Still Here

In case anyone was wondering!

Apologies for the lack of posts over the summer, turns out that having two jobs, and two kids and trying to write a book is ever so slightly time consuming, and doesn’t leave time for much else!

Also *types under breath* I kind of hate summer and find it one of my most difficult times of year.  There, said it.  I know it’s a hugely unpopular opinion, but for me summer is mainly sweating, getting migraines from the sun, and trying to cram in as much QUALITY FAMILY TIME with my kids as possible whilst battling the urge to strangle them when I step on yet another mothafucking piece of lego with goddam bare feet.  This summer has been an odd one because I’ve been working four days a week, so I’ve not been around much and then when I have, I’ve felt this incredible pressure for us to have Perfect Family Fun together, which rarely if ever works out how I envisage it.

We have had some good times though, and thanks to Chris taking some annual leave each week to be home with the boys, they’ve enjoyed having him around a bit more and not missed me too much, I don’t think.

My new job is going…ehhh…well, it’s going anyway.  My CIDP is behaving itself, and the book I’m writing is the slowest project ever but it’s keeping me sane (ish).

And honestly, that’s pretty much it.  Every now and again I think about archiving this place, since I’m not really actively blogging anymore, but then I see people finding old posts about CIDP/Molar pregnancy/Miscarriage etc through their google searches, and I think- ‘well what if reading about my experiences helps someone?’  So it’s staying, for now.

Who knows, maybe one day when I have more time (not clear when that’ll be, but let’s play pretend) I’ll be a bit more active (and possibly even witty?!) but for now, this will have to do 😉

 

 

 

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Dydd Dewi Sant Hapus

I helped the kids make Saint David’s Day collages at the weekend, for them to take into school and show their teachers / classmates.  We should have taken them in this morning (obviously) but the weather forecast had predicted rain (and boy, was it right) so we took them in yesterday and everyone was very impressed with their art work and incredibly basic knowledge of the Welsh language.

Our six year old was pleased as punch revealing he was “half Welsh” to his teacher and she asked who out of us parents was from Wales, I think expecting it to be me, since I was the one who’d clearly encouraged the poster-making.  It made me think about culture and identity and how interesting it is that of the two of us, it’s usually me trying to promote that side of the boys’ identity and heritage to them.  We both use the odd Welsh phrase or word at home, and visit our family in Wales regularly, but when it comes to the other stuff- like the making collages and baking cakes for Saint David’s Day, those kind of things are driven by me.  I’ve been wondering why that is- sheer practicality and circumstance (i.e. me being around more to do those kinds of activities) or if it’s a personality, or even a male/female thing?

It’s hugely important to me that the boys are aware of their family history in a way that I can’t really explain very well and that took even me by surprise when I realised it, since I don’t think I’d ever really given it much thought prior to becoming a parent.

Regardless, I intend to continue baking (and eating) cakes on St David’s Day and buying daffodils, and saying “nos da” and hoping that it is enough.

Happy Saint David’s Day / Dydd Dewi Sant Hapus to all my readers 🙂

guilt

There are those that say that guilt is a useless emotion, and maybe they’re right.  But I feel it so often that I can scarcely imagine a life without it.

How would I fill the endless minutes in each day if not consumed by the feeling that I’m not doing the right thing/a good enough job, that I myself am not good enough, that I could/should be doing x, y or z instead?!

Take right now for example- I’m sitting here feeling tremendously guilty about an inordinate number of things.

thelastmincepie

First up- there’s the pie.  I’m eating the last mince pie in the house and feeling guilty (because I am trying to be healthy and lose weight and eating a mince pie is in direct contradiction with both of those things).

Also, there’s the sitting.  I’m sitting here eating a pie when I could/should be doing a whole host of other more useful and productive things (tidying, cleaning, writing, calling up the ward manager at my new job and introducing myself and getting some off-duty etc etc etc).

Then there’s the fact that I’m alone, having just dropped both kids off at school.  Which carries it’s own guilt at the best of times, but particularly when I’ve just had to prise our 6 year old off my leg in tears and leave him with his teacher sobbing.  He was off sick yesterday but is better today but didn’t want to go in, and being the horrible mother I am, I made him.  Because we had to go there anyway to drop his brother off (more guilt there- his brother started full-time school a whole year earlier than he did, and although his attendance technically isn’t compulsory, because he’s still only four, I tell him that it is) and because he isn’t poorly anymore, and I don’t want him to have poor attendance/miss out on stuff, and because I don’t want him to think he can stay home whenever he doesn’t fancy school because he really can’t because I start work next week (heaps more guilt at this point, because I am not going to be able to do school drop-offs/pick-ups and will miss some bedtimes and generally won’t be around as much).

