31, frown lines and saggy Bristols.

April 8, 2019 — 2 Comments

Thirty one. 31. Thirty-one.

Thirty-fucking-one.

That’s how old I am now. I didn’t expect to get to this ripe old age and be unemployed, overweight and cleaning up toddler piss on the reg, but there was also a time, during the dark days, I wasn’t even sure I’d make it to thirty one at all.

On my twenty first birthday I was in Portugal smoking 30 fags a day, arguing with an ex boyfriend about my top being too low cut. I was a size 8 (yes really) with FF boobs. Mate, I couldn’t wear anything that didn’t look low cut.

Now I’m a HH boob and a ‘too big for the tape measure’ waist’ so when I wear low cut tops now I just look fat and slutty, instead of the sexy and slutty I once was. Oh well. Those size 8 days never did gain me the kind of attention I needed.

Back then, I didn’t have to worry about gunts and cellulite, just depression and anxiety, along with a side of one too many hangovers, to ramp it up a bit. The last 10 years have been rough on my body, I’ve developed an illness, I’ve carried a child that damn nearly killed me, and I’ve been reliant on medication that makes you fat. So here I am, overweight, gunts galore, frown lines for dayssss and a tits that hit my belly button without a bra.

Whilst I’m here complaining about the inevitable ageing process I’ve missed out all the other bits that have led me to being here today, writing this here blog.

A relationship breakdown, another one we don’t mention because it was so royally fucked up and soul destroying that even to this day it angers me to be reminded of it, a couple of arrests, a suicide attempt, a few jobs, a fluctuating number on the scales…. and then came the turning point that was meeting my Shaun. (Queue corny insert) When I met Shaun I’d kind of sorted myself out, but only because rock bottom was higher than where I’d been. There was still an anger inside me though, it’s always been there, bubbling away, ready to turn into molten lava the minute someone barges me in the post office queue. If we’re being totally honest, it’s still there, but don’t worry, I’ve learned (most of the time) to keep it under wraps.

Shaun took me on a journey I hadn’t been on before, one that was kind, without the need for ferocious insecurities and full blown barneys down the local on a Friday night. I was feeling positive and ready to be better.

My step on the career ladder was under footing and life was good.

Then came Ciara, and for a while the insecurities were back with a vengeance! So forceful were they, I didn’t know how to control them, so I went into counselling, I took anti depressants and papered over the cracks, because as mum’s that’s what we do right?

It was only last year when nearly losing my own mum, life taught me lessons I didn’t know I needed to learn. One of them that really sticks in my mind is ‘life’s too short‘ cliché huh? That’s as maybe but to me it’s never been clearer. I needed to get happy and feel it! I mean really feel it!

So that’s what I did! Sure not everything was a choice, some of the decisions I’ve made in the last 6 months have been forced upon me, but how I react to those unwanted scenarios has changed. I’m finding the best bits and holding onto them. I’ve relieved myself of toxicity and I’m surrounding myself with genuine people, I’m doing things I enjoy, like writing more and learning new things, I’m parenting better and I’m genuinely happier than I’ve been in years. So whilst I’m a bit on the chubby side, the frown lines are legion, Bristol’s are sagging, I’m making small steps to a better life and instead of just sitting back and wishing, I’m trying hard to put all these feelings I’m full up with, to positive use. Yes I’m still a bit psycho, especially this week as I’m hormonal and pretty sure fibro is rearing its ugliness, but most of the time I’m levelled up. I’m almost medication free, I’m actively looking for work that fits around us as a family regardless of salary, and I’m trying to find ways everyday to be better. I can lose the weight (I hope) but I can’t lose sight of what’s important and that’s every single day, each morning I wake up to a beautiful (if a little moody sometimes) Ciara, and a lukewarm cuppa from Shaun.

I know it’s corny as, but I feel so lucky. Thirty one maybe my age, but I feel like my life’s only just getting started.

Living my best life with fibromyalgia.

March 10, 2019 — Leave a comment

Cough, I know you’re thinking Jesus, Steph has finally decided to get out of her funk and help herself.

