Temper Tantrums

Dearest Husband,

Next time you run out of the kitchen door in a hurry to get to work and knock over the food recycling bin, CATCH A LATER TRAIN. Waking up to yesterday’s rice crispies, fish fingers, beans AND oven chips all over the floor is not the most pleasant thing to view first thing in the morning. Little Charlotte told me off for cursing you and then saw that I was not impressed by your behaviour and helped me clear up the mess.  She is three, you are thirty eight – please grow a brain.

I love Vanessa Feltz. She is a strong, assertive woman that can certainly stand on her own two feet. I love the way that she speaks her mind so fluently and puts politicians and other idiots in their rightful place. She uses the English language so wonderfully and corrects people if they don’t speak correctly.  We have also seen Vanessa wear her heart on her sleeve. She is a real woman. I rarely get the opportunity to listen to her show on BBC London Radio. Last time I tuned in, the topic was Buggy Wars! Oh how I wish that I could have telephoned in for a rant! Yes, why do Mums feel the need to buy a pram that is more expensive than a second hand car?  It is ridiculous. The baby is only in the thing for no more than six months. Does it matter if you spend £1000 or £100? The viewers of BBC London think not. Though people were generally happy with their purchases, there seems to be no difference whatsoever apart from the designer name. I lost my business and income whilst pregnant so was absolutely skint when Charlotte came along. People were so kind and generous and I did not give two monkeys that I inherited a pram that was not the latest brand and was a little bit bulky and hard to fold. However, I could buy a McLarens when Charlotte was four months old and it was the best baby purchase that I made.  If you spend a small fortune on the pram, you cannot then justify purchasing a perfect and reasonably priced buggy when you really need one and that is something that is absolutely essential during the pre-school years.

Charlotte and I had our first major ruck! She is three but I know for sure with her red hair and temper to match that this is the first fight of many. I screamed at her. Super Nanny and all the text books tell you never to shout, but to look at your child in the eye and talk in a slightly raised and assertive voice. Well that does not work when I am trying to leave home at 8am to be at work on time.  My best tactic to date is my “Mummy Monster” voice which is a bit like warning that the incredible hulk is about to turn green and get very big and scary but sometimes she drives me totally up the wall and I have no time to get a grip of the situation. So this particular day when she was being a little sod, I had a real hissy fit and ran down the stairs to calm down. She cried and cried. After about five minutes, I went up for a cuddle. She looked at me, walked to the door and promptly slammed it in my face. Oh the passion of it. I look forward to many more such tender moments. 

Thought of the day: When I have had the menopause, I will change the name of my blog to the Final Countdown.

Dream a little Dream...

I have recently enjoyed reading a friend's blog. At 44, she is successful in her career, motivated, driven and ambitious (just like I used to be).  Her life is exciting, she has time for the gym, hot dates and diet clubs. Her stories of her search for a man have me in stiches. She wants to change aspects of her life, yet her I am craving all of those things. Two ex holiday reps that lives are parallel lines, yet entirely different. Are we unhappy? I think not. It's all about wondering  what it would be like had we both turned a different corner when we got off the flight from Gatwick all those years ago.  Her contains a lot about what she actually does;full of a busy life. Mine seems to be about what other people do and what I dream of.

I had a crazy dream about a lady that I used to work with quite a few years ago. She looked like an 80 year old barbie doll dwarf and made trout pouts fashionable. In my dream she had a complete hissy fit that I pointed out that she was older than me. She must be about 70 now. My dreams have gone a little bit crazy. Is this my hormones I wonder?  Linked with my rotting eggs?  I only had mad REM sessions like this when I was up-the-duff.

Now back to Singleton V Smug married. Is having a relationship the be-all-end-all?  Yes, I know its easy to say that when I have been in a relationship for eleven years sharing surname and bath towels. A friend that recently split up from her husband cited the reason: "We were like best friends/it was like being married to my brother?". No shagging then, but seriously what is wrong with that?  The jiggy jiggy does not last forever. Does anybody have it all? I could quite easily be married to one of my closest girlfriends and live a life of harmony, joint cooking and cleaning and a tidy, organised household. That is apart from the sex bit. No offence to the lezzas out there but boobies and minnie moos do not rock my boat.