I’m also feeling very guilty about starting my new job because I am riddled with doubt that it is the right thing to do/the right time to do it, and then I feel bad for having taken the leap despite my doubts, and I also feel bad because I have been given a job, something a lot of people would kill for, and here I am debating about whether or not I really want it.  And then I feel guilty for feeling this way, because when all is said and done, it’s not a matter of wanting the job or not- I need to earn money.

And then I get back to the fact that I’m sat on my arse not contributing financially, emotionally, or practically to anybody or anything, and by that point I’ve eaten the pie and we’re back to my food-related guilt once again…

Congratulations, you just survived ten minutes in my brain!  Exhausting isn’t it?!

 

What Are You Asking?

I will preface this rant blog post by saying, I am the most open person I know.  I am more or less happy to tell anybody anything, if I know the person asking, and the question is appropriate…y’know, sometimes even when it’s not, I’ll give people the benefit of the doubt if it seems to be coming from a genuine place.

You want to know about my bizzaro autoimmune thing and the treatment for it?  Just ask! No problem.  You’re thinking of getting house rabbits and not sure how that will work with kids/a dog/a house full of electrical equipment…I’d be delighted to share what (little) wisdom I have to offer.  Birth?  Breastfeeding?  My opinions on local schools (since we looked round pretty much all of them- some twice).  How to go about applying to become a foster carer?  A little about the reality of life as a foster carer?

I will generally chat to anyone about whatever they want to know about.  Maybe, that in fact is my where I’ve gone wrong.  Maybe in being so open, and not drawing any boundaries, I’ve left myself open to people taking THE COMPLETE AND UTTER PISS.

Guess how many times since we were approved as foster carers in January I have been asked if I will adopt a baby…go on- GUESS.  I bet you won’t get anywhere near the actual figure.  In fact, go ahead and take whatever number you came up with and MULTIPLY IT BY INFINITY.  Now you’re getting warm.

Guess how many times I’ve been asked if I’ll be having any more children “of my own” and/or “why not?!”  Don’t be shy!  Take a WILD STAB IN THE DARK.  Is your number in the hundreds?  IT SHOULD BE.

Now for bonus points, can you tell me, WHY IN GOD’S HOLY NAME WOULD YOU ASK ANYBODY THAT?

image

Do y’all hear yourselves when you speak?  Do you realise what you’re actually asking?

Because when you ask someone about their plans (or not, as the case may be) to expand their family, this is what they’re likely to hear:

  • Questions about their fertility
  • Questions about their general health and ability to carry a pregnancy to term
  • Reminders of previous pregnancies, births and losses
  • Questions about their relationship
  • Questions about their sex life
  • Questions about their contraception
  • Questions about their parenting skills and current family life
  • Memories of their own childhoods and siblings (if they have them)
  • Questions about their age

And that’s just for starters.  If you’re a parent yourself, then think about the colossal multitude of shit you went through in your head the moment you decided to try for a baby, the things you agonised over, the things you wrangled about, the hoops you jumped through to get to that point.  Or if your pregnancy was unplanned consider all the things that whirled through your mind in the days after you found out.  Now imagine verbalising that to a stranger in the school playground as you’re kissing your five year old goodbye and wishing him a good day.

Last week I had another parent at school who I’ve never spoken to before approach me and strike up a conversation.  Now I like to think I’m pretty friendly (contrary to the vibe this post, and in fact my blog in general may give off!) so I answered her questions, asked my own in reply, and had a bit of a chat.  The parent in question put me on the spot twice, asking me why I wasn’t having anymore children of my own and why I “didn’t want” (her words, absolutely not mine!) to adopt our current foster baby and despite feeling uncomfortable, having not prepared myself emotionally or mentally for that line of questioning at 9am on a Monday morning, I answered as honestly as I could.  She offered some information in exchange and then went on her way.  It was slightly odd but I thought perhaps it could be the beginning of a school playground friendship and maybe now we’d broken the barrier and spoken to each other we’d end up chatting more often.

Well…she hasn’t spoken one word to me since.  Which wouldn’t mean anything I guess if it weren’t for the fact that WE SEE EACH OTHER TWICE A DAY EVERY DAY.

So basically, she saw me suddenly have a baby with me one day, her curiosity got the better of her and she mined me for information, at the expense of my time and emotional wellbeing.