Not really, I don’t know, maybe I’ve just been lucky. Since I left my job my health has improved tenfold. I believe this to be because I have more time to rest when I need to, but it could be due to a lot of factors, or it could just be good old coincidence.

Mentally, I am stronger than I have been for some time. I’m off of antidepressants for the first time in years, and I’m not feeling constant impending doom. This is a really big deal for me, and I’m feeling positive about the next chapter.

But it’s not all cupcakes and rainbows (yes that was a Trolls quote) Pain has got a lot to do with mood, low mood can exacerbate pain. Especially when suffering with a condition that effects your central nervous system, as that’s when it’s on high alert. Psychological pain can bring on physiological symptoms. I’m not a doctor, but I have spent a lot of time researching my condition. I’m not going to sit here and spout that positivity cures illnesses as that’s untrue and offensive, but when you feel happy it makes pain more manageable. That much I do know.

Today I woke up earlier than usual due to Ciara’s new found love for 6am. I felt terrible, my body was heavy and I can feel pain deep inside each joint. This is not imaginary, this is real pain, and I’ve had to take some heavy duty painkillers to combat it today. Despite being in very real pain today, I feel good. Good, because I’ve had a decent run of late, without this kind of debilitating pain. I’ve had pain, but the kind of pain I’m in today, is what reminds me I have a disability. In short, it sucks.

However moving on to the positive bits again. I’ve been doing little things that make me feel better. Small things like, having a tidy living space, getting enough sleep (when I can and Shaun’s snoring allows) but generally doing things that make me feel good. Avoiding toxic people, not analysing every little thing, not comparing myself to everyone, and trying to accept my pain without beating myself up. All these little things help. They aren’t a cure but they do make a difference. I went through such a battle with myself to accept this illness without it breaking me. To allow myself time since my formal diagnosis to grieve for the old me. I’ve spent two years grieving, and I still suffer! I won’t play it down, but I’m in a place now where I can accept it without it breaking me. I can move forward and still live a good life. I can have bad days but they aren’t all bad. Some of them are fucking brilliant!! You too can have good days again. It’s not going to be easy, but even without an illness or disability life isn’t easy.

But I have all my faith in you. You can do this, you can live your best life too. 💕

Snoring is ruining my life

February 17, 2019 — Leave a comment

It’s 2am and the drilling has started. You wake with a start and want to wake your fiancé up to tell him he’s going to have to go next door and talk to them about the noise! And that’s when you realise, it’s not the neighbours drilling again at all, it’s coming from him, he’s snoring.

So you punch him in the shoulder, probably harder than intended but you know, snoring! He then wakes with a start of his own, moans and rolls over. For all of 30 seconds it’s quiet again. 30 seconds isn’t very long. Repeat above steps until you can cope no more, so you go downstairs and join the cat on the sofa instead.

What am I complaining about? For the love of God woman, everyone snores sometimes! Yes, that’s true, but this isn’t sometimes, darling, this is Every. Single. Night!

For us, snoring has come close a number of times, to destroying our relationship. I have a chronic illness and sleep is crucial for my body to repair nightly and reduce symptoms. I cant function on less than 8 hours. Minimum. Gone are the days I can stay out until 4am and get up at 9. No, I NEED sleep. I have a child, I can’t afford to be faced with the daily fatigue that follows around Fibromyalgia sufferers after a sleepless night.

So what can I do about it you ask? Well, I do a lot of punching, and a lot of sofa sleeping. We don’t have the luxury of a third bedroom in our house, so fortunately or unfortunately, we don’t have the option not to share a room. I know, that sounds an extremity, but I know a lot of couples that have their own bedrooms based on the fact that one of them incessantly snores. In my Fiancé’s defence, he’s been to see his GP about our little but loud problem. More than once, and do you know their advice? To go on a website and read the tips. Like we haven’t read every fucking tip there is to read about snoring, online already!! Sure, thanks Doc, why didn’t I think of that? He’s already tried, nasal strips, throat spray, throat foam, even a fucking chin strap to keep his mouth closed, didn’t work. The only thing that sometimes allows me sleep is if I go to bed an hour before him and get to sleep before him, so that when he starts, I’m already asleep. Sometimes it works and sometimes he STILL wakes me up. Not to mention the fact going to bed an hour before him makes our sex life impractical and irregular, but also you lose a closeness between you. You lose the cuddle that comes before you roll over to sleep. You lose the leg over that cocoons you during the night, and although annoying makes you feel safe.

