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. 

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 the 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. Confinding in no one until recent months when I told Hubs 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 washing 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, the 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.  Common as sense
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 C-section. After all, they inserted an ibuprofen suppository into my bum hole without my knowledge! It’s the truth.

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….

A week of surprises. 

This has been one week of surprises. Not huge ones, to some. And no I’m not about to make THAT announcement either (rolls eyes). No….. I’m talking about the little surprises. The ones that leave you in amazement. 
This week I have been in awe of the fabulously clever, albeit mischievous little guy my George is becoming. Let’s start with the wonderfulness that Monday brought after my sister gave birth to a beautiful new niece. Having not found out the baby’s sex during her pregnancy, we were delightfully surprised with the news she had had another little girl. Showing George the gorgeous pictures we received of the new addition, I cunningly asked him, who he thought it was. To which his answer was “baby”. I said its your new cousin. His answer was “pretty baby”. That instantly went into the mental memory box of ‘this moment just made my heart melt’. Such a simple statement, made so much more beautiful by the realisation that my son was growing into a very polite and complimenting little dude. 

Tuesday brought with it a trip to the local gymnastics club where it was marvellous to watch George interacting with the other toddlers with a smile. An impromptu giggling peekaboo session with one of his pals was so much fun to see. And such a surprise as he usually wanders around in his own little world, scowling at any child that attempts to interact with him. 
Wednesday George went with Daddy for a big boys haircut at the barbers, as opposed to Mummy’s hairdressers. It filled me with dread as I anxiously anticipated him returning with a stubbly head. I wasn’t ready to part ways with his beautiful baby locks that I regularly brushed and ran my fingers through. Daddy, having been well prepped by myself, was very kind to my anxieties and made sure his beautiful locks were honoured and retained. As I visited my new niece, I received a picture of George fresh out of the barbers sporting his new razored crop. Still enough hair on top for me to indulge myself in but a lot tidier and shorter which felt essential for such a sweaty little boy. 


Thursday and Friday were fun filled days full of activities with friends but lacking in surprises. On Saturday we visited our nephew for birthday celebrations. George having always been very dubious and pretty much against bouncy castles and slides, was suddenly presented with the two combined. After some short observation and gentle coaxing, he was soon running around inside, screaming and giggling with the other children. He then got hugely excited to be given full permission to climb up the bouncy slide from the bottom. Having achieved this rather effortlessly, he then turned around and slid down it. Without protest or tears. This turned into a game which led to him coming down the slide in various positions including head first. “So what!”I hear you tut. But having been opposed to this notion of play for the past 20 months, it was a huge achievement for our little boy and a lovely surprise for us. 


And finally. We rounded off the week with a visit to the local canal, returning home in time to see Andy Murray become Wimbledon champion 2016. Unbeknownst to me, George had been enjoying watching the tennis the day before with his daddy and had learnt to say “tennis” and “racket”. Tuning into the final, my hubbie asked George what it was we were watching, just as the player was making a serve. “Service” was George’s reply! Stunned, I asked hubbie if he had taught him this, to which I was informed he hadn’t. A huge coincidence I’m sure, and I’m aware he picks up on a lot more than we are aware of, so there is every chance he had heard it said by the commentators and we had missed it. Nonetheless it was a happy surprise to round off the week. 

Parenthood can bring with it some unpleasant surprises, leaky nappies, finding your son splashing in someone’s else’s wee in a public potty, catching him picking his dropped raisins up off the public loo floor and going to eat them. But when you are watching your child develop, learn and grown, there’s a certain wonderment that can only be described as the best present you have ever received. 
Until next time……

A step into the unknown

I’ve always been a lover of surprises, good ones that is. But with surprises comes the  unknown and that’s something I can’t handle. A stickler for lists and organising,  I love to know what’s coming next and to be able to plan and prepare for things. I often take on more than I can handle however, and I usually end up struggling and having a last minute scramble to get everything completed, calling on others for assistance. Coupled with this I would describe myself as pretty spoilt at times. As laid back as I am, I’m pretty used to getting my own way or at least a compromised version of what I originally wanted. This all amounts to me requiring a certain degree of control, which completely contradicts the side of my personality which craves surprises. You still with me? I know rambling is a speciality I inherited from my father. 

