I have the hump

Every time I log into this blog, I feel like a bit like I’m pulling out my pedestal. Gather round folks, she’s going off one again!

I rarely have the time these years, so I’ve veered completely off the plan I had for this fun little distraction. It’s now become less of a humorous venting platform and more like a public diary and PSA platform. And, sorry for you, today is no different!

However, as is usually the case, I wrote a lashing blog, then Ctrl + A + Del and started again, in a much more polite, less venomous way.

So, life right now is hard. Unless you’ve blocked me, hidden me or just don’t see me running around, this won’t be a surprise. I’ve certainly not hidden it, but likewise I’m not looking for sympathy/support or anything like that. Life is hard, because I want to pursue my passions and my career, along with myself and brood wanting to move continents. This was never going to be easy.

However, currently, I am working two jobs. Both mostly sedentary positions, where I plop myself at my desk or my sofa and work on laptops. I work on one pc until 14:15 for my day job, then I rush off to walk to pick up John from school (not always, I’m trying though, #OperationFixFatAss) and when back, I simply swap pcs and sometimes locations and start working on my photography business. Right now it’s more marketing/planning/business development, than shooting or editing, so it’s all based on my computer. I work usually until around 9pm most nights, often later, then I put my pc down for 2-3 hours, so I can feel human. I watch crappy TV, read my book and then bed. Lately, I’ve been so tired, I’ve barely even managed that. Then the next day we start again.

All of this in intermingled with ongoing calls and emails about our move, planning stuff, packing stuff when I have an hour spare after work (rare) and the endless scanning of documents. Not to mention the over-arching stress of not having an exact location yet and therefore not being able to secure important things, like a school for the kids, or a house for us to live in.

So, yeah, I’m busy. I’m stressed. I’ll burn out eventually, that’s just going to happen, but these are my choices and I’m OK with that.

And, yet, recently, there have been a few snarky, slightly bitter comments from people around me, about how I’m ‘too busy’ to do stuff. Don’t get me wrong, many people mention me running from one spot to another and most show support/care/sympathy, and they absolutely rock. Especially if they laugh with me about it. Many invite us to playdates and parks and understand when we can’t make it. Or I cancel plans. But there are just a few that have a nasty, bitter ring to their comments, which I find…well, downright infuriating. Trust me, if I had the time for a playdate or a visit to the park, I’d bloody jump at it, but I don’t. I’m not ‘too busy’ for you, I’m drowning. If I’m so important to you that you feel bitter that I’m not around, surely you’d have thought to check if I was OK?

I’m not by the way. OK. Far from, but I will be. The overwhelming guilt of having no time with my kids and constantly having to tell them ‘Mummy’s busy’ or ‘Mummy can’t help right now, please ask Daddy,’ is bad enough. Getting it from friends (and, weirdly, people I rarely saw or spoke to before this?) isn’t very helpful.

I get that I used to be in the community all the time (which, by the way, is not exactly my norm until we moved here – can you say ‘NOT A PEOPLE PERSON’?), but we’ve had a pandemic, lockdown and homeschooling since then. In that time, I’ve gone from one, very small and uncomplicated job, to two not small and very complicated jobs. I’ve planned an international move and, quite frankly, most of my good mates have buggered off too, so I’ve gone back to my original personality type, which is ‘head down’ and focus on what needs to be done. I’ll socialise when I can (and by ‘socialise,’ I clearly mean neck a glass of wine before settling down to drink a lot more glasses of wine). And, I’ll put my hands up, for the first in ages, I got to do that on Friday, which was blissful. Not so much the following morning though!

So, sadly, nothing funny in this one. This is just a polite request to please back off before you make snarky comments about my busy life. I’m not asking for help (not that you seem to be offering), but back the f*** off for a bit, yeah?

Thanks.

*hops off pedestal*

*pours a glass of wine*

Disclaimer: This is not a cry for help. Drowning doesn’t mean dying. I’m cool. Just venting, ‘cos people suck.

