The Only Point is at the End of the Needle...

Call me old fashioned, but I am totally against babies and toddlers having their ears pierced. Why on earth would anyone think it was ok to punch a hole in their child's body for anything other than to prevent disease? It was bad enough having to sit Louie firmly on my lap while a nurse gave him an injection - but the pain was for the best intentions, not some sort of decorative statement.

I would love anyone to enlighten me as to what the baby will get out of having earrings? Maybe the parents tie strings through the hoops as a means to drag them around town? I am baffled by it, truly. Why would you put them through this procedure for nothing more than a pretty piece of jewelry? Are they not pretty enough as they are? So many questions....

I imagine what parents who have their children's ears pierced would say to justify their actions. 'Oh it's only a tiny pinch, a few tears and then it's all forgotten when I shove their bottle in their mouth.'

Yes, that's fair enough, but what's the point? As a parent to a young child I know how much of a hassle it is to complete simple daily tasks. Getting them dressed without dislocating their shoulder, spending an hour cooking a nice healthy meal only for it to end up splattered all over the carpet, managing to clip one toenail before they wriggle off your lap, taking them to the park and loosing sight of them only to find that they've climbed up the lamp post, ringing fire brigade for the umpteenth time in order to get him down from lamp post,  wiping, comforting, playing, stimulating etc... And despite having to do all of these things some people feel the need to add to their workload by having to clean gunky ears for three months. Not only that, but if they decide when they grow up that they don't wish to wear earrings, they will be left with a scar for life.

I love the untouched, untainted purity of babies. Why can't some people leave them this way until they are old enough to mutilate themselves?

The way I see it is a waste of money and tears. It doesn't benefit them in any way, surely it's just another nuisance that will snag on fabric and be pulled violently by other young ankle nippers. A child is not a possession that you can permanently scar to fit in with your fashion ethos, and besides, tattoos are much cooler.

Sucks to Be Me....

Good Morning Bloggers and Bloggesses,

I mean 'good' in the loosest of terms.

Am tempted to alter that greeting to 'drizzly, grey, go back to bed if you can morning.' Yes, it seems I have been attacked by a bad case of the bad-mood-demons which I'm hoping to evict through my fingers and stuff violently into this blog to be trapped for eternity, with the only entertainment being full stop football..

Why can  I be so grumpy when life and the world we inhabit is so beautiful, brimming with wonderful creatures that nature has assembled so perfectly? (The platypus not included). We are all miracles, every single one of us, we have been given the gift of life! Free will! Consciousness! McDonalds on every street corner dagnabit! Now pick up that tambourine and jingle it with all your strength you ungrateful little punk...

My tambourine is staying firmly in the box today, along with the pan pipes, multi-coloured flares and Donovan's Greatest Hits. This is why: Sometimes you look out at the world and all you see is concrete, dog shite and vandalized lamp posts. I couldn't even bring myself to laugh when seeing an old lady fall over and break her hip this morning. What's wrong with me???

I put it down to these factors that have decided to spring up and diminish my serotonin levels recently...

1. I am broker than a broken egg yolk.
2. It's nearly Christmas (see above)
3. Can't afford cigarettes/alcohol/valium/the kiddie cage 2000/stress balls/oh and food
4. Somebody won about 100,000,000 pounds on the lottery this week and I imagine they are a complete arsehole who likes to punch pensioners and put children in casseroles. (Recommended recipe to follow shortly)
5. No child labour factories will take my son in because he is a demon and all I could think of to write on his C.V was; Is very good at painting. On walls. With petit filous.
6. Did I mention the broke factor?

So I guess my woe is me mentality all boils down to one thing, money.

This year I will be rummaging through the dustbins in search of materials that could be creatively transformed into seasonal gifts for my loved ones, perhaps a transformer made from egg boxes? Or nice pair of gloves fashioned from rat fur? A pretty necklace made from maggots and old roast chicken string? Last year I attempted to make mulled wine as a means to save money... apart from having to buy about three boxes of good quality red wine it never quite reached into my overdraft. The only downside was that it tasted rather good, and after whittling about twenty bottles down to four I don't really remember who, if anyone, actually received even a dribble in the end, which didn't bother me at the time as I was too occupied with dancing topless on my dinner table.

Anyway, if you are in a generous mood and willing to lend me a couple of thousand, I will be ever so grateful and send you a Christmas card.

