Perfectly imperfect

I’m a romantic at heart, you know that annoying person who still thinks that Disney films are based on true stories?  Yeah well that’s me!

I’m a ten-year old girl in a 28-year-old ‘lady’ body.

My taste in music is questionable at best and embarrassing at worst (I pray for a 5ive reunion daily), and if I didn’t have little people who require adequate nutrition I would choose to live off a diet of chocolate and fizzy pop.

Although I love myself for having a small part of me that still believes Paul will come in with his massive sword (or preferably massive lottery cheque) in hand, declaring he will take care of me and we will live happily ever after, I have come to accept that the only “sword” he will ever burst into the living room wind milling around is NOT going to bring me anymore than 15 minutes of joy.

As I’m sure you can imagine Disney has set me up for failure a fair few times now and the first time I can recall was Thomas’s sperm donor of a father.

I was 19 when I first met Thomas’s dad and seeking attention and acceptance, I had moved away from home and was living in a strange town sharing a flat with my friend I had met at work.  He was nothing special, not good-looking, not interesting but he was male and he showered me with attention and I was a silly little girl who craved just that!

I thought I knew everything and everyone else, especially my equally stubborn mother, just hated me and wanted me to be miserable.  Obviously now I know that’s complete bollocks but at the time that’s how it felt.

We separated when I was around 12 weeks pregnant.  This was my choice, but not Thomas’s, yet Thomas had paid the price ever since.  Thomas has never met his biological father and I can’t help but feel a little bit relieved about that to be honest.  Thomas is far too special to have his light extinguished by such a complete knob.

To know Thomas is to know that he couldn’t handle the disappointment that is his father, he is sensitive and caring and over-thinks everything; to him (and to me) Paul is his dad.

Thomas is a mummy’s boy, he plays me up more than anyone else and I get the brunt of all of his screaming and trashing his room hissy fits but if he hurts he wants me, if something is bothering him he will only tell me and he saves his best hugs for me.

To understand my biggest boy requires a PhD.  He is by far the most complicated creature I have ever met; he is truly a wild child.

I nervously gave birth to Thomas when I was twenty-one, he came into the world blue and lifeless and it was four long minutes before he took his first breath.

Traumatic as this was it was the first time I realised that I truly loved him, my pregnancy had been a fog of relationship drama, bitchy girls I had never even met and complete blinding panic.  Thomas wasn’t planned, the pregnancy wasn’t wanted at first and to be honest, to me, he wasn’t real until that moment, the moment my world stopped and in my drug fuelled haze, after 16 long hours of established labour and with my guts spilling onto an operating bed (or possibly not, I just like to be dramatic) all I could hear was silence.  No crying, no “it’s a boy”, just silence.

Thomas did begin to scream eventually and the midwife brought him over legs akimbo so I could see that he was indeed a boy, I was in love instantly.

I didn’t have any pre-baby excitement or a love for my bump but in that second I felt nothing but love and relief.

Thomas had always been in my heart I just hadn’t realised it until that moment and he has had his grubby little hands wrapped round it since!

Thomas has inherited my everything, he looks like me, he’s stubborn and impulsive like me and he has the attitude of a fifteen year old that is pissed off at life.  His glass is always half empty and I have “ruined” his life so many times I have lost count, usually because he can’t go on the PlayStation for fourteen hours a day.  But he is my warrior, my passionate little beast who will swear at you one second and sit on your knee and tell you how much he loves you the next, he tells me how much he loves my wobbly belly because it’s so comfy and how cool it is that I have a scar across my tummy that he made.  He compliments me when I have my hair done or put makeup on and he makes me laugh a hundred times a day.  He is my first-born and my first love.

Parenting Thomas is like trying to calm a bull in a world of red flags.  He goes to extra groups at school to help him understand his emotions and deal with his anger, everything annoys him!  If kids came with a ‘return to sender’ sticker there have been plenty of times I would have been digging it out of the junk draw while dodging whatever shit he can find to throw at me.  he is what is referred to as “high maintenance” or “a little sod” in our house.

I have never cried over any man as much as I have cried over Thomas, or even cried with Thomas,  it makes me so sad that i could have caused his inability to deal with emotions, his frustrations and ultimately his anger.

Should I have put up with his shitbag father?  should i be stricter?  Did my completely inadequate vajayjay which was obviously far too small for even a tiny human (a blessing and a curse!)  damage his beautiful brain?

The truth is I don’t know the answer to Thomas, I just don’t know.  

I can tell you what I do know though, the beautiful boy that runs and hugs me everyday after school, the one who looks just like the milky bar kid, with a massive smile and two missing teeth.  The boy who wraps himself around me like no matter how tight he hugs me it will never be close enough.  The boy who makes fart noises just so his brother will stop screaming and i can breathe just for thirty seconds that’s my Thomas.