It sounds like a real first world problem, and is I guess, but it’s one that really does test our relationship. I wake up some days so resentful that his snoring has kept me from the sleep my body so desperately demands that I don’t want to talk to him. Other days he wakes up resentful that I’ve banished him to the sofa for something that’s not his fault. Out of his control. To be honest I can still hear him from the sofa, but it’s a welcome dulled down version when he’s not sharing a bed with me. I don’t know what the answer is, maybe surgery? But sleep therapy isn’t well funded by the nhs and it’s another expense we can’t afford to invest in at the moment. What’s the cost to our relationship if we don’t though? I know it’s not his fault but it makes no odds to the despair I feel nightly. Buy a bigger house? Wear ear plugs? (Tried them, can’t hear toddler in the night then though) put a pillow over his face? Maybe! The irony is apparently that I also snore pretty loudly, but I don’t keep him awake so if we’re competing then he’s still in the lead for the loudest and most annoying!

It’s something I don’t think I’ll ever be able to live with, but I also don’t think I’ll ever be able to live without him. So here I am preparing for another shit nights sleep, and getting the pre bedtime cuddle in, just in case I have to abort the master bedroom before sleep hits, again!

My experience so far as a SAHM

February 13, 2019 — Leave a comment

Really, another mother fuck load of washing? Really? What did we do when I was at work, wear dirty clothes? Looks like we did, because I sure as shit didn’t do this much washing on the 9-5!!

Oh look a sea of crumbs, but I have literally just fucking hoovered damn it. Knock knock, it’s my neighbour at the door, telling me they are about to do some renovation works, should only last three weeks though. So whilst I’m trying to write a fucking book, I can be sure to concentrate at the sound of hammering and drilling, throw in a whiney toddler and we’re away.

Wow those tiles are grubby, no worries I’ll watch a Mrs Hinch video, then get on with it. Oh is that the time? Time to go and pick the little lady up from preschool, better get something for tea on the way home too, oh shit and I need to post that parcel, it’s that dress I paid over the odds for but am selling on eBay for $3, because, well I need a clear out, better than it going to waste….. Get home, cook tea whilst intermittently shouting at toddler, or rather getting shouted at, for not meeting her unreasonable demands. You know, like she wanted a blue cup instead of a pink one!

Fiancé walks in, serve up tea, eat tea, clear up tea, bath toddler, put toddler to bed, and COLLAPSE.

My point is, I used to look at mums that stayed at home and think they had it easy. They don’t. I used to look at their life and imagine Jeremy Kyle on repeat. I used to think they sat around, smoking fags waiting to pick their kids up. Why was I such a judgemental asshole? How did I judge people I knew nothing about? The people that are the adhesive holding their families together. Running around, cooking, cleaning, walking the dog, doing every single errand asked of them, because of course if they didn’t it would look like they really did have too much time on their hands. God forbid they sit down and actually drink a hot coffee. And when they do, on queue comes the question, what have you been doing all day?

Now let us not take away from working mums. They sure as shit have their work cut out too, and this is by NO means whatsoever, trying to belittle what those Boss Mama’s have going on. I just wanted to shout out a little to the ones that stay at home, and basically back track my earlier thoughts of them. I couldn’t of been more wrong!!!

For me, giving up my job was supposed to be a new start on the road to my writing career taking off, whilst giving me time to manage my illness and save on childcare. Of course it has it’s pro’s, I get to spend days with Ciara, and on the days I’m not with her I get to pick her up and hear all about her day first hand. I also get to make sure there aren’t any whites hidden in with the dark wash. It’s like anything, of course, pros and cons. Loads of pros, equally as many cons, but anything a mum does is HARD!! A mum’s job is a hard one. Whether you spend every waking moment with your babies, go to work all day, or sit in your pj’s watching Jeremy Kyle. When you’re doing what’s best for you, you’re doing what’s best for your kids. A happy mum is a happy kid.