Lockdown Laughs

So, I promised a humorous post and failed miserably. Life just hasn’t stopped – two children, starting a wedding photography company (shameless plug) in the midst of a pandemic, military life and everything included – it’s been insane! So, I shan’t waffle on much, but I shall give you some lockdown laughs from this mum of two monsters!

Context: We went into isolation on March 13th 2020, as I had Covid, lockdown became a proper thing in the UK on March 23rd (4 days before I was allowed out – typical!). Hubby was deployed, but had to be brought back because of my health on 8th April 2020. I really didn’t recuperate properly until June, if not later. It was a hectic time, but, with two young children (3 and 5), you have to be able to see the humour in it!

 

Protesting in a time of plague

Firstly, I’d like to apologise – I promised you a humorous follow up to my rather morbid Covid post and I lied. I’ll try fit in something funny for you soon.

I’d like to talk to you about the current situation, in particular the #blacklivesmatter movement during the current pandemic. Most of you are aware that I’m a strong supporter of social-distancing, lock-down and keeping schools closed (another post on the latter will follow… yay, more positive fun – it’s a sign of the times). Having had an exceptionally hard time with Covid, I feel I’m allowed to be more on the paranoid side of the scale.

So, when faced with the protests about #blacklivesmatter, most people seem shocked that I am in support of the protests. So let me clarify: I understand the fear, I understand not supporting mass gatherings during this time, but, and here’s the big thing, we don’t get to choose when the world decides to stop and listen – we just need to be there with a megaphone, amplifying the voices of those who need to be heard.

Do I wish these protests were socially distant? God, yes, of course. Do I wish this happened at another time, or that we had the luxury to postpone the protests until the world goes back to normal and is safe again? Yes. But we have to be realistic and we have to face the fact that this fight has been going on for centuries. If the powers that be start to listen now (and they are!), we cannot sit back and wait for a better time. The protests are working. Things are slowly changing. I have no doubt that it will take centuries more to overturn the damages done by racism, but we can at least start here.

Lastly, do I wish the protests weren’t violent? Of course I do. No one wants to see looters and violence, but, as far as I am able to (as a privileged white woman), I get it. I don’t condone hurting animals and using the protests to go a little nuts, but I can’t even begin to imagine how you must feel – having spent your life facing the fact that your race determines how others see you and that your race could literally determine whether you live or die. There is a lot of anger there and it is so incredibly just. I came across this sign today (and forgive me for using a Facebook picture to depict how I feel about a very serious situation) and I think it sums up how I feel incredibly well.

Please don’t let the violence take away from the message. We need to turn this around. We need to be there for our black men, women and children. Black people are dying purely because of the colour of their skin. They are treated unfairly, they are persecuted, they live a life of fear and injustice. We cannot stand idly by.

The fact that this happened during a pandemic is a cruel coincidence, and is indicative of 2020 thus far, but we cannot choose when an uprising will happen. We just need to seize the opportunity to make a difference.

Unfortunately, the right wingers have now taken over the protests and I can’t tell who is hurting who now, but I know that a lot of the #BLM protesters are getting blamed for the right-wing behaviours. So I’ll stop there and move on.

Now, I’m sure you’re looking forward to the end of this post, but I’d like to discuss a few more points. So many people are upset at the destruction of statues and are getting very angry at those who support this. At first, it upset me that they were tearing down statues. I watched the Colston one in Bristol get torn down and felt it took away from the message we want to send. Until I read some more about it.

Until I realised that black people in Bristol had to pass that statue every day, lauding over them – a man who literally sold their ancestors like cattle. Never mind the fact that so many souls died on the way, in horrific circumstances. As a black person, having to see this face (of a man who would look at your own as if you were nothing more than a commodity to be sold) every day, proudly displayed in your city, must be horrendous.

And I thought, well, there are other ways of going about this. Petition the city to take it down, for goodness sake. Until I found out they had. For years they have been trying to get the city to remove this. For years and no one listened.