So bearing this all in mind it is no wonder that I struggle with the structure of life. As predictable as it can be, consequences of our actions blah blah blah, no one really knows what is coming next from day to day or even minute by minute. And when it’s all over, there’s still no certainty about what happens next. Well at least not in my belief system there isn’t. I very often wish that someone had handed me a book when I was born, telling me the story of my life so I could flick to whatever chapter I was feeling inquisitive about and satisfy my curiosity. At the same time, I think this is something that would be wholly dangerous. I mean if chapter 14 told you that you life was to end at a certain age, would this lead you to live your life differently? More recklessly? In which case thereby potentially ending your life sooner. Or is our fate determined regardless of our actions? All very deep and some people may say I need religion to answer my questions but let me tell you that I am so good at picking things to pieces that religion is the last thing I need to get involved in. 

I have no idea if I am the only one that thinks this way or if in fact these are regular thoughts that cross all of our minds. As if pondering this never ending list of questions for my own life wasn’t enough, I now do it for son! Observing his ever changing character and the way he behaves leads me to wonder what kind of a person he will grow to be. Will he be kind, thoughtful, a pushover even, strong willed, mean, disrespectful? I believe that children to a degree are a product of what you put into them. There are many traits in George that I can see we have instilled in him these first 19 months of his life. Then there are the traits that I have no idea where he gained them from. The traits that I believe are his own natual personality and therefore traits that will determine his destiny regardless of what I do. 

As we sit watching television programs, I have always insisted, even when George appeared too young to be taking it in, that we are careful what we watch. I didn’t want him being subjected to the latest gangster film just in case in years to come he suddenly becomes the next Essex hard man. And of course it will all be my fault 😜 

Until next time……..

Life, it’s a risky ole business

So here we are on the eve of the big EU referendum. Many of us still on the fence, confused, baffled by “facts” that all contradict one another. “Facts” that are given to us by people that all appear to have their own agendas. Well here is my take on it all. A simple view. But one I hope will be gratefully received. 

When I moved out of my mums for the first ever time, myself and rob decided we would move an hour down the road. People thought we were mad. Moving to the sticks they said. It felt like a risk. But it was the best thing we ever done and many have since followed us for the quieter less chaotic life. A few months after said move, the commute was becoming a drag so I decided to resign my job in general hospital for mental health. “You’re crazy” many told me, “you’re backing you’re self into a corner” they told me. Eight years I spent working in mental health. Working my way up the banding a lot quicker than I would have in general. Increasing my earnings and allowing me to attend training weekends and to travel to a conference where I gave a talk on my role and how we used the company’s computer system to achieve my daily tasks. It felt like a big risk at the time, but it was the best thing I ever did for my career. After those eight years, my husband and I had a baby. A baby that was being introduced to our perfect 16 year relationship. It was going to change the dynamics of our relationship and potentially seriously rock the boat and who knew if it would be for the better where our relationship was concerned. I was dubious but at the same time it was what we both wanted. It was a risk I felt  but 19 months in and we are both so in awe of him. And still so in love with each other and approaching 18 years together. After returning from maternity leave and due to some health difficulties that were affecting my ability to do my job 100%, I made the decision to resign my post and become a stay at home mum. Not only this but my husband had just been made redundant and was starting out as self employed. It was a huge risk. It caused much angst with the deliberation of was it the right thing to do. 7 months down the line and the bills are still being paid, I’m not “bored” like “they” suggested I would be, and our son is thriving. 

Life is a risk. But without risks we wouldn’t have achieved anything in this world. 
I don’t trust politics. I don’t understand it. And overall I don’t have the time to waste on it. I’ve read many arguments online from your average joe debating in or out. And I’ve come to the conclusion that I want a change. A change has always worked for me when I’ve fancied one. Yes it’s always been a risk, but in the end it has worked out for the better. And so there you have my take on the EU referendum. 

Remember to turn up at the polls to make your vote count. 

