The calm before the (shit) storm; A disclaimer.

I am not a writer, I don’t have a degree, in fact, I barely have an above average GCSE in the English Language. There are no sprawling book cases full of novelists and profound poets in my home and honestly, I struggle to find a simple working biro in my house even though I often accidently take hundreds home from work every week.

Yet, here I am, on a Friday night on my sofa thinking I’m a Pultzier Prize winner all because I’ve had two vodkas and downloaded a blogging app. (Free, obviously). And you know what? I don’t care. I don’t care if no body reads my story, I don’t care if everyone reads it and tells me it’s a good job I’m pretty and I need to stick to my day job.

‘What day job?!?’ you didn’t  ask,

What day job indeed!!? Is it the job I do at a corporate desk four days a week, replacing ‘this is a massive inconvience’ with ‘okay leave it with me, no, it’s no bother at all, Absolutely fine’ , or is it the day job that isn’t actually a day job. It’s a 24 hour, 7 days a week, unpaid, under appreciated manual labour position with no Union, no benefits and no sick days.

You know that job, hell, most of you work that very same job,  just with a different boss to answer too. The Slave-driving, two foot tall, nappy wearing, sippy cup drinking, veg hating, anger-biting boss. The career role none of us where ever ready for, Motherhood.

I know the Internet is littered with parenting blogs, the mothers who post all organic (read: tasteless and awful) meals for their special little snowflakes, The working mothers who relay tips on how to work a 70 hour week, turn up to every sports day, choir practise and Saturday morning football match and advise you how to confidently manage your mental breakdown with the right combo of prescription meds . Or the craft moms who honestly believe that little poster-paint toddler shaped fingerprints on your bespoke coffee table (that you BROUGHT AND PAID SEVERAL INSTALLMENTS ON BEFORE HAVING A CHILD)add a bit of a uniqueness to the living room, . I’ve seen them all and I’ve searched them all looking for answers to the questions ‘am I awful if I think my child is being an arsehole?’ ‘what the fuck is Peppa Pigs deal?’ And ‘ do you think the midwife could move in with me for a couple of years?’ Alas, I find no definite answers, no parenting oracle that makes the journey a breeze. As far as I can tell, it’s a free-for-all, blind leading the blind midnight rave. Except instead of downing beer and popping pills the only thing on to offer is breastmilk and indigestion tablets.

So yes, I am a worker and a momma, and although I want to say I’m looking for love. I think more often than not I’m looking for someone to split the house chores with and let me borrow their hoodies.

When you are thj

Have you ever tried to simultaneously tried to swipe right on tinder with your one hand and stop your two year old eating the dog biscuits with the other? Have you ever tried to make sexy eyes with a handsome man at the supermarket only to realise you are in the section marked for women with weak bladders? Do you ever curse yourself for not listening to the health visitor when she mentioned kegal exercises and now you can’t trust a sneeze or a cough and God forbid the day you catch a full blown cold. Which btw you will, along with every other illness and ailment your toddler will bring home from nursery (read cess-pool). Do you ever worry that you’re going to have to marry a man who doesn’t make you laugh because at least then he won’t make you piss your pants on the mother in laws best sofa? Did you ever imagine you’d get pink eye at 26? Did you ever imagine that you’d get it because your toddler son can only fall asleep by playing with your eyebrows after a day of mixing with other crusty-eyed kids. And of course you let him stroke your eyebrows, because personal boundaries are nothing but a distant memory. Do you lie awake at night planning the conversation you’ll have with your future husband that you aren’t actually surprised all the time it’s only that that your child pulled out all your eyebrows and this is just how you look now? Do you ever get mad at fictional-husband for even questioning your looks? Don’t you deserve better?

So this is my blog, my own personal world salad, and a way to document how I handle dating and motherhood, this will never be a blog about how single mums ‘can have it all’, it will never be an advice column or gospel for the parents who lose their shit daily. I will under no circumstances post a recipe for a healthy home made child friendly meal because my culinary skills strech to chicken nuggets or being in charge of bringing the ice to a party. Truthfully? Whatever I do in a situation you should definitely do the complete opposite.  I’ve always been more of a tornado than a cool breeze, a functioning chaos or at the very least, a complete twat whose managed to wing it for 26 years.

Ta-ta for now.

 

A letter to my Son.

Dear Bump,

 

Firstly, apologies about the ‘bump’, this is what we’ve been calling you since we haven’t met you yet, we don’t know what name suits you yet, (I hope you don’t look like a Norris or a Barry.)

I’m your mum, the woman that will love you better than any girlfriend you ever have, the woman that feeds you, and when you’re a teenager, embarrasses you, BEYOND BELIEF. Don’t worry, you’ll grow out of that and soon realise I’m just hilarious.

I’m writing this when me and your dad still have 15 weeks until you’re born, you’re making me fat, and the heartburn is horrendous! but I love you, I love you already. I know that when you are older, you’ll believe you are your own person, like I did with my parents. Let me tell you now, YOU’RE NOT. You are mine, a piece of me. The most special, amazing thing I have ever done in my life. So, don’t smoke, no dangerous sports, forget about getting a motorcycle and NO TATTOOS. Infact, be grateful I let you out at all, because to me, you are the best and most beautiful thing on this earth and I don’t trust the world to know that.

There are a few things you should know, before having you, I was a teenager (a teenager girl, they’re even worse!). I was also a 20-something with nothing to be responsible for and no one to answer too. Whatever rebellious thing you’re doing, or thinking of doing, me and your dad have done it. And gotten away with it! You won’t be so lucky. I know every trick in the book and what a hangover looks and feels like on a 15 year old. So, if you’re going to drink, please at least be in a house and not a park, and please, be a fun drunk, no one likes to be a liability. If I ever have to come get your drunk ass from a park cause you’re face first in a bush. I will make you sit with me whilst I crack open a vodka and get blind drunk. I guarantee I can do it better and you’ll realize what an idiot you look like.

I hate to break it to you, but school arent the best days of your life, they are awkward, and puberty is embarassing, I will be sitting down and having a talk with you about the birds and the bees, and girls, (or boys! – I’m liberal) and it’ll be awkward for both of us. I’m hoping it’ll be so awkward you don’t go near a girl until your late 20s, when I’m aging and want grandkids. NOT BEFORE. (This is also the reason I make you introduce me to every girl your friends with and why you CANT have a lock on your bedroom door.).

 

Follow your heart in life, I never got the chance too, but I’m hoping that I can give you the opportunities to do whatever you like in life, I never went to university, but I did work damn hard in my exams, I only ask that you do the same. If, after they are over, you decide you want to work as a baker in Greggs, or a Teacher, or go into a trade, you go for it. But, at least have something to fall back on. If you take after me you’ll be the most indecisive person in the world and have many careers because you can’t decide what you want to do. And thats okay! As long as you have qualifications to allow you to try these jobs out. (And no, ‘Superhero’ is not a real job – Sorry.).

I wanted to be a cool mum, that liked your music, got on with your friends and went with you to get a piercing, but I know I won’t be, I won’t understand your slang words and I’ll think your music is just noise. My dancing will be embarassing and I know you’ll think I won’t understand anything you’re going through ever. But I will, and I do, and I’m not apologizing for my dancing. At one point, that dancing is what caught your fathers eye!

 

I hope I’ve taught you the value of family, and most of all, I hope you’ve learnt from me and your dad, to take life less seriously! If you’re not laughing you’re not living! and remember, you are loved. So so so loved. You didn’t know it, but you gave me a reason to live again, and I will always be forever grateful to you for that. (Disclaimer: I’m still the boss, do as I say.)

Love… Mum, I guess!