Time To Talk

February 6, 2019 — Leave a comment

Every year on Time To Talk Day, I write a post about mental health. Every year it gets lots of likes, and people reach out with their own stories. But year after year, mental health post, after mental health post, people still shy away from talking about mental health, or more often people shy away from listening to people talk about their mental health!

I still get ridiculed for posting about my mental health. I still get judged for being ‘mental’ or ‘dramatic’ or an ‘oversharer’ (self confessed by the way, no fucks)

Why is it that we still can’t accept people speaking out?

Obviously it must surely mean they’re attention seeking if they post how upset they are on Facebook or instagram right?

They only post for the likes. They’re not depressed, they bring it on themselves, blah blah blah, yada, yada, yada!

Year after year, people are still committing suicide because they were too afraid to speak out about their mental health problems, or they did try and speak out and were shunned or called one of the names of mentioned, or worse.

Social media is great for spreading awareness, but what about real people who reach out and are made to feel stupid, or are judged? Those people are where we should be directing our listening resources. You can repost anxiety references or share mental health charities all over your page, but if you’re ignoring your depressed or anxious friend when she puts up yet another cry for help, you could be missing the opportunity to support someone in need. Donating £5 is fab, but did you text your sister back after she poured her heart out because her boyfriend is a bastard. Or your friend who’s recently postnatal and desperate for 5 minute to have the shower she’s avoided for 4 days. Or your friend who cancels every 5 minutes because her anxiety prevents her from leaving the house? Or the one you rescheduled 5 times because you didn’t want to listen to them go on about their problems?

Of course some people will post for attention, it would be ridiculous to assume otherwise, we all post on social media to ‘share’ and for the ‘likes.’

So what though, if she’s posted something that’s a bit cringe, she’s your mate and she’s asking you to listen.

She’s reaching out.

Nobody expects you to sacrifice your own mental health to save someone else’s, and triggers are very real, but sometimes all it takes is a text to say you’re thinking of that friend in need. Don’t just scroll on by or avoid answering. It could change someone’s whole day and sometimes even their life. Make Time to Talk day a reminder to make not only Time to Talk, but Time to Listen. ❤️

Stop saying sorry.

February 3, 2019

Given that this blog is for the most part, sweary rants about life as a mum, as well as being about a fiancé whose snoring makes me consider our future, and whether I can fit a bed for him in the shed, you’ll probably find it hard to believe that I spend a lot of my time apologising. But the fact remains, I do.

To my daughter:

Sorry for shouting earlier darling, Mummy is very stressed today.

Sorry you ate fish fingers for tea 4 days straight because I couldn’t deal with the fall out of offering you something else.

Sorry I give you the iPad to shut you up sometimes.

To my fiancé:

Sorry I don’t have a job and therefore am not bringing much by way of fruition to the table babe.

Sorry my anxiety means sometimes I’m irrational and worry too much.

Sorry I have a chronic illness and it affects 99% of the plans I make with you and our friends.

Sorry I talk too much about said illness.

Sorry I’ve come off my antidepressants and you are having to deal with non SNRI infused, Steph.

Sorry I’m not skinnier.

Sorry I swear too much in front of the in laws.

To my followers and friends:

Sorry I bore you with toddler spam on your news feed and in our real life conversations.

Sorry my opinion isn’t favoured always by the masses.

Sorry I speak openly about mental health even though it makes people uncomfortable.

Sorry I didn’t enjoy being pregnant and I share my horror story with you.

Sorry I keep sharing boring blogs on the same old topics because they’re important to me.

Sorry I moan about being fat then eat McDonald’s twice in a row.

Can you see now? That’s a lot of ‘sorry’s’

When I apologise, I do it with sincerity, I mean it. But sometimes I wonder if I should be saying sorry at all. I seem to spend my life apologising for my very existence. Then I have a mental breakdown and apologise for not being normal enough. Is it a wonder mental health problems have hit an all time high.

