Apr 15, 2015
Life is a little crazy sometimes. In my life it’s a lot of crazy most of the time, but recently it feels like crazy took a fast train to the asylum.
I think a straitjacket really works well on me to be honest. It’s like a giant hug to yourself, which is very therapeutic.
It’s half term. Half term means the kids are off school. Kids being off school means entertaining them all day, everyday. This means you dream about having a lie in and not having to get up to the alarm each morning for the school run, but instead you end up waking up realising that you have to find something to do for the next 12 hours trying to make mini people happy. This works until you notice that you’re doing a weather dance every day and praying for sunshine, so that maybe you can do cheaper days out because for some reason going to the park costs like forty pounds, when it’s supposed to be free. I’m seriously considering going into the mobile ice cream truck business.
I actually like the half terms, mostly the summer one. It means we can all relax, go out, have cookie face stuffing competitions, movie nights and park runs. Spring however, that’s the two and a half week half term where you cannot guarantee the weather. It might rain for two and a half weeks, or it might be bright and sunny. It might, be bright and sunny the last day of the half term, or it might just do everything from storm, hail, sleet, snow and sunshine. There is no way to plan anything, you have to wing it every single day. You have to just shout out to the kids “BE READY IN 5 MINUTES FOR THE BEACH! GO GO GO GO!” or it ends up being hot and sunny on the one day you planned to stay in and get things done. It’s just that time of year where nothing makes sense and you have to take cardigans, light coats, waterproof coats, tank tops, shorts, rubber boots, flip flops, all your sweaters, one hoodie and a suitcase everywhere you go. JUST in case.
After many fights, toys flung, days out, lunches, juices, far too much kid TV, get togethers, money blown, routine shot, I am slowly yet swiftly starting to understand exactly how Dora the Explorer feels. She and I are currently locked into our own identity crisis. I don’t even know who I am anymore and quite frankly neither does she. Her best friend is a talking monkey, my kids are practically monkeys, but at least Boots makes sense and the weather in her world is always perfect for adventures. I also don’t have a map in my backpack that sings to me, but I do have a sat nav on my phone that I swear sighs every single time I miss a turn and it has to reroute the journey AGAIN. It does in its own way shout at me I’M THE MAP LADY! I’m the map, I’M THE MAP! LISTEN DAMN YOU LISTEN! I generally shout back that clearly it doesn’t have kids in the back seat trying to tell it how to drive and asking where we are going every 5 seconds.
Why am I so convinced that Dora, who by the way is like what the age of 8 and going alone everywhere escorted only by her talking monkey and no one seems to be concerned about that at all, is going through an identity crisis? I saw her in a European country some years ago and found out she features in other countries too, with a grand total of 30 plus other languages. Those people in those other countries, aren’t even aware that she’s Latina. Like someone in a European country was shocked to hear that and figured that she was “Hawaiian or something”. This didn’t even make sense because she was speaking Dutch and English there, which is nowhere near Hawaii and I know that even though I’m American. It seems that even though there are episodes featuring Piñatas people are still confused. She clearly looks Latina, but still there are actually people in this world who are blissfully ignorant about her real roots.
I’m just still shocked that the piñata never gave it away.
I’m starting to feel more than concerned for Dora. She seems emancipated, talking to animals who answer back, speaking FAR too many languages, travelled so far that no one knows where she is from and I really do not know how much she is getting paid to be on that tv show teaching kids how to speak other languages, but I’m sure the producers are making more than her. Is she really a role model? Over worked and underpaid at the age of like 8? She needs an intervention with a lot of therapy. That kid isn’t going places at this rate, she’s already been everywhere. With that many languages, I’m sure even she doesn’t know where she’s from anymore. I understand that, she and I are on the same page there.
Maybe I’m just jealous. My monkeys talk back to me too and we go places, but less with bottomless well equipped backpacks and more headless chicken style with the entire contents of the kitchen in a plastic bag. I may not speak 30 plus other languages, but I do speak kid, which is practically like 30 plus other languages mashed together into one giant language. Only a Mother could work out what a grunt, point, scream and single syllable could actually mean.
Really I’m just concerned that the entire world doesn’t know where piñatas come from. I don’t think the internet is working anymore.
Honestly, let’s just get the routine back in the house so I don’t have to endure anymore Dora. I’ve reached my limit on crazy now.
Please send help. Or Boots.
At this point I don’t even care.
Mar 21, 2015
Sometimes you have the take the road of least resistance, the one that keeps you from falling off the metaphorical cliff of exhaustion. Which let me tell you seems a little tempting, because I imagine there is some kind of sleep involved at the bottom of that metaphor. That really sounds awesome, even if it defeats the point.