This may shock you all to your very core, since I write some pretty personal stuff on this blog, but just because I don’t burst into tears every time I mention my three miscarriages and molar pregnancy and the fact I have a lifelong debilitating neurological condition doesn’t mean that talking about it doesn’t affect me at all.

When I sit down to write, I get to choose what I want to share (or not) and how I want to phrase it, and if it gets too hard then I can press delete or save it for another day when I’m more ready to delve into that topic.  When someone is bombarding me with question after question after question, like a motherfucking interview, at the school gates, one hour after I’ve woken up and with three small children in my care, it’s not the same thing AT ALL.

So today, at 3.15, as I attempted the epic challenge that is EXITING THE SCHOOL GROUNDS WITHOUT RESORTING TO MURDER OR BEING FATALLY INJURED, yet another parent I have never spoken to before in my life called out to me from behind “Excuse me- but is that your baby?!”

“Yes” I lied said

She looked sceptical

“Really?  When was it born?”

“March” I shrugged and then walked off because I will be damned if I am going to be privy to anybody else’s fucking nosiness disguised as friendliness.

And yes I felt pretty guilty for about 30 full minutes afterwards, because I’m the kind of person who will apologise when someone else steps on my toe, and who tries to see the best in everyone.

But- you want to know me?  Then GET TO KNOW ME.  If all you really want to know is the ins and outs of foster care and what kind of situation Squishlet’s birth parents are in and why I’m suddenly parading around with a baby despite not having been pregnant recently then I may as well be filling in a bloody questionnaire.  Because that aint friendly, there’s no give or take, there’s nothing behind that other than sheer nosiness.

Look I’m as nosy as the next person but I would never EVER, in all my merry fucking days ask anybody other than perhaps a handful of my absolute closest friends whose situations I was intimately acquainted with, if they were thinking of having a baby, or if they could see themselves adopting a child at some point in their life.  For the most part I don’t ask people anything, I find that if people have something they want to share then for the most part they will WITHOUT INTERROGATION.  I know, who would have thought it?!

So please, and I’m asking nicely, before you ask somebody a BIG QUESTION like that, stop and think for a second, what is it that you’re really asking?

Do you know how that question might make that person feel, both in that instant and for the rest of the day?  Are you yourself prepared for the answer?

If you jokingly ask someone if they’re pregnant with twins because they’re so ‘big’ are you prepared for the fact that maybe they were and they lost one?  Or maybe they’re not but there are problems with their pregnancy, like excess fluid that maybe they don’t want to discuss with a total stranger in tesco but might now feel like they have to.

If you’re curious why as a foster carer someone wouldn’t put themselves forward to adopt a child living with them, before you verbalise that maybe have a think if there’s anything you don’t know, that they might not be able to share with you about their situation or the child’s situation that might make it not an option.

Or if you can’t put the brakes on your mouth then at least brace yourself for what might be an emotional reaction, or for receiving information that you then can’t process yourself.

I’m not saying DON’T TALK TO PEOPLE.  I’m not saying don’t attempt pleasant chit-chat or attempt to make new friends, I’m just saying that interrogating people you don’t know very well (or at all) is NOT the way forward.

Ok. I’m done.

**prepares self for no one ever speaking to me ever again after reading this**

Father’s Day

It doesn’t seem like 2 minutes since I was enduring physics in the name of celebrating father’s day last year, but once again here we are.  A nation celebrating all that is good about Fathers.

And there is a lot that’s good about them, so it’s right that we should, but I also think it’s important to remember that not everyone has one to lavish their attentions and/or a pair of hideous socks or a bottle of cheap red on today, and that even those that DO may have their reasons for not wanting or not being able to.

My Dad hasn’t been around for father’s day for a few years now, on account of he passed away at the ridiculously young age of 49 after a lifetime of alcoholism, and so father’s day for me is now much more about celebrating the wonderful guy who I’ve chosen to build a life and start my own family with.  But today that guy is off to work for an eight hour shift in a place where just yesterday he was assaulted by one of the young people he works with, many of whom also won’t be feeling warm and fuzzies towards their own fathers- if they have them- today.

Fatherhood, and in fact parenthood, and indeed families in general, are so bloody complicated.  It’s like that old adage “Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em”

As parents we don’t need to worry that we won’t have an impact on our childrens’ lives, even absentee parents make an impact- just by the very fact of not being there.  Everything we do and say (and indeed everything we don’t do and don’t say) has an impact on our children, the real worry is whether it’s positive or negative, and what that will mean for their own lives, and relationships, and children (if they choose to have them) moving forward.