Now if you don't mind, my duvet of depression beckons.... Hopefully next time I'll return to blogdom a little more chipper. Until then leave me to wallow in the deep waters of despair and wrap myself up in pity blankets whilst sobbing uncontrollably and throwing darts at Bono's face.

Plug for the Lugs

Ok, here's a sneaky little plug for all my one fans (hi sis) on behalf of a very talented laydee.

Project Lumino is the brainchild of my good friend Holly, who is like the Wonder Woman of creativity. She produces and writes music, paints, is always gallavanting around from gig to gig and on top of that she still finds the energy to work full time and talk all the legs off a ten tonne spider... God I hate her.

Here's a linky from her my space plot, which you will find here : http://www.myspace.com/projectlumino

Her music is like a shiatsu massage for the ears....Go on, give 'em a treat!

Quitting the Nicotine

I am a single parent, the sole carer of a miniature human being (his father attended the birth, but on seeing my transformation from a normal, slightly walrusesque, pregnant woman to a bloodshot eyed demon of the labour ward he ran in the opposite direction screaming, and we never saw him again.)

I have tried ever so hard to become the expected responsible role-model sort that is needed to bring up a child who won't end up a psychotic serial killer, or worse, a U2 fan. All the pictures of Bono with eyes burnt out have been tucked away safely, my tendency to kick helpless kittens has been reserved for the evenings when Louie is safely tucked up in bed, and when seeing David Cameron on the television my usual reflex action to shout profanities at his big shiny forehead have now been altered to 'what a silly billy.'

However, the one habit that has blighted my quest for mother of the year trophy, is smoking. After several years of puffing away on the little sticks of doom (apart from the gap year during the pregnancy and a few months beyond when I discovered nail biting) I have become really fed up with my addiction. 

Here is why I desperately want to give up smoking;

REASONS FOR QUITTING

# If I carried on smoking until I am 25, I would have technically reached middle age; that is even scarier than my morning face
# Don't want to be the smelly one on the bus
# Smoking can be cool when you're a delusional teenager, but when you get to the point of dipping into your pension for the next cigarette to choke down your wrinkled throat, it's time to stop
# I have read John Diamond's diary of his battle and eventual defeat with cancer, and this confirmed that I don't really fancy having my tongue amputated
# Don't want smelly clothes
# Want visitors to leave ventilator masks behind next time they come round
# Don't want any more Febreeze gift packs for Christmas
# Would like to walk to shops without having several heart attacks en route
# Don't want my son to be teased at school for having a half-human half-oxygen tank as a mother.
# I like my teeth the colour they are
# Don't want to look like Dot Cotton
# Don't want to sound like Dot Cotton
# Don't want people in the street to point at me and say 'Look, it's Dot Cotton.'

# I want to live for another eighty years and ride around on hover boards Marty Mcfly stylee
# And last, but my no means least I want to be healthy.

So now, in an unbiased and diplomatic way, I will list all the reasons I can find for not quitting the nicotine;

# Lowers metabolism for all you wannabe size zeros out there
# Stops you biting your fingernails to ribbons
# You won't be left on your tod in a pub, whilst all your smoker mates are outside having the best conversation in the universe
# Could be a useful habit for those of you harbouring a fetish for tubes lodged in throats
# Non-smokers die everyday too (cheers Mr Hicks for that one)
# Good ol' Ronnie Woods is still wheezing on, slightly resembling a wrinkled beetroot abandoned in the back of your fridge, but wheezing on nonetheless
# Gives you something to do in times of boredom/awkward conversation
# Brilliant fly repellant
# Also very effective repellant for those annoying self righteous never-smoked-in-my-life people
# There is a whole community of smokers united on subjects such as the smoking ban in pubs and playing the 'who's coughed up the largest chunk of lung' game
#You could make your living out of smoking tricks, such as blowing ten foot rings, or mastering an Irish waterfall that cascades down to your ash-soled shoes
# If you want to grow a tumour that's bigger than your head and appear on Body Shock, or in circuses.
# Simon Cowell smokes, he's successful... go figure
# You just don't care

I'm not doing this to join the 'we know best' club, infact I admire anybody who puts two fingers up to this oh so health conscious society. I have well and truly been dragged into the shiny lungs of the nanny state and exhaled back into daily life completely brainwashed and scrubbing at invisible bacteria.