Until next time…..

Common as sense

I’m pretty common, I lack sense, I’m as common as sense of course.

If becoming a mum has done anything for me it’s certainly improved my common sense. This may be because before I make any mumsy decisions I tend to “research the crap” out of them first. And as for any non mumsy decisions, well they are few and far between now I’m a mum.

So maybe it would be fun for me to enlighten you to my ditsy past. I’m not one of those girls that acts stupid because she thinks it makes her look cute. I’ll be the first to tell you how intelligent I actually am. Alls that I’m lacking is some common sense. “Don’t be silly!” people say, “you have lots of common sense”. Oh really! Let’s see what you think in a few minutes then shall we.

common as sense

  •  I was easily 25 and over and had been driving around 4 years when I discovered, rather amazingly, that miles per hour (or mph) actually means how many miles you will do in an hour at that speed! I mean I still can’t comprehend it now. It actually means something. It’s not just a measurement for measurements sake. It can be used to calculate how long it will take to get somewhere depending on what speed you drive! Now having discovered this marvellous piece of knowledge, I rushed to share it will those around me, and you won’t be surprised to know that this wasn’t only a revelation to myself. So perhaps I am forgiven in the common sense stakes here.

common as sense

  • Before I had George I used to work in pharmacy. During our training years and college days, myself and my two, now very good friends for life, were released from college early one day. Realising this meant returning to work, we quickly talked ourselves out of it. By the time we travelled the hour home to change into suitable work attire, had lunch, travelled to work? It would be home time. No, let’s come up with a full proof story on what we want work to think happened. So we decided we needed to have a lunch break by which point we actually wouldn’t make it to work until after closing. So we all agreed that we would tell everyone we got released at said time and went to have lunch. My friend suggested we say we went to “Greggs” for a sandwich and then headed for home.

“But I had a sausage roll” I piped up.  

“What?!” My friends replied, still in the early days of us all get acquainted with each other.

“Yeah”, I continued “I’ll say I had a sausage roll, coz there’s no way I would go to Greggs and not have a sausage roll, it’s got to be believable!”. Chuckling as I type this. I honestly can’t lie so to me I had to imagine it as if it were the truth. Absolutely bewildered, my friends could not get their heads around my declaration and to this day they have referred to me as “Trig”.

  •  My new nickname soon got round at work, and I was soon being pranked with requests to remove labels from boxes, as I attempted to I eventually learned they were printed on. It was good fun though and as soon as I realised my own lack of common sense, I often found it as funny as everyone else. My husband also takes great pleasure when we are out in saying to me “drink up Trig, we’re leaving!”

  •  Now the piece de resistance as I like to think, although the tales are a plenty, happened in my early twenties when I was living at home with mum and my number two dad. I had a landline phone in my bedroom at the time. It hung nicely on a nail in the wall, until one day it didn’t. I hated to leave things looking unfinished. It just added to the mental to do list that I carried around in my head. Master of improvisation that I am, and lacking the motivation to go downstairs and get the hammer, I grabbed the most solid and sturdy thing to hand, my deodorant can.

Yes that’s right, for the more savvy readers amongst you, I had just picked up a pressurised aerosol can with the intention of using it to hammer a nail into the wall!

A few seconds later and there was a strange hissing sound. It took me a few moments but I soon realised that the hissing was coming from the, now pierced, aerosol can. In a complete panic with the impression that this was now going to explode in my hand, I ran down the stairs screaming at my mum. Her response to my hysteria was to tell me to “throw it out the front door”. Flinging it out the front door, I watched as it rolled under mums car. Doh! Mum assured me it was fine and before you knew it the panic subsided and the drama was over. That wasn’t before I realised that the fingers on the hand that I had been holding the can in, were now frozen together from the pressurised air that had been released from the can. Ten minutes with my hand in a sink full of warm water and no harm was done and I had learnt a very valuable lesson.


Of course there are many, many, many more tales I could share, but this is a blog, not a book so I shall have to leave it there for the time being.

Until next time……

Life through the overactive imagination of one ordinary lady turned mama.