Saturday, 27 June 2009

Nancy W. Kappes (paralegal) has it right

As a virgin blogger just broken in, I’ve been ruminating, yes ruminating, over the concept of the blog.

Unless you are blogging purely for friends and family, having a blog makes a statement. The statement is: “I think I have an interesting life” or “I have something interesting to say”. But I’m discovering that many people don’t. In fact the longer I spend in mum-blog-land the more pissed off I get.

I’m going to offend a lot of people out there so I am apologising now. It’s only my opinion and counts for pretty much nothing so here goes, Mum blogs are soooooooooooo boring. Before I go on to cuss the average Mum blog I would just like to say to all the Mummy bloggers, keep doing what you’re doing, I understand why you’re doing it, you’re probably all very nice people, and if it keeps you sane, makes a few pennies and gives you the support network you need then that’s fine, but it’s just not my cup of tea. I want to read something by a Mum/Woman that makes me spit out my wine with laughter and think that I’m going to wet my knickers. I want to read something that’s so close to the edge that I think – should I really be laughing at that?

There are hundreds, probably thousands of ‘Mum/Mom blogs’ about nice women, with nice children, living nice lives, saying nice things about their kids. I’m not professing to be particularly radical or unusual; I’m just as boring and middle class as most other Mum bloggers out there except I’m not intending to fill cyber space with any more of that sanctimonious ‘joys and challenges of raising kids’ shit. I’ve realised that Mums actually tell each other a lot of lies to make it seem that they have the perfect Mother-child dynamic. People keep telling me their kids sleep through the night when in fact they don’t. I have proof of this.

I’m sick of logging on to a blog and the first thing I see are pictures of your children who all fucking look the same by the way!!! Oh Brady did this today and Scarlet did that. I really couldn’t give a shit.

Nancy W. Kappes (paralegal) has it right. NOBODY CARES! Nobody cares how many frickin’ teeth your child has, or what they’re eating, or what you did at the park today. The only people who are ever really interested in your children are you and yours. And if you’re wondering who the hell Nancy W. Kappes (paralegal) is then pour yourself a vodka, get out your prescription drugs, log on to and prepare to uncover a living genius.

So, critics may say, why the hell am I blogging? Am I really going to produce a Mum blog that doesn’t utterly suck? I have absolutely no idea. I may not even last another week out here, all alone, in blogland. On a personal level I just need to write. I need to get some shit out of my system.

I’m unlikely to get any ‘followers’ or ‘fans’ of any description after alienating virtually my entire audience (plus the fact that nobody is reading this shit right now – it’s quite liberating really). But just to reiterate, if you’ve come here looking for, tributes to dead pop stars, pictures of my son doing messy play, birthday cake recipes, money saving tips or things to do on a rainy day, then fuck off; there are plenty of other places you can go to for that.

If however; you would like to prove me wrong and add a blog to my very small list below, feel free to comment.

Blogs I actually like in no particular order....
and now I'm going to take a shower because I smell of sour dribble.

Thursday, 25 June 2009

Lazy Cow

Yesterday I complained to my partner that he always seemed to get a lie in. So imagine my delight when he got up this morning gave our son breakfast and entertained him until I woke. I finally lifted my head off the pillow at 12 o’clock feeling incredibly refreshed, if terribly guilty. I was so grateful that my partner had listened to me and helped me relax that I felt buoyant with love – possibly even frisky? Then I discovered that he had fed our son my Weightwatchers creamed rice for breakfast. In other words, synthetic foods designed to make you loose weight but with little nutritional value. Not only is this not great for my son but it is certainly shitty for me as you only get two in a pack. This somehow took the edge off my incredible sleep and potential friskiness.

I perked up however; when I caught sight of my naked son in my arms, in the bathroom mirror. His bottom, all squashed up, appeared to have dimples that looked like cellulite. It made me wonder if cellulite actually exists or whether it is something we have been tricked into believing so that we will buy overpriced creams and join overpriced gyms and make men very rich? There is no way my son can have cellulite – unless he was having some kind of reaction to the Weightwatchers creamed rice?