The boy who asks a million questions a day because he is so curious about the world around him, the boy who befriends the lonely kids at school because he doesn’t care how fast they can run or how good they are at spelling and the boy who has a beautiful soul.  That is my Thomas.

Some people judge my parenting, come up with a million supernanny style tricks to “sort him out” to “make him behave” or tell me i am too strict and should loosen up but despite my complete mental exhaustion most days, i love that he wants to know how things work, i love that he is kind and i love that he has a wild heart.  This boy doesn’t need mentally beating into submission this boy just needs to be able to run free and express himself, he just hasn’t figured out how yet.

I don’t know what the perfect parent is, I know that I am definitely not it, but I’ll just keep going on, one tantrum to the next and look forward to the day I can hit my children with the

“I’m not angry, I’m disappointed”

line and see how they like it when someone gives them a verbal sucker punch to the balls just because they feel like it.

To all you judgey “It’s the parents fault…” feckers until you have been me, know my child or have the slightest clue what you are talking about, go fuck yourselves.

Thomas you are my everything and I love you more than life itself but sometimes you are just an arsehole.

Love mum.


Who are we kidding? 

Well here it is, that foggy area somewhere between Christmas and new year when we all start to think “this time next year…” 

If your anything like me the majority of the time these thoughts remain in the 

“oh shit! I forgot and ate cake” 

box in the back of your mind, until the next year,  when stuffed full of said cake and wine you start to fantasize of a world where your skinny jeans don’t fill a radiator all by themselves when you put them out too dry!

Why do we do it? It’s just another day!

We do it because there is something refreshing about a new year, some hope in the general shittyness of day-to-day life. We want to change; we want to be better parents, better lovers and become better people.

The problem I have with the above is that 

I wonder who I want to be ‘better’ for

Is it myself?  Is it my children?  Is it the affectionately labelled ‘Dream teams’ I try so desperately to fit in with and fail every time because the fakeness makes me cringe and puke a bit in my mouth!

I have a serious children’s clothes obsession and the instagram community is the first place I feel like I fit in, because to most what your toddler wears is irrelevant but for me it’s somthing I love. I love to plan what I will dress Henry in, what to pair with what and seriously as sad as it sounds I have spent my past year trying out every possible instashop I have come across, making my one and a half year old look shit hot (he does always look amazing thanks to my credit card and a shit load of overtime) and on reflection subconsciously thinking maybe that would make me liked in some ‘cool by association’ kind of way.  Pretty bad times when your hopes of acceptance are balancing on your toddlers very unsteady but stylish shoulders!  

I have attended groups and outings that have made me feel uncomfortable at best and like a complete dick at worst!  I have reached out to people in a feeble attempt to make friends,  I have tried to help when I could and I offer reassurance to a struggling mum,  without even trying I mean after all no matter how awful their child is being that day, my feral little beasts are seriously on a whole new level, a fact that is usually backed up by big beastie smashing my friends show-home style mirror with a football and then doing a celebratory knee slide across the beautiful clean rug.  Little beastie is obviously trying to shove a piece of Lego up the cats arse at this point, or eating a live snail (both of these things have happened, I swear the kids really are feral!).  Needless to say we rarely get invited back anywhere or get return visitors, BUT, the other mama sleeps well knowing that however fucked up her day has been she probably wont have to remove small bricks from up an even smaller shit filled hole!

I’ve tried to fit in I really have, I nod and agree and when my opinion slips out like word vomit I quickly clean up the mess and suck on a “be nice” mint. The truth of the matter is this.   I don’t agree with exclusion based on anything, race, gender, what shoes you wear or who’s ass you can kiss the most and I certainly don’t agree on anyone having to suppress an opinion to impress anyone, and this, weirdly,  really pisses people off!  Us Brits seem to hate nothing more than confrontation, so much so that even if we think someone is chatting complete shit we nod and agree and say things like “yes, I know what you mean” and “Your right, I was just thinking the same thing” my ultimate peeve being “Everyone is entitled to an opinion” which basically means that everyone else is entitled to an opinion apart from me because I am trying to be nice so I won’t bore you with what I really think.

The conclusion to this introduction is this… 2016 can kiss my giant arse! Its been rough, Financially, emotionally and my sanity has taken a beating big style!  I’m not promising too loose fifteen stone in 2017, become a sex goddess or even introduce my fanny to my razor if I’m completely honest, but I can learn to appreciate what I have more, I have a bestie who I don’t see enough but I know would be there when i need her and I can keep the promise to myself that I will write this blog, for myself and for my children.
I don’t want my boys growing up to think that holding back is best because you don’t want to offend people, I want them to be proud of their beautiful wild little minds. I want them to flip the bird at anyone who wants to dull their thoughts and creativity. This year this will be my outlet, not for personally attacking anyone but for venting, for feeling and for showing my boys that there is a way to express yourself and be accepted.  Just for being you.
And who knows maybe my glass is half full after all x