I don’t think removing statues is defying our history in any way; it’s acknowledging it, and showing those who have suffered from it that we refuse to continue on that path. It’s showing respect and care for everyone who has been affected by racism. In the perfect world, they would be removed and put into a museum, but, let’s face it. No one listened, so now they’re doing it themselves and I stand with them.

I’d also like to touch on another point that so many people seem to be arguing on: George Floyd. Please, stop saying he’s a not a martyr. I don’t think any #BLM protester has been saying that. Was he a good man? I don’t know. Does he have a past? Of course. Does anything that man did make it alright for a police officer to slowly kill him, in public, while he called for his ‘Momma.’ NO. So no, he wasn’t a martyr. Yes, he had a past. But no one deserves to die like that. And no one is protesting his death alone, we are fighting for ALL THE LIVES THAT HAVE BEEN LOST and all the injustices that have happened, purely because of the colour of someone’s skin.

The hard decisions

Like many parents out there, we have recently been faced with a unfathomable task: to decide whether or not to send our children back to school/nursery, in the midst of a pandemic.

As previously mentioned, my history with Covid-19 allows me to be a little more paranoid than most, so I have been very, very vocal about social distancing, lock down and listening to the rules (Please read Protesting in a time of plague before labeling me a hyprocrite).

Sadly, all over, I have seen people ignoring these rules: People letting whole neighbourhoods of children play together, people partying in others’ gardens, make-shift pubs being run at the height of lock down – it has not stopped. I’m forever grateful that our street has listened to the rules.

When schools reopened, my husband and I were faced with the decision of whether or not both children should return. It was a hard decision. Being a qualified Early Years Educator, I could see the damage I was doing to my son (5). I should never have taught him. He walked into home-schooling with a thirst for learning. Today? He wants absolutely nothing to do with education or learning. My daughter (3) has had one play date since November when we took her out of nursery for financial reasons. She thrives on friends, interactions and being social, so she is really struggling and has been begging for nursery for months.

We decided to follow the science and the numbers. We would watch the statistics for three weeks – if there was no rise, we would send the children back, and if there was, we would keep them home.

Unfortunately, the decision was taken out of our hands, when we received a call last Monday to say that if my son didn’t return to school on the 15th, they would no longer have a space for him (let me add that there is no fault of the school here – smaller classes means they cannot fit all the priority children in). Our hand was forced and we had to make the decision.

We have decided that home-schooling is more detrimental to our children’s future, than the risk they face at school. We are following social distancing heavily and trusting in our ‘bubbles’ (the term used to describe the people we are allowed to interact with. So, in my son’s bubble, he will only interact with his teacher, dinner lady and his 14 other classmates). We also are aware that both children have likely have had Covid, thanks to me, and, whilst they may not be immune, they are undoubtedly more protected than most. However, if we see a spike in stats, they’re getting pulled quicker than my daughter can throw a dining room chair.

It wasn’t an easy decision, far from it. I am terrified and it’s keeping me up most nights. But my son is incredibly happy to have returned to school (I hope – he looked it when I dropped him off and he happily blanked my 6 efforts to flail about waving and screaming goodbye) and my daughter is beyond excited to return to nursery. I realise we will face some judgement for this and that is ok, but in times like these, we can only do what we think best for our families. However, if you live around us, if you’re in any way connected to their schools, then I am literally begging you to follow the guidelines. Please remember that you are part of a community that is relying on you.

And for those who will still consider me a hypocrite, for being pro-protests and simultaneously pro-social distancing, then I am so sorry you can’t see the difference and I really hope you can at least understand where I am coming from.

Covid-19: For now, there is no such thing as ‘mild asthma.’

This post is a particularly difficult post for me to write. I haven’t done a blog here for a bit; it’s usually some gargantuan thing that I want to bitch about that brings the hairy nostril into use, and, I suppose, the apolcalypse counts.