All the attention to health nowadays has well and truly shocked me into conformation, what with the cigarette packets playing host to gruesome pictures and all. (although the photo of a man lying with a tea towel draped over his grey face looks suspiciously like it was sneakily taken in a tanning salon, and you would top up on the old tango look too if you were as grey as that poor bugger)

Maybe, just maybe, I'll will soon have the will and tenacity to finally turn my back on such a frivolous waste on money. I think I'll need to stock up on the stress balls first though....

To push, or not to push....

My son is four years old. Four years old. Four.. years... old... That's a mere 1,461 days as opposed to my 8,766. (Put your calculators down, I'm 24.)

Sometimes I have to literally stop myself from expecting my son to know why the world is round and repeat his age in my mind.

When Louie burst forth from my swollen loins in 2007, it took about two days before I was asked which school he would be attending. Obviously I was far too high on painkillers to give them an answer more articulate than a sleep-deprived grumble, but the reality was that in just four years time he would be shoveled onto the education conveyor belt wearing a back pack larger than his tiny body.

When the time came to start thinking uniforms and sensible shoes, Louie was certainly ready to take the next step toward a life of academia, he needed that extra stimulation and interaction that could never be attained within our carefully constructed fortress. As he settled into the long hours of his school day, surrounded by other young children from all backgrounds, it became apparent that the paramount subject, above all others, was reading.

He takes home a book bag each day, along with a note pad in which I am required to write, informing the teacher of how his reading skills are developing.

I have always read to my son, being a single parent for a long time it was my way of remembering how to speak the English language (even if it made me inclined to use stupid accents when conversing with the 'outside world'). I read to him because reading was fun, for both of us. Some of the stories were moralistic, others were poetic, imaginative and amusing. Although I knew that he would one day be reading on his own, it never occurred to me that there was some invisible deadline in which to do so. What it boiled down to, for both of us, was that it was fun.

Despite this obvious need for children to be read to regularly, and to monitor the speed of their progression, I have decided not to be swept up in the competitive sing song at the school gates. 'Well my daughter is level three reading, don't you know?!'

I can't recall my mother sitting me down with a book and dissecting each word into a nonsensical series of sounds, yet I have always possessed a love for reading and language that stems from a childhood spent hearing the whole story, being transported into a world of imagination whilst recognising how endearing the written word can be if strung together the right way.

I will only read to my son for pleasure, not for him to gain intellectual merit in the world of the child prodigy, and I certainly do not want to take the point out of reading. I would much prefer to have a child that sees books as an enjoyable retreat into the imagination, rather than a child who can read Shakespeare yet lack the insight into the depths of his stories.

Alternative Nursery Rhymes for 21st Century Children

Some of these have been 'borrowed' from the interweb, but I will give them back.. Honest....

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,

The structure of the wall was incorrect,

So he won a grand from Claims Direct.

It's raining, it's pouring,

Oh bugger it's global warming.

There was a little girl,

Who had a little curl,

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good she was very, very good,

But when she was bad she had to sit on the naughty step for three minutes.

Ding dong bell, pussy's in the bin, 

Who put her in?

That lady Mary Bale,

How do we know?

It was caught on CCTV,

What a stupid woman was that,

If you want to kill a cat,

Make sure you aren't being filmed.

Duh. 

"Is Tropical - The Greeks"

Slightly controversial, but me likey lots.... how much fun must this have been to make?!

From 'Mama' to 'Motherf***er'

After a rather colourful discussion with a couple of yummy mummys this afternoon, I started thinking about the  relationship between swear words and young children. Throughout my early years on this planet the only curse that was ever uttered in my presence was "oh bloody hell." This happened on about two occasions, which I can imagine being quite drastic (house burning down, accidentally chopping arm off with chainsaw?). This has, I suppose, affected my own use of the swear word vocabulary to either;

A) Immense pain

B) Getting my opinion about Bono across in the most sufficient way

C) Drinking too much.

So why do we have curse words, and when should we use them? If you asked me this when I was a mere fifteen year old know-it-all I would have said; "who cares? It's just a word, just a sound that people make when they communicate with eachother... now eff off and leave me to bask in my own aura."

Ok, so it is 'just a word.' But the whole point of words is the representation behind them, the connotations, what is symbolized. If words had no meaning surely they would just be a series of squiggles on a page? It's all about what your intentions are when using these words...

For example, one of those yummy mummys I mentioned earlier has a four year old son. When trying to say the word 'ketchup' it would come out as 'fuck fuck.' He could never understand, when requesting a preferable sauce for his burger, why all the adults fell to the floor in a state of shock. However, if he meant it in the most innocent way it doesn't count as a swear word does it? (Like my son trying to pronounce the word 'cork' but instead saying 'cock.')

