newborn but a newborn with a toddler in tow was a different world. And by this point some people had returned to work. I returned to work for three months but decided it wasn’t working for our family so I quit to become a stay at home mum. So I couldn’t empathise with knowing how that felt either. 

So here we are. Standing at the edge of a path with two branches. The one to the right takes me towards wild child Cassie. No longer breastfeeding and with George fully content spending time with Daddy and other family members, I could very easily afford a few mischievous nights out as the old, young Cassie before she became a mother. And indeed I have a few of these nights on the calendar. The path to the path to the left is a fast track back to the group. Two children. Another pregnancy. A sibling for George. It’s what we both want and we can’t decided when the time is right physically, financially, emotionally for George. All I know is this path leads me back to understanding what everyone around me is going through. 

Watch this space to see which path I choose. If indeed it is a choice? 

Until next time….