I will follow this post with my usual dark humour of strangling children and home-school fails, but for now, I feel there is a PSA I need to do. So, if you or someone you love has asthma, please make sure you read this.

A life-long issue of mine has been the inability to put feeling into whatever I am saying. I will laugh and sarcasm my way out of ever having to show what I’m really feeling. When I do say the words, they’re flat and emotionless. For example, I could cut my thumb off and I wouldn’t scream; I would calmly walk to a neighbour and tell them “I’m awfully sorry to inconvenience you, but would you mind helping me out whilst I source my digit and corral my children.” I have a telephone voice, a telephone demeanour and everything involved with not showing the world how I fucking feel. I’ve been known to phone into work severely ill, laugh and tell people I’m fine…. it’s a problem.

So, talking about my experience with Covid-19 isn’t an easy one, especially when I want to portray how just NOT LIKE THE FUCKING FLU THIS IS. 

I have what I call pathetic asthma – I stop breathing if I eat mustard or horseradish and I turn purple if I run. Apart from that, I’m fine. I have my blue pump, which is used so rarely that it’s usually a couple of years out of date. I now have a preventor (brown pump), purely because that allows me to have the flu jab. My asthma is nothing to write home about, ever.

So, imagine my surprise when little ol’ me got symptoms of Covid-19. I self-isolated for two weeks, doing the right thing. I had mild flu-like symptoms after a while and a little cough. Nothing bad, but I was good and stayed inside with my two feral children. Around day 8, my flu symptoms started to subside; my cough, not so much. My breathing became laboured and by day 10, I was struggling to breath. Each breath was an effort, a strain. I was self-isolating with two-children and my husband was deployed. When I started to get light-headed I was mildly worried, but also aware of the pressure on the NHS right now, so didn’t want to cause a ‘fuss.’ I called the GP and got a telephone appointment. I tried calling 111, but it wouldn’t connect. I waited for the Dr to call back. Whilst, I was struggling to breathe, I was pumping away (and not in the good way…) and surviving.

Then, all puffed out and tired, I opened a packet of crisps and before I could eat one, the crisp ‘dust’ hit my lungs and they stopped working.

When I say stopped, I don’t mean the wheeze you expect from an asthmatic. I don’t mean a cough. I don’t mean that I looked mildly shocked. I mean, I launched myself out the lounge like I was under attack. I felt like someone had reached in, pulled my lungs out and calmly walked away while I gaped like a fish out of water. I’d say ‘gasped’, but there was no breath moving at all.

For about a minute, I gaped over the sink (god knows what I thought the sink would do, but my reliable ol’ brain decided this was the place to die). It took about a minute (aka an eternity) for breath to start moving again. I keyed in 999, just before it started moving, barely. I coughed for about 3 minutes, honestly not sure if I was going to survive. Then the coughing stopped and I was just violently gasping for whatever breath I could get. I called 111. When I say that 9 out of the 10 calls I made didn’t go through, I’m not lying – I have my call log (the NHS was already under strain a week ago, guys!). I was trying not to worry, really trying not to freak out and overreact. Luckily, my children were completely oblivious.

I eventually got connected to 111 and was on hold for over 20 minutes. However, my Dr called me back and I cut the call to 111, so I have no idea if they would have ever answered. The doctor was lovely, but surprisingly unconcerned. She had me count to 20 in one breath and prescribed steroids. Apparently, I have a bronchial spasm and, whilst terrifying, meant she was confidant that I could breathe with the help of an inhaler and said steroids.

The following week, the steroids helped immensely. It was a 6 day dose. During that time, I could feel I had a chest infection and my asthma wasn’t comfortable, but was certainly manageable. However, 24 hours after my steroids finished, I was man down again. Every breath hurt; I had to physically push myself every time I tried to breathe to get enough oxygen to stop the light-headedness. My chest was incredibly sore and was getting worse. This wasn’t a ‘tight’ lung pain, this felt heart-related. My heart was beating insanely, my chest was tightening in a way that had little to do with my lungs. I started to see black dots in front of my eyes.