It would be wrong to hold my Dad up as an example of what is fantastic about fathers on this day, when his battle (and it was a battle) with alcohol coloured my entire childhood, and is something I carry with me always.  Not to say that everything that has ever happened to me has been his fault- or because of the drink, but that when someone in a family has an addiction, or an illness, be that physical or mental, it is never just them it affects, and it is never really over, even when it is.

But he was my Dad, and as I get older I can appreciate more and more that to be a Dad can mean so many different things.  For me it was having someone teach me calligraphy, and how to play chess, and show me how to make a garden from a pile of dirt.  Incidentally, all things I couldn’t do now if you paid me.  It was a shared loved of pork scratchings and old books and a million broken promises, all forgiven.  My Dad loved me, and I loved him and although that wasn’t always enough, it is enough now.

For my own children- there’s much more.  Their Dad loves them, and he’s here everyday, sometimes they might not see him because he’ll have left for work before they wake up and be back after they’ve gone to bed, but when he’s here he’s HERE.  He plays with them (and is much better at it than I am) and teaches them things I know nothing about, and swings them around and throws them in the air higher than I’d ever dare.  He can put his own worries aside to listen to theirs, and he works hard to make sure they never go without.

He got out of bed at 7 this morning to make a bottle for a baby that isn’t his, and then taught the boys to play snakes and ladders whilst I made breakfast.  Now he’s off to work, and when he gets back tonight I know he’ll ask about our day before he tells me about his.

When it comes to Dads, he’s definitely one of the good ones.  Maybe even the best in fact (but shhh don’t be telling him that, his head is big enough as it is 😉 )

Father’s Day is just always going to be one of those funny days for me, an out-of-the-blue reminder of how things were, what they could have been and what they actually are right now.  I just feel lucky that the latter is such a good place and with such fantastic people around me, that I wouldn’t swap it for anything, no matter what came before.

Happy Father’s Day to all those Dads out there who deserve a bit of recognition and appreciation, and massive hugs to all those who for whatever reason can’t celebrate today- why not buy yourself some socks and a cheap bottle of red and remind yourself just how wonderful YOU are 😉

rebeccaandjonathan

Does our son look like a girl (and does it matter)?

I started writing a blog post and, not for the first time, during the writing of it I realised that what I actually wanted to say, what needed saying, was not what I had originally intended to say, so once again have ended up writing something that bears little resemblance to my original idea, but really, what else is new?!

RudyAfterTheDentist

First of all, here’s the context for this blog post: today we made our bi-annual trip to the dentist, where not for the first time in his life (and I assume not for the last either) our 3 and a half year old son was persistently referred to using feminine pronouns by the reception staff.

This is a thing that happens a lot, so much so that it really elicits a reaction from me anymore.  Sometimes I correct the person/people in question, but I have to say that a lot of the time, I can’t be bothered.  The trouble with saying “ACTUALLY, he’s a boy” is that:

a. People are embarrassed and apologetic.  I feel like I’m being an arsehole pointing out their mistake.  They are usually flustered and basically no one wins.

b. Their (usually emphatic) apology suggests that to be mistaken for a girl (or indeed, be a girl) is in someway derogatory, or inferior to being recognised as male and no amount of “really it’s fine”s can seem to stem their horror or prevent that message reaching my children’s ears.  This is clearly not something I believe because…well…uh…I am a girl myself.  And don’t see “looking like a girl” (whether or not you identify as one) as an insult.  In fact really, when someone says “Oh, but he looks like a girl” they are just saying “I applied my socially constructed ideas of gender to your appearance and one or more criteria met what I imagine a female to look like” That’s not really an insult is it?!

The trouble with NOT correcting people is that:

a. If we aren’t leaving immediately, they may just keep going ON AND ON, and eventually his 5 year old brother will likely correct them and then they’ll be EVEN MORE flustered and also be looking at me like “WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SOMETHING?”

b. I kind of want to teach my kids that if someone gets something wrong you can call them on it, even if it’s an adult, and this is one of those occasions where I could do that, except it feels like the wrong one to use as an example but there aren’t many other instances when I can demonstrate it?!

So, you see my dilemma.

This is a thing that happened at Halloween a couple of years ago when we went trick or treating:

spiders

Stranger: “Oh look a spider! And what is your baby sister dressed as?”