I was never so incensed by the whole 'children swearing' concept until a few years ago, when I heard a very young boy (five years old maybe) say the 'c' word. It's funny but I can't even bring myself to type it, as though my mother will burst through the monitor and waggle her finger at me... On hearing this boy's flippant use of such a taboo word I reacted quite strongly (maybe duct taping his mouth shut took it a little too far) and had to get my son out of that environment immediately, all the while thinking "Oh crap, I'm turning into my mum."

I sat and I thought about my reaction, and how I would feel had my son said that word. He has said a few 'naughty words' before, like when eating soup at the age of three and dribbling it down his t-shirt, he looked at me and said "oh buggers." Or when our blanket was blown away at a very civilised picnic with our extended family, he shook his head and muttered under his breath "that bloody wind." We were 'shocked' but under the looks of disapproval there was a hint of amusement. 

I suppose it is fractionally down to my upbringing (old fashioned, seen and not heard or feel my slipper type of thing), but there is also some tangible aspect in my view of a child swearing. Swear words certainly have their warranted space in the world of language, as maybe a vocal outlet for unfathomable pain or simple pissed-off-ness. I have no objection to hearing an adult turn the air blue, or myself, but a child??? I feel like a child shouldn't understand what these words symbolize, such as pain, sexual definitions and immense frustration, therefore they have no need to know or to use them.

Kids are suckers for imitating adults, which is a slight downside on my part as I am quite a bad role model. (Many a time when the 'shit' word has slipped out I have to blunder my way through an explanation about how much ships irritate me). I'm not one to try and soundproof my son to the profanities that exist, but as long as he doesn't learn them from me, I will sleep well.

An interesting experiment comes to mind, the conclusion of this was; swearing lessens pain:  http://www.keele.ac.uk/pressreleases/2011/swearingrelievespainbutdontoverdoit.php

Basically if your child hits their thumb with a hammer, it's ok to swear.

A bit of Milligan

"There are holes in the sky where the rain gets in, but they're ever so small that's why rain is thin"
Spike Milligan

Tears at the School Gate

So my son decides to drop the tear bomb on me today when we arrived at the school gates, just as I was preparing to run through a field screaming 'freeeedom!' with burning torch in hand. He proceeded to clamber up my rib cage as if it were a ladder whilst the teachers tried to prise him off with a crow bar and usher him inside. 


I had never felt more useless and less of a mother, my child needing comfort and cuddles from his one reliable port of call, and all she had the power to do was stand there waving him off with a weak smile. It's one massive pain in the arse, to put it bluntly. Now I will spend the whole day fretting and resisting the urge to go back and peep through the window just to make sure he hasn't spontaneously combusted, and as I rock in the corner with worry he will be happily drawing pictures and affectionately stabbing little girls with compasses, completely forgetting such a traumatic farewell. 

For those who might be interested, here are a few tips on encouraging your child to enjoy school and general preparation;

1; Be positive when sharing your school day stories with them. If you grumble about how you hated your teacher/didn't enjoy maths/lost a tooth when eating one of the dinner ladies infamous rock cakes, your child will associate these negatives with their general outlook on school. You are the google of his/her life, how they see this big scary world is how you choose to portray it to them, the answers you give to questions and curiousities will be absorbed and provide them with a template in which to grow during their early years. Talk about school with envy, tell them how you wish you could go back to that carefree existence.

2; Get them into learning from an early age. As soon as they ask you a question you don't know the answer to, sit together at the computer and search for it together. Tell them everything you know about anything you see on a daily basis, something as simple as an acorn growing into an Oak tree will be a spark in their hearth of knowledge. Buy your child a magazine as a treat, sit with them and help them complete the activities. If you love music show them videos on you tube and tell them about the instruments. Watch animal documentaries together. Open them up to thinking, solving and questioning. When they finally reach school age they will be armed with the tools for enjoying education.

3; Give them a little control. As simple a thing as choosing what shoes they'd like to wear (within reason, not many schools allow Peppa Pig flip flops), let them decide on a bag and lunch box too. If they want a hair cut go get one, if they want to wear ribbons in their pony tails and butterfly clips go for it. When your child understands that going to school means being more grown up, and growing up means having the lee way to make more decisions, he/she will start to come round to the idea.