Throughout all this, my concern was the NHS. I didn’t want to put the NHS under unncessary pressure, so I called the GP and I held out for my telephone appointment as long as possible. My doctor called back blissfully early, thank goodness. When she called, I was puffed, struggling, and my telephone voice was failing miserably, but neither of us believed I needed in-person help. We wanted to get more steroids in. However, my breathlessness worried her a little and she asked to video call. She sent the link and I went into the lounge to sit down (the talk had tired me).

I took one step into the lounge and my legs gave way. The ‘mum’ in me pretended to pick up something my kids had dropped (so they wouldn’t worry) and I threw myself into my chair, frantically trying to get the link on my phone.

The link worked, but my phone would not play ball. I could see my doctor, but she couldn’t see me. She couldn’t see me now sobbing because I was in panic-ville. She couldn’t see me, who now couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t get help and nothing I did was working. I couldn’t access the camera or mic on my phone, although it said it was working. By the 5th time of trying, I had moved myself to the stairs, so the kids couldn’t see my distress. I gave up. I lay on the stairs, praying she would phone back before I passed out. I was trying to call the surgery when she did call back. She hadn’t finished her first sentence when she said I needed an ambulance. She asked the necessary questions (how long since your last blue pump – less than five minutes – how many times in the last hour – 30+) and told me that although my mother was high risk, I needed to get her here NOW and to cut the call to her and call an ambulance.

I could not stop sobbing. I felt so incredibly guilty that I was taking the NHS away from what they needed to do, that I was putting the paramedics at risk (despite being isolated for 14 days, so was no longer contagious), that I was risking my mum’s health. But, I knew, should I not get help, my kids would be left by themselves, because it was only a matter of time before I passed out. Meanwhile, my brain is telling me to get my shit together, because the sobbing is blocking my nose. It was insane.

I’m ashamed to admit that yes, I was panicking. I was so scared for my kids, not for me. I am proud of our NHS service because 999 answered immediately and sent an ambulance round straight away. I’m proud to have the friends I do, because they were on messenger the whole time making sure I was getting help. And, it’s very rare you’ll ever hear me say this, but I am fucking proud of myself. It was only when the paramedics rocked up that my children became aware something was going on. And then, their reaction was pure excitement that they got to wave at an ambulance. They weren’t traumatised, they weren’t worried and they weren’t scared. Go me!

The paramedics were incredible. They were kind and sweet, although it was very clear that their lives were at risk purely by being there. I wanted to kick them out to help them, to make it better for them. They assessed me and deteremined that I had pneumonia and that they could hear ‘crackles all over’ my lungs. In a strange turn of events, the paramedic turned the question to me: “In any other situation, I would have rushed you to hospital for an assessment, x-ray and at least overnight stay, however, with the current situation, I don’t believe hospital is safe for you. Your oxygen levels are alright, although it is clear you really do need help. You need to decide whether you want to take the risk at hospital or stay home and try and manage this with medication.”

With the two children at home (3 and 5, in case you were wondering), I obviously decided to stay home. The paramedics told me that what I was describing and the timeline of what I had experienced was exactly how Covid-19 was acting. While they couldn’t test me, they told me there was no doubt in their mind that I was yet another statistic. According to what they had seen, they told me to expect to see this happen again. They told me to prepare to have to go into hospital at a later date, as it often gets better, only to get worse. While, I had stopped sobbing, I was still continually apologising to the paramedic for taking them away from people who need help* and making pretty unfunny jokes, because… I have a problem.

Between my lovely GP and the wonderful paramedics, they prescribed antibiotics (to fend off a secondary infection, because it wouldn’t affect the viral pneumonia I have) and steroids, but I was warned to try avoid the steroids as long as possible, as they can make Covid-19 worse.