(Then) 3 year old: *looks around in confusion for baby sister he wasn’t aware he had*

Me (eventually): “It’s his little brother.”

Stranger: “Oh I’m so sorry!  I couldn’t see him properly in his buggy/costume/the dark”

Me: “It’s fine, please don’t worry about it”

Stranger: *showers the kids with sweets and shuts the door really quickly*

I genuinely don’t care that people think he is a girl, and seemingly, he doesn’t either.  I reckon half the time he’s oblivious (given as he’s only just learning about pronouns himself anyway) and the other half of the time he’s just *meh*.  A couple of weeks ago, when accosted by some girls in the school playground who were admiring his hair, he was outright asked if he was a girl by them and he said “yes”.  I think more to be agreeable than because he identifies as one, but his older brother thought it was hilarious and immediately ran over to tell me all about it.

His brother, you see DOES care if people mistake his brother for a girl.  Because he is FIVE and since starting school he is all about THIS IS WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A BOY AND THAT IS WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A GIRL AND THERE ARE NO GREY AREAS.  This sudden hatred for all things “girly” and indeed, even the identification of what is girly, has been very sudden and without mercy and is already driving me absolutely crazy.  I can’t believe the difference that school socialisation has made to his concept of gender and identity within the space of 6 months.

As for his Dad, I wouldn’t say he is ‘bothered’ if people mistake his youngest son for a boy, but he has on more than one occasion suggested a haircut as the solution.  Something I disagree with because it surely isn’t our job (or his) to bow to societal expectations of appearance just to make it easier for people to correctly identify our kids gender when there’s actually no need for them to do in the first place?

And that, is where my issue lies, I think.  In the need for people to assign him to one of the gender binaries immediately on coming into contact with him.  Like they can’t interact with him as a human until they know if he is male or female.

He is three and a half.  He had short hair last year (at his request, he was keen to get a “big boy’s haircut” like his brother and his Dad at the hairdressers) but has since declared he wants me to only cut the front of it (so he can see where he is going) and leave the back of it long (which I have done).  He mostly wears traditionally boy-ish clothes, i.e. lots of blue, and shades of mud, emblazoned with superheroes or monsters or dinosaurs.  He is shy around strangers but rambunctious around those he knows well.  He can usually be found in a puddle, or halfway up a climbing frame (upside down).  He also loves watching Frozen and Tangled and The Little Mermaid (oh my god, The Little Mermaid, 3,000 x a week on repeat)  He’s very affectionate (much more so than his older brother who is all “GEROFF ME” when you try to cuddle him).  His two best friends outside of nursery are girls, but at nursery he seems to mostly play with the other boys (one or two in particular who he is constantly mentioning by name).

He is who he is.  Just like I am who I am.

If you see him scaling a fence in his Batman wellies with his golden ringlets and think he’s a she, then on one level I’m glad that you don’t immediately think “must be a boy because a girl wouldn’t do/wear that” but on another level- really wouldn’t it better if we all just asked?

I mean, in the wider sense, if we didn’t spend entire bus journeys staring at someone down the aisle from us thinking ‘BUT REALLY IS THAT PERSON MALE OR FEMALE” driving ourselves crazy speculating and (presumably) making the individual in question feel uncomfortable, but just decided that since we don’t know them and they don’t know us, it isn’t in fact any of our business and what difference does it make to us anyway?  And then, when we are actually interacting with someone whose gender we’re not sure of, maybe just ask them which pronouns they’d prefer and take their word for it, since…well…they would know, being themselves and all?

Basically, when I first started writing this blog post, my instinct was to go off and google famous males with blonde wavy hair and litter the post with those images in a SEE AND NO ONE IS QUESTIONING THEIR MASCULINITY sort of way:

heath ledger Chris Hemsworth Brad Pitt

and it was during this (admittedly quite pleasant, but a little bittersweet, because: Heath Ledger) distraction that I realised that my approach was all wrong.  I was trying to defend my son against being called “a girl” because of his hair when actually

a. Being called “a girl” doesn’t bother him right now, so he doesn’t require my ‘defence’ on this blog, IRL, or indeed anywhere

b. The problem is not that people think he’s a girl because of his hair, the problem is that people think outward appearance is indicative of identity and/or worth.

So then I decided instead to write out a list of things I wanted our sons to know:

  1. You can be male and be masculine and have long hair
  2. You can be male and be feminine and have long hair
  3. You can actually have any kind of hair you want
  4. You can actually be whoever you want

So then I wrote:

“You can be whatever the fuck you want to be, identify with any gender, or consider yourself gender fluid, and have whatever the hell hair you like or none at all, and really it’s no one’s business but your own and it’s your choice which parts of your identity and body you share and who with and when and actually this blog post is spiralling out of control….argh.”