4; Don't stress out in the mornings. This is one that I have learnt the hard way. After sweetly asking my son to put down his dinosaurs and get dressed I thought I'd leave it at that and go about my morning routine. Obviously my son was so engrossed in helping his dinos in their escape from the meteor he completely ignored my request, and the one after that, and the shouting it several times. So it all went a little worse than pear shaped; there were sulks, stamping feet, throwing toys and screaming about how unfair life was (Louie was pretty pissed off too). We left with just enough time to march at a soldierly pace, my son wanting to analyse every leaf and poke spiders whilst being dragged along by his cruel mother. Now every morning I make sure it all runs a bit smoother. Louie can't have telly on, for instance, until he is dressed. Packed lunch is always prepared the night before and my morning cup of tea is put on hold until I have completed mission school run. 

                                                                        *

My son will frequently attempt to play top trumps with me in regard to going to school. He'll whip out his weak 'It's boring' card and sulkily cross his arms. At this point I will stop what I'm doing, and in slow motion, like a Texan cowboy in a shoot out, The Good the Bad and the Ugly theme playing in my head, I draw my weapon...  Bam!

"Ok, why don't you just stay home with me for the whole day? First we will slowly dissect mount-washing up until our hands become wrinkled prunes, then we shall go into battle with the army of toys scattered around your bedroom. After our victory we will need to remove all that remains of our visit from the dust fairies, hoover up the peas that jumped off your plate last night (escapeas???) and then mummy will need to lie in a dark room with a flannel over her eyes for at least an hour, at which point you will be required to sit very quietly and watch the already-dried paint. This will not be a tidy up scene from Mary Poppins buddy..." 

If this fails I threaten to build a time machine and travel back to Victorian England where he would be sent down the coal mines/up chimneys/to the workhouse/to live with Ebenezer Scrooge.

Useful things you can do with a yoghurt pot #126

• GENTLY PEEL OFF LID PREFERABLY WITH FINGERS

• EXTRACT A SPOON OR SIMILAR SCOOPING UTENSIL FROM CUTLERY DRAWER (IN TIMES OF DESPARATION YOU MAY FIND THE USE OF A HEDGEHOG EAR QUITE SATISFACTORY.)

• USE SCOOPING UTENSIL TO REMOVE YOGHURT FROM POT AND BRING TO YOUR MOUTH

• BEFORE MAKING CONTACT WITH THE MOUTH, BE SURE TO OPEN IT. PERHAPS THE FIRST FEW TIMES WHEN MASTERING THE COMPLICATED TECHNIQUE WEARING A BIB MIGHT BE HELPFUL

• BE WARY OF AMOUNT OF YOGHURT ON SPOON, TOO MUCH MAY RESULT IN DROWNING, TOO LITTLE, AND YOU ARE IN FOR A DISAPPOINTING YOGHURT EXPERIENCE

• FOR FURTHER SAFETY PRECAUTIONS A GOOD IDEA WOULD BE TO WEAR ARMBANDS

• DO NOT EAT THE SPOON

• BE SURE TO RECYCLE YOGHURT POT AFTER YOU HAVE COMPLETED ALL THE ABOVE STEPS OR THE WORLD WILL END AND NO AMOUNT OF ARMBANDS WILL SAVE US

So it begins.....

As I have heard many a time during these four years of bottom wiping, food shovelling, buggy fuelled pave raging, extracting stray lego out of feet etc, it is so very important to keep a diary. Had I taken this irritatingly accurate advice from the word 'push,' it would be a lot easier to fill this blog with knowledge and tips on parenthood. As it stands I will have to resort to rooting through those moth riddled boxes in my mind for any little experience gems that I can share with you. Maybe we can all fish out our advice gems and donate them to saving the Western World from 'toxic parenting.' (more about toxic parenting when I'm in the mood for long words and lecturing).


So, for all this time devoted to moulding and shaping my little blob with eyes, my son has been painstakingly transformed into a  generally socially acceptable four year old whipper-snapper. (Apart from his tendency to pivot his head 360 degrees and puke streams of green liquid). Little Louie skipped off to 'big school' two weeks ago, leaving me the freedom to do whatever I darn well chose to do. As long as most of it was housework.


After the initial joy of being able to finish a *whole* cup of tea, whilst revelling in the ability to actually put a full face of make up on without having to do twenty other arduous tasks, I was left in an unfamiliar state of peace. It felt like the aftermath of a fervid party that had sucked you in, spun you round and spilled you out into a dazed heap on some stranger's ashy carpet. The hangover of motherhood had begun.