The facts are these:

I’m not sorry I have anxiety, fibromyalgia and mental health issues, because these all bore from situations that have shaped me and made me a strong woman, and despite my insecurities, I am a strong woman.

I’m also not sorry I’ve stopped taking medication so I can decide whether or not even I like the ‘Real Steph.’

I’m not sorry for getting upset and being honest about why I am upset, because all ‘we‘ do is tell people to open up more, and then we shy away from listening, or criticise them for being ‘too honest‘ or for ‘airing their dirty linen.’ People commit suicide everyday because nobody listened. So when I’m airing my shit, I’m healing. Not sorry for that.

I’m not sorry I shouted at my toddler who threw her 3lb plastic dinosaur at my head because I wouldn’t let her have her third chocolate biscuit. Or that I gave in and let her have an hour on the iPad and a fish finger tea on the sofa because I needed a break.

I’m not really even sorry I don’t have a job, because I do have A job. I’m a mum, I’m managing an illness, I’m trying to study & follow a passion too. I’m not making any money at the moment, but I’m making a whole load of memories, and laying down foundations, ones that my daughter will hopefully later remember too. When and if we struggle financially, I will go and clean precinct toilets to put food on the table. So spare me the ‘get a job’ speech I only resigned last month.

I’m definitely not sorry I swear too much, because I actually Fucking. Love. Swearing. I find it such a useful tool to express myself. Fudge nugget in replace of Wanky Fucktard just doesn’t cut the mustard for me. It’s 2019 don’t tell me it’s not ladylike, or I’ll remind you that according to the Stone Age you seem to be from, nor is women going to work, or being able to vote.

If like me, you find you too are constantly apologising for being who you are, it’s time we stopped. We are not sorry, we’re brilliant and eccentric and in our own way, bring loads to the fucking table, shit, I lay the fucking table.

Can you make a pact with me that we agree to say sorry less, accept when it’s genuinely necessary.

That we agree to feel shit about ourselves less, and to focus on our strong points more. So much more!

Well can you? It’s not as easy as one would think to love yourself more. I have spent a lifetime loathing so many parts of me, that I now feel a bit cringe when I try and ‘sell myself’ I instead, wait for someone else to provide me with positive endorsements, as if it means more when someone else says it. But it doesn’t. Not really.

When you can say it yourself and mean it, when you can tell yourself you’re brilliant, that’s when it means the very most.

I’m not anywhere near that place yet, but I encourage us as a collective, to get there!! We can do this.

Share with your friends, let’s start an epidemic of #Not Sorry Divas 💝🙌🏻

Also published on SelfishMother Blogazine.

The Snotty Toddler

January 31, 2019

First published on Selfish Mother

Strands of toilet roll scatter the area around you, paw patrol is on its 5th loop and there’s a whiney noise coming from the other end of the sofa.

That’s the toddler, the one who’s been up 3 nights in a row with a hacking cough and a snotty nose.

She’s been up 3 nights in a row sneezing and insists you say ‘bless you’ after every single one, even the 3am ones.

You’ve not slept for those 3 nights and you’re pissed that your hubby seems to be getting all the sleep, so this time, you send him to bed with the snotty toddler instead. Now all you can hear are his snores in between her coughs, and it sounds like a dysfunctional metal band without any real tune. The vocals coming through as the occasional whimper from the toddler.

You know tomorrow’s going to be much of the same. After all, it’s winter and everyone knows toddlers are renowned germ carriers, spreading them like Chinese whispers amongst their little friends, occasionally passing them on to their parents too.

You wish, as the snotty toddler kicks you in the back for the millionth time, that she’d just go sleep. For the love of god, go to fucking sleep.