I am now four days later (having attempted this blog post 3 times) and I am still struggling with my breathing, although holding off on the steroids. I sound borderline fine for 25% of the day, then, for the rest, I am only just coping. I feel as though someone has tied a bowling ball to each of my lungs and for each breath, I need to lift them to get what I need. I can manage one or two tasks before the exhaustion hits me and that’s the pneumonia. When the asthma hits, I’m worse, a little scared and the chest pain sucks. My resting heartrate hit 183 last night and since the first episode (the dreaded ‘crisp dust’) I’ve felt like I have wounds my lungs that open every time I breathe. My mum has moved in, because my husband is deployed and I, sadly, need someone to take care of me. She has been the lifeline I needed to manage my stress, anxiety and, above all, my feral children!

For now, I will keep going and hope that I’ll beat the statistics and not get hospitalised, but I needed to write this down. I needed people to realise that, for now, there is NO SUCH THING AS A MILD ASTHMATIC. If you have asthma, please, please isolate as much as possible, no matter how pathetic your asthma may be. 

Do not take this lightly, do not think this is like flu, and, for the love of god, stop spreading ridiculous conspiracy theories. This virus is really serious. 

I’ve struggled to find in-person accounts of Covid-19, so please feel free to ask any questions. Use the comments section and I’ll get back to you, but remember, I am no medical professional. I’ll tell you what I felt; anything beyond that and you’ll need to chat to the experts.

And that, folks, is the end of my pity post/PSA. You can expect things to return to normal in my next post. I promise to make you laugh.

 

NB: Please note all medical advice I’ve written is as I understand it. I am no medical professional and could have understood this as well as 4 year old, so please listen to your doctors/medical professionals. 

 

*The paramedic went on to tell me that the day before he had been called out by a woman because her mum, who is a nurse, insisted she call an ambulance. She had a slight cough. 

Depression & Being a Sh*t Mum

Depression & anxiety manifests itself in a weird way when you’re a bit of an extrovert, or at least a loud/in-your-face kind of person. People find it hard to imagine the person laughing at themselves or constantly joking about life can feel useless and worthless most days.

I’m the type that constantly berates myself and belittles myself in the form of humour. Not a day goes past that I don’t joke about being a crap parent or about how I’m disorganised/cant’ manage life/just generally useless at everything. Luckily, I usually surround myself with like-minded people and they understand that, actually, despite my jokes, I fucking love my children more than it’s possible to fathom and they are fed, clean, healthy and bloody happy.

Then, I meet others and I cannot help but be myself and make jokes like ‘hmmm, I hope my kids are alive. I’m sure I saw them an hour ago. They’ll be fine!’ Any of my daily friends would laugh that off and know that I’ve had a beady eye on them all day and know exactly where they are. However, often strangers or people with different personalities don’t get that humour. You can see from their false grins, nervous chuckle and quick darting glances to see where the kids are, that they take me seriously.

The more nervous and conscious I get, the more the jokes and judgey looks increase.

Although, I have yet to vocalise it, my depression is pretty rough at the moment. It has been for a while. And, as my friend once wrote, ‘depression is a miserable lying bastard.’ Any excuse to belittle myself or feel worthless, it jumps at, clings to and reminds me incessantly.

So, in an effort to stop it from dragging me down, I am trying every 15 or so minutes, to remind myself that I am a good mother. I love my children so much and I do everything that they need. I love them, care for them, feed them, clean them and keep them safe. I read to them, educate them, cuddle them. For every moment I’m shouting at my son to stop screeching at a play group, there are 10 where we have sat holding hands reading a book together, or where he’s snuggled against me watching TV and having his hair stroked (they got that weird love from my mother…). For every time I joke about my daughter’s tantrums and fits, there are 10 where she’s locked her hands behind my neck and given me a five minute cuddle, or where she’s run to me for a cuddle when she’s sad or sore, or where we just sit, with her in my lap, safe and aware that I am her mum and will do anything for her.