Mother's Little Helper

Benny Boy made me laugh after a recent trip to Sainsburys. They had kid's cereal, healthy cereal and adult cereal. He was gutted that pictures of Pamela Anderson in her hey day did not fall out of his box of muesli.

January has not been full of laughter. I am so sad for my lovely friend that lost her baby. Because she was beyond the date for miscarriage, her baby loss was classed as stillborn. This means that as she was trying to look ahead, she was contacted by the Chaplin at the hospital to arrange the funeral. This means naming the baby, registering the birth and the death.  I never got that far with my pregnancies that nature terminated. How painful, how awful, how truly devastating. I do feel positive though that this special Mummy and her fab husband will have the large family that they have hoped for.

It makes me feel extra blessed when I look at my miracle daughter. I have very few memories of sharing intimate moments with my Mum when I was small. I remember playing with her as she spread the tablecloth, banging my tooth and making it wobbly. Mum was always soft and gentle. She rubbed me too delicately with the towel after my bath; Dad was too rough. I loved it when she picked me up from school. I would be crying if it was too cold. I remember the mental hospitals, the electric shots and the Valium. Those horrible drugs that took my Mum away and made her like a zombie. I remember the terrible breakdown when my Uncle Ron, her brother-in-law died. She bounced back, was a great Avon lady/sales woman and she loved her push bike. At 21, I learnt to appreciate her again, but she was taken away once more when I was 24. She suffered a stroke and once again was zombie-like.

Hair cuts, shopping trips, wedding arrangements were shared with my Mother-in-law. I still have Mum with us in this world so I am very lucky.

She has just been discharged from hospital again after yet another bout of pneumonia. How much more can she fight with just 20% heart function?  Yet she does fight. She is a very strong and amazing lady. God bless her.

You don't bring me flowers anymore

My Husband bought me flowers. Because he loves me? No, because “I’m so bloody mardy” apparently.  Of course I’m bloody mardy – I have to put up with him, work full time, deal with a three year old teenager, clean the house, worry about the cost of childcare makings us bankrupt and look after the oldies! I don’t want friggin flowers. I want to come home from visiting my elderly Aunt after a recent stay in hospital to find the Christmas decorations neatly back in the box up put up in the loft for next December. Oh, and pick up your wet towels while you are at it, throw your sweet wrappers in the bin and take the salt and peri peri sauce off of the sofa and put it back where it belongs!  Yes, I am mardy and peri-menopausal so beware!  Husband, get down the pub – woops, you can’t as it’s “Dry January”. Ha Ha!  Seriously, I am proud of you Benny Boy. So far you have lasted six whole days without a can of Fosters.

Friday night I settled down to watch “Young Victoria” expecting a bit of Posh Spice as a bubba and soon realised that I had my eyes glued to a beautiful love story about Queen Vic. What a Woman. She had nine kids with Albert and it is true, she did go a bit “doo lally” after he popped his clogs, but she was the original Spice Girl and I proud that the Street where I live in was named after her.

The decorations and the tree have disappeared. The house is tidy but looks a bit glum.  I love a bit of flashing lights and Christmas tackiness. We feel cheated as Benny Boy and I both had the flu over Chrimbo. The festive season also bought some glum news. We were advised of a shock relationship break up plus hearing of a few more of our friends that have suffered miscarriages. I am amazed at the amount of people I know that are struggling to make Baby Number two. Yes, they have already been blessed with a child, but also know the joy and happiness that a baby can bring. I kind of know their pain, I certainly feel it and have shed a tear for their loss but nothing or no-one knows how devastating it is, only you, the Mum-to-be. The only person that can fully share the sadness or more is the Dad. The Dad has to watch his partner suffer the physical and emotional pain of miscarriage as well as be there to offer support and help pick up the pieces. Yet, people forget about the Dad and offer lots of sympathy and condolences to the woman. Often the man suffers in silence. Please bear this in mind if you know of a couple that have suffered baby loss. Please remember to extend your kindness to Daddy.