Tomorrow is going to be worse actually, not the same as you’d first thought. Worse because, you’ll be on your 4th day without sleep by then. Whilst you curl yourself around your baby wishing them to sleep you also take in a deep breath, breathe in their scent, and remind yourself that one day they mightn’t need you to stroke their hair when they feel unwell, they might start to like sleeping in their own bed instead of yours, and that’s when you accept, even with their bogeys under your fingernails, that sleepless nights are, for all intents and purposes, actually magical moments that you may not look back on with total fondness, but you’ll look back on nonetheless. Nothing lasts forever. Hang in there Mama’s.

Winging it

January 28, 2019

When I decided to resign from my job I was excited, full of hope at all the spare time I’d have to write. Truth is I have absolutely no spare time, there’s ALWAYS something to do at home. At work, it’s just your job that needs doing until you get home, at home all day and it’s the dishes, the washing, the dust on the skirting boards, the charity shop clothes bags, the shopping, the planning and prepping dinner from scratch etc.

How did I manage that before you ask? I didn’t.

Before, I didn’t do the shopping, well not physically anyway. Amazon pantry was my bff along with whichever super market had the best BOGOFF deals. Before, I didn’t clean the skirting boards or do the sorting for the charity shops, I just lived in a mess. So why am I doing it now? Because it does need doing, and now I don’t have a hard day’s work an as excuse as to why I’m not getting it done.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining, it’s great that I have time to do all this stuff, but I have found little if no time at all to write, study, or do any of the things I said I was going to do.

When I was working, my mum did the school runs, Shaun did the washing, we ate from jars, and the shopping was delivered at a time of my choosing. But I find, rightly or wrongly, it’s expected of you to get things done if ‘You’re at home all day’ remember though, we’re still doing school run’s or looking after little people, we’re still trying (at least I am) to get some work done.

I can actually take an oath that I haven’t watch a SINGLE episode of Jeremy Kyle since leaving work. I have however, caught up on Lose Women on more than one occasion.

I really miss the social bustle of working for a large organisation and I’ve gone from feeling excited to feeling scared and at times lonely.

I want to be successful in my work, my parenting, my social groups, managing my health. I want people to believe I have it all covered from the every angle, but of course I don’t. I’m 100% winging it, with little guidance accept the online world of other mum’s who’ve followed their passions and my family and friends. The few people in my life that truly have my back, the ones that want to see me succeed are at the forefront of my mind every time I feel like quitting.

I may never succeed in my dream to write a novel, but I sure as shit won’t, if I don’t even try.

So it’s with a slight wobble I’m reminding you (and myself) to keep going. To let your creativity drive you in whatever form you find it. To keep at it because mama’s don’t quit and diva’s don’t lie down.

I will tell myself and you, everyday if I have to, that WE have got this.

And when we don’t got it, there’s always Guinness.

The road to threedom

January 25, 2019

So, Ciara’s been going through some developmental challenges lately. In just 6 short months she’s gone from barely stringing sentences together, to chatting NON STOP!

She can now count in sequence, she is potty trained, even waking up in the night and demanding a new pair of pants because:

‘I don’t want a nappy mummy’

She’s been specifically asking for people she hasn’t seen in a while, so memory is not an issue for this little dot. She’s asked for Auntie Becky and E, Nanny, and Grandad with the paw patrol bike, and often talks about her friends at preschool David, Chester and Lana with the pretty hair. It’s amazing isn’t it? How bloody clever is my kid! My heart could burst.

But… all of this extra feeling, knowing, and awareness must be a pretty crazy place in this little one’s head. I know this, because mummy is getting the brunt of it all.

‘I don’t want to’ is her favourite phrase.

‘No mummy’ is the second.

Whilst she’s doing all these amazing, magical, things, I find myself getting frustrated with her outbursts. I feel terrible about it but I can’t help sometimes wishing she’s just put the fucking blue pants on, instead of demanding rainbow ones. Or eat the damn toast you asked for 10 minutes ago kid! Who gives a flying fuck if the corner has come off, you don’t eat the crusts anyway!!!

So there’s a bit of wee in your potty already, sorry Mummy hasn’t had chance to rinse it out whilst dealing with your other 10,000 demands in the last 5 minutes.

I love you, but if you scream in my face one more time about having to put your coat on I’m gonna set the bastard coat on fire!