So, to all the crap mums out there – I know you’re not crap. Remind yourself you’re not crap and feel free to use the nervous jokes around me. I won’t take you seriously.

“No one is useless in this world who lightens the burdens of another.” ― Charles Dickens

Since I wrote The Drowning Feminist, I’ve had an outpouring of empathy from people in the same position. Men and women who are stuck at home, desperately trying to keep themselves motivated, keep their brain active and keep their head above the quagmire that is stay-at-home-parenthood. I can’t believe how many of my acquaintances have, in essence, been suffering in silence.

As such, I’ve been debating about whether or not to create a Facebook group, where we can support each other. It’s not a get-rick-quick scheme, I won’t be advertising or making any money, but I know that I’m much more likely to succeed and keep moving when I’m talking to others about my goals (i.e. I don’t want to visibly fail, so I push myself). In my mind, I see a group of people who post questions about what they’re struggling with (be it course information, technological issues, how to get into business or everyday crap), free courses and YouTube tutorials, general motivational stuff to get us off our arses and a whole lot of vents. If you’re interested in this, please, please vote below. I don’t get a lot of traffic here, so I’ll never know otherwise 😉

Now, back to the all-important me. I had a couple of weeks where I was incredibly motivated. Managed to stick to a cleaning routine and keep my house spotless (which, is a first!) and do a little bit of stuff here and there in between. It was too tiring though and I wasn’t able to keep it up. I was deep-cleaning a couple of rooms each day. So, I’ve now moved to focusing on a general clean a day and more stuff to build me up. I also have a swanky new desk! Well, a ‘console unit,’ but it’s pretty and I like it.

I’ve booked myself onto a photography course, as I mentioned before. However, I was completely unaware that it was actually a diploma! It’s a lot of time, which I don’t have, but I’m doing it anyway. I will succeed! I’m still on the basics, but have been faffing with photography in the meantime. Below are my first attempts and the mirror picture was heavily edited (I kinda like it like that, though) and not at all planned, so it’s not perfectly focused.

…and now I have to go because I just found my three year old putting mascara on my one year old.

Reflecting Youth – My baby girl decided to have a play in the mirror.

Mucking around while learning about my Nikon D5300

Scroll on by

Amusingly, my morning has been unintentionally filled with inspirational posts, videos and articles. It’s helped to remind me that life doesn’t fit into a 2 hour movie slot and that dreams are met through hard work, slog, failure and belief in yourself. 

This is soppy and positive for me, so just scroll on by while I remind myself what it takes to succeed in life – personally and professionally. 

I’ve expanded my goals to include learning, re-learning and touching up on skills that may one day be financially beneficial. Alongside writing a children’s book, I’ll be re-learning photography basics and photo editing and manipulation. I’ll also be learning how to design fonts. These are both mainly for my personal benefit and things I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Although, they could end up making me a small amount of money, monetary  benefits aren’t the priority. God knows how I’ll manage learning these skills with the kids in tow, but I’ll have to make it happen. 

This week’s goal is to make the house organized enough for me to work from home. A huge task, but, with hubby helping, we’re making a dent in it. Next week, a desk will arrive and I’ll start. Here’s hoping my motivation lasts. 

Huh? Zzz

There’s a deep, innate tiredness that comes with motherhood*. It’s much more complicated than simple exhaustion. Most days, you’re so used to the feeling that you barely notice. Some days, you wake up accutely aware that you can’t remember the last time that brushing your teeth didn’t take all the energy you have left. Or when you last walked without feeling like your feet were trapped in concrete.

I find I have to time my ‘work,’ or complicated tasks to the few hours of functioning brain time I have: generally 7-10pm. If I attempt anything complicated (even a simple phone call) at any other time, it’s doomed to fail.  Although, there are many days that these hours are just as blurred as the others. For clarity, this blog is being posted at 9.32am on a Saturday. I have little doubt that it makes absolutely no sense.