I then went on to do a lot of stuff that doesn’t warrant a mention here. Part of the problem was that with half the day gone by the time I got my lazy arse out of bed, I then had to cram everything in, in half the time.

Later on in the afternoon somebody described my son as being ‘hench’. For those of you that aren’t sure about this word feel free to look it up on, where I am reliably informed that it means strong and muscular.

Lastly a question: should I be worried that my son has started banging his head against his cot as part of his sleeping ritual like a tormented caged animal? Or should I take this as a sign that he is well and truly ‘hench’?

Tuesday, 23 June 2009

Don't get me wrong.....

When I was about 19 I was sat on the top deck of a bus in slow moving traffic, drifting past a school. I watched a small boy laden with paintings charging towards his mother. I have no idea why but it made me feel incredibly sick. I vowed never to have any children.

Even at 27 I apparently told my partner that I didn’t want any offspring. I don’t really remember that, but then I don’t really remember much about being 27 - except that it was great. Somewhere along the line though, I must have wanted a child because I’ve got one.

I don’t believe in God. I believe in nature. Tidal waves, volcanic eruptions, hurricanes, plagues, earthquakes, wildfires and biological urges. It’s the only explanation I can come up with at how I ended up this way.

“How is being a Mum?” people ask.

“It’s okay.” I reply.

They respond with a questioning facial expression. Okay? That’s not what they want to hear. The stock response is “the most wonderful thing I have ever done” or “giving birth was the proudest moment of my life”. I can honestly say that pride was not one of the overwhelming emotions that I felt as I clawed my way from the birthing stool to the bed with my child’s head hanging out from between my legs. Nor was it pride I felt after the birth as the midwife put her finger up my rectum to aid her stitching. As something of a seamstress myself I can understand where she was coming from, but really….. not even an ‘excuse me’.

In the face of this disappointment from strangers - the shocking concept that I find motherhood just “Okay”, I often find myself struggling to reassure them that I do actually love my child. “Don’t get me wrong….” I begin, but it’s too late; I’ve already left my first impression. And I refuse to qualify myself with the phrase “I love my son to bits.” Do you know how times a week I hear that phrase roll off the tongues of crack-heads as their children languish in care homes? Polite conversation over; the strangers leave unnerved and telling themselves that I’m not the maternal type.

“But you’re just not the maternal type!” people exclaimed when I told them I was pregnant. It was a good thing I didn’t need the reassurance of loose acquaintances to know that I would do a fine job of being a mother.

All that ‘maternal’ shit is highly overrated. For those of you that have given birth you will know that it is such an overwhelming experience that whoever you were before you did it, you won’t be the same afterwards. How many ‘maternal’ types who read the books, went to the classes and who longed for motherhood, freaked out and had post natal depression? How many totally unprepared, uneducated and scared shitless, teenage mums took to motherhood with enviable ease?

One of the encounters that made me smile so hard on the inside that I got lower intestinal cramp, was when at a baby clinic a few weeks ago I asked a new mother of twins what it was like having twins. Ok, so it’s a shitty unoriginal question but I was being one of those idiotic strangers that I was just cussing…..

In an unguarded moment she looked at me with wild eyes and said with raw honesty “It’s a nightmare”. She blinked and as she reopened her eyes it was as if the Mothership had regained control of her “but it’s a lovely nightmare” she said, an inane grin creeping slowly across her face.

“It’s Ok.” I said to her. “You are allowed to say that.” But as I watched her smiling and frantically jiggling her distressed child I knew she had slipped away from me.

So, as a parting gift to all you Mothers out there it’s Ok to say that you don’t absolutely love being a mother every minute of every day. Jesus, I don’t even love chocolate every minute of every day. Although I do love chocolate to bits. Lots and lots and lots of bits.

Child Abuse

This morning I had the urge to shut my son’s fingers in the crack of the bathroom door. I figured it was going to happen anyway, one day. We’ve all done it right? So I thought maybe I should do it in a controlled way so that he’d get the picture but not really get hurt?

I mean, I’ve never done this shit before? I’m not a mother…I’m just someone who gave birth.