(Disclaimer no 2 – I don’t actually say this to her, I just roll my eyes whilst thinking it)

Then I take a deep breath and start the process of answering why Marshall has a red hat, Chase on the case has a blue one, and explaining that it’s a ‘Pumpkin’ and not a ‘Cuntpin’

I even allow the ingratitude that I got her an ‘Everest pillow’ instead of a Skye one. The world hasn’t ended my dear child just say ‘thank you Mummy’

Then I go to bed at night feeling so bad about wishing she would do as she’s told, I feel bad for not taking in the fact she’s learning, and her inquisitive nature is what might make her a Detective Inspector one day.

I feel bad that I tutted whilst having to kiss both knees when there wasn’t even a ‘baddie’ on either of them.

But guess what? I’m not the only person in the world to feel utterly fucked off and guilty all at once, and neither are you.

We’re human. It’s demanding being a mum and we don’t always get chance to take a deep breath and take in everything that’s going on, because we’re too busy trying to get tea on the table that you know your kid won’t even eat, and 20,000 pairs of pants washed ready for nursery tomorrow.

Every night before she goes to bed we have half hour chill time. We have cuddles, we read stories and we sing twinkle twinkle, and every night I tell her how amazing she is and how much I love her. Even when she’s tested me to the absolute limit.

I don’t always get it right, but I’m confident she knows I’m doing my best and that I love her more than life itself and that is enough.

My Toddler Hates Me

January 17, 2019

Is it normal for your two year old to pull away from you? Is it just another phase?

These are questions I’ve been asking myself since the Christmas break began. I think I already know the answer, it being that, there’s been a disturbance to her routine, she’s been spoiled and is pushing boundaries, but that doesn’t make me question myself any less.

I’m still constantly wondering if it’s something I’m doing wrong? Does she just prefer other people to me? Why won’t she listen? Where’s the logic in her dropping something, then throwing herself on the floor in tantrum, instead of just picking it up? Why does she refuse to give me a kiss goodnight? She only seems to want daddy to put her to bed these days.

Every time we’ve taken her anywhere nice these last few weeks, to see Santa, Longleat to the festival of light, she’s acted like a brat. Refusing to walk, put her coat on, you know, the usual insanely annoying things kids do. 6 months ago, she couldn’t talk so I understood her tantrums were because of the lack of understanding from us. Now though she is quite able to tell us when she doesn’t like something. I’ve found myself in tears of sadness and complete frustration over the last week or so! I’ve been angry and upset all at once. Someone said to me once, I think it was my sister in law, that kids can push your buttons like nobody else on Earth. I wondered at the time how you can allow yourself to get so worked up over a child, now I see. Now I see in all it’s glory, how fucking excruciating being a parent can be. How clueless you are left daily, how the guilt eats you from the inside out and you never truly trust your own instincts. Even when you know you’re doing the right thing, a seed of doubt still appears and sows itself into your psyche.

I couldn’t love my daughter anymore if I tried. She is my everything and rarely at the age of two does she understand the need to reciprocate my love. I know she isn’t intentionally setting out to stress me out, she’s two for god’s sake, but it irks nonetheless.

My reason behind this post was to let other mums know it’s ok to love your kids fiercely with every ounce of your being, and it’s also ok to think they are little knobheads every now and again. It’s ok to flip the bird when they aren’t looking, or roll your eyes, or text your bestie to say you’re throwing them out the window! (FYI- this is only ok if you have no actual intention of doing so)

What I’m saying is, you’re going to feel guilty pretty much for the rest of your life now, I’m told that’s 50% of what being a mum is! So allow yourself a meltdown. You’re still a good mum. Your kid might not like you today, but she also didn’t like fish fingers last week, but they are her favourite again this week!! Kids are fickle. It’s down to us as parents to second guess their every move and accept them, flaws and all. And as they grow they too accept us with our own flaws.

My toddler doesn’t hate me, I’m just not her favourite this week, and that’s ok. Because I’m her mother first. ❤️

Diva Mum

Deeply personal & littered with profanity.

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