Motherhood is wading through mud, desperately trying to keep up, clean up, cheer up, all the while trying to keep your children alive and unaware of their mother’s sonambulism.
*A sexist term, but it’s meant to include main-carer fathers too. 

The drowning feminist

I’ve always considered myself a lazy feminist: I ignore protests, petitions and debates, unless they directly affect me, but I do believe in equality and I see red when treated like less because of my gender.

Stereotype me beacuse I’m a woman and I’m guaranteed to flip a lid. I am just as able to make a decision, manage finances, have a career and survive as the next man. I would never be treated like a little woman… until now.

Before I continue, I should point out that I drafted the first few paragraphs and title of this blog in November 2015, over two years ago, when I was starting to feel trapped in a gender-stereotypical role in the quagmire that is military life. I’ve moved on since and accepted my role as a stay-at-home-mum, which was originally by choice. I fought my way out of that, studied, grew, built up a childminding company and successfully kicked the fuck out of my ‘little woman’ image.

Yesterday, two years later, I had a hard lazy-feminist day. Yesterday marked the day where we realised that financially, I cannot work. Having two children, childcare isn’t affordable at all. Even with 30 hours funded by the government, we realised I couldn’t find something in the role that I wanted to do (or a role that would work towards my career) that could cover the extra costs. Just to break even.

There are ways forward and things I could do. For example, I could walk into an incredibly well-paid job tomorrow, thanks to my experience and qualifications, but I’m not willing to sell my soul (or allow my children to be parented by strangers at a nursery) for something as trivial as money. I have made such progress in my life and mindset that taking a gigantic leap backwards isn’t worth it. So, I had to face the fact that I will be a stay at home mum, quite possibly for the next 2-3 years. It’s hard to keep positive when faced with this. I allowed myself a whole minute of pathetic weeping, then picked myself up. I have to make the best of this.

There is no way that I will sink into domesticity, donning an apron and making my best apple pie. I can’t clean for shit, my house is always a tip, I’m late to everything and I’m just too much of an ass to allow myself to be downtrodden by others. So, I’ve decided to try and stay positive and use this time to focus on other goals and enjoy my children. Keep my mind awake, my intellect intrigued, do my best to be a good mum…to keep being proud of who I am.

Firstly, I’m focusing on reading and writing. These are things that make me very happy and I know they will never do me wrong (well, what I write often gets me into shit, but, as an overall activity, it does me well).

• I’m working on a children’s book. Nothing major and I don’t expect to get published, but, in a saturated market, I believe I have a good idea and I like doing it. It’s also a goal I can work towards, achieve and kick ass at. Whether someone buys it or not is irrelevant. I’ll go the agent route, perhaps directly to publishers, but if those routes don’t work, the kids will thoroughly enjoy it. Hopefully!
• I’m going to blog more often – keep my adult writing going and it’s a relatively cathartic process. I won’t be sharing to other platforms unless I feel it’ll benefit someone else.
• I was given a one-line-a-day five year diary for Christmas and I’m keeping that going. It’s nice to summarise and helps with exercise goals (at the end of each line, I write “Did squats. Didn’t die.” It helps to remember I survived!). 
• I’m keeping a book journal and trying to read as much as possible. It’s not easy with two young children, one of which is me incarnate. She’s a darling, but, god, does she have a temper. I’ve got myself a book stand to help me find my current book (a daily struggle with my 3 yr old being into everything) and have joined book clubs. Still looking for my first book, which I started one line of and then someone walked off with it.

Secondly, I’m going to try and do some work-from-home crap. Perhaps selling wedding stationery, which I seemed to have a knack for. I might do some editing, but it’s soul-destroying work and means I need complete quiet – an, as yet, unachieved status in this household. I dunno, I’ll find something. I have a nice new graphics tablet, so I’ll just spend some time reminding myself how utterly untalented at drawing I am.

I’m sounding upbeat and positive about this. It’s a necessity. If I let myself feel anything about this, I’ll drown. In reality, this is hard. This is really fucking hard.