Does our son look like a girl?

I don’t think so.

Does it matter?

No.

Should I correct people when they mistake him for one?

I still don’t know.

So if anyone has any answers (or painkillers, since I have now given myself quite the headache thinking this all through) then please let me know!

3

Boarding schools for three year olds: do such a thing exist? And if not: WHY?

I’m not even talking about entry age 3 until they leave school, I’m talking about: drop off the day before their 3rd birthday and collect at 3pm on the Friday after they turn 4.

Seriously.

I don’t know what it is about this age, developmentally, but it pushes aaaaaaaalllllllllll my buttons.

I feel terrible saying it, I mean obviously I love my child, that goes without saying.  And we’re approved foster carers now so perhaps I should have more coping strategies at my disposal other than ranting about my parenting woes here on my blog…but there’s a very good reason we put ourselves forward as baby carers.

Babies.  Babies, I get.  They’re demanding as hell, but in a whole other way.  I’d take a newborn over a three year old any day.  In fact at this point I think I’d take a baby AND a hormonal teenager over a three year old to be honest.  Because having a three year old seems to be a lot like how I imagine it is to live with a moody teenage son, but with the added ‘bonus’ of having to devote every single ounce of energy I have to keeping them alive, and having them in turn hate me for it.

I mean, let’s be honest here, who would given the choice, elect to spend time with someone whose idea of social interaction is to scream in your face at every suggestion, and whose idea of stimulating conversation is to ask 75 times in rapid succession for an ice cream?

When it comes to parenting, I am a firm believer in you get back what you put in.  Maybe not right away, I don’t think it’s always instant- but eventually, things should balance out, right?

Like the fuzzy feeling of a soft newborn head sleeping against your bare chest after cuddling them to sleep, every shallow baby breath seeming to whisper “thank you for loving me, thank you for keeping me safe” or the way your five year old’s eyes light up when they’re chatting about their new favourite topic and you ask them questions about it.  There’s something about 3, that makes the input/output more unequal.  Oh he says he loves me, but it’s usually after I’ve agreed to let him watch Ninjago for the 3,758th time (Coincidence?  I think not) He wants to show me affection but only on his terms, and usually when it’s highly inconvenient, maybe even downright painful for me, like when I’ve just sat down on the toilet, or I’m putting the shopping through the checkout at Aldi, or I’m in the middle of phone call with my bank. Then he’s all over me like a rash, elbowing my boobs, knocking my glasses off, smooching his face into mine, leaving a trail of snot in his wake.

In some ways it’s a bit like being in an abusive relationship: say yes to them and they’ll claim to love you forever, say no and expect violence.  But regardless of whether you’ve just had Buzz Lightyear thrown in your face for suggesting they tidy their toys up, you’re still expected to cook their meals, wash their clothes, and wipe their arse. And you’d better be smiling when you do it to, lest they somehow sense your resentment bubbling under the surface and take it to heart, growing up believing themselves to be unloveable at their core, when really, all you wanted was for them to be nice to you for five fucking minutes out of the day.

3

(Let the fun begin!)

This blog entry was brought to you by THURSDAY MORNING!

And the fact that it’s not even 10am and already my 3 year old has hit me with an umbrella, screamed that he hates me, and peed his pants in the park as well as crying/shrieking/whining about the following things:

having to take his brother to school, wanting to be under the umbrella with his brother, not wanting to be under the umbrella with his brother, wanting to hold my hand, not wanting to hold my hand, the fact it was raining, the fact that wind exists, the fact he couldn’t go directly to playgroup from school drop-off (because it doesn’t start until 10am), the fact he needed a wee in the park, not wanting to pee against a tree, wanting to pee against a tree, unsuccessfully peeing against a tree, my refusal to buy him a McDonalds at 9.15am, my suggestion that he take his rain-and-pee soaked clothes off when we got in the house, his inability to take his trousers off standing up and so necessitating that he sit down, my offering him dry pyjama bottoms, his inability to put on said pyjama bottoms standing up and so necessitating that he sit down, my not turning the tv on immediately upon arrival back home, me leaving the room without specifying where I was going (the kitchen) and when I would be back (30 seconds later).

And if you found reading that in any way monotonous/confusing/frustrating then please spare a moment to consider HOW I FEEL RIGHT NOW.