This not-so-single-single-Mom thing is a pretty tough gig sometimes. There is a delicate balance between keeping the kids in line and Lord of the Flies going down. For anyone who needs to know what a worst case scenario looks like with a group of kids, I recommend watching that movie. You know what, maybe not. Just keep your innocence. On top of just attempting to raise kids that don’t turn into criminals, I’m also running a full time business at home.
You know what this means? This means my to do list everyday looks a little like this….
I don’t even stand a chance.
It also means I look a little like this…..
Keep your opinions to yourself cat.
Ok fine, I look a lot like that. It’s fast becoming a damn miracle if I can just remember the name of the child I am speaking to. Wait, you’re my kid right? Which one are you? I’m sorry, can I just give you a number? There really are no more hours in my day. Some days I just drink my coffee with my eyes closed so I can have 5 minutes of bliss without staring at the dishes and obsessing over how many jobs need to be done. From experience I would wear a shirt that you really can just throw away after, but not naked because that’s a lot more painful than throwing the shirt in the bin. At least consider a giant bib. Trust me on this one. Once in a while, I just have to do whatever thing is easy. Therefore, we eat a lot of mother freaking pasta around here.
When the pasta revolution started in my house, the kids were pretty stoked about it. Can I have cheese on mine? What kind of pasta is it? I LOVE PASTA! It was our happy food. I was happy, because dinner was just a quick boil and sauce away. The kids were happy, because cheese was involved and things are always better with cheese. Do you even know what it feels like to make four kids happy with one meal? It’s like winning the lottery. I could even spend an extra 5 minutes dumping vegetables in it and making myself feel like an awesome health conscious Mom. I have a really good imagination. Now the kids just start throwing their heads back and rolling their eyes about the pasta.
Which is the absolute worst reaction that kids ever invented.
They may as well just stab me right in the heart, because that is what they are doing mentally anyway. AGAAAIIN? UGH! I’m also pretty sure that my youngest son woke me up speaking Italian the other day, which slightly concerns me. Perhaps it really is time to get another meal in the rotation of Things Mom needs to cook in a hurry before there’s a mental health issue involved. You know what, that would be a best-selling cookbook. If only I had time to write it.
I’m sorry about the pasta kids, I really am. Sometimes we Moms just get stuck in the pasta rut, it happens. When you are trying to fit 134857,000 things into one single day, it really starts to get a little overwhelming. Sometimes pasta is just the thing that keeps me from diving off the metaphorical cliff of exhaustion.
On the other hand, if one of you guys started thinking about making the coffee in the morning instead of speaking Italian to me at 6am, there might be some room for change on my part.
Oct 16, 2014
I really don’t have time to incur major or minor injuries right now, so I’d like to start this post with
Please refrain from hurling your Oxford dictionaries at me.
Anything that possibly puts me out of action as a not-so-single-single-Mom of four kids pretty much crucifies the state of my house. We are already managing to screw it up pretty good without that.
So to clarify, I am aware that unsane is not a real word. However, upon much consideration I have decided that it is perfectly aligned with everything that my life is all about. To put it bluntly, I see your Oxford dictionary and raise you a Unicorn.
You see, for reasons only known to my parents, possibly the FBI, CIA, MI5 and I’m guessing a super secret, secret service that knows our every movements, I am not governed by the normal rules of society and grammar. No. I rule my portion of middle earth with things that make absolutely no sense at all to anyone…..except me. To be perfectly honest, there are many things that I do that make absolutely no sense to me either, but I do them because there’s a little happy place inside me that gets a kick out of it. You can’t ignore a happy place people, it disrupts the balance of pretty much everything.
Recently a few things have shifted in my life. My youngest child toddled off to school, which has meant a few less tears on my part trying to undo, what he just undid of my hard work scrubbing the house down. Somehow, between running a business from home and trying to not shout out my demands at mini people, I gained actual time. Did you hear me there? ACTUAL TIME. Time to just…..wait…..getting a little emotional now…..time to just…..*sniff*…..do whatever I want. This time is now deemed the anti-juice time. During these blessed hours when children are all at school and doing their educational related school stuff, no one at home is asking me for ANYTHING. Not a thing. Not a single juice request.
There is actual silence in my house you guys.
You have no idea. Of course, mostly I do the whole adult thing and work, which is terribly responsible and completely not me at all. It does keep my little happy place happy and things seem to operate in a sort of more orderly fashion. Which creeps me out beyond belief because orderly is not in my vocabulary and I feel like something is about to jump out of the closet at any moment and just ruin the roll I’m on. The panic attacks are getting less frequent, I’m finally getting comfortable that nothing will actually strike…..although that’s always when it does. Oh god……..
With this newly found time, I have done what any unsane person would actually do and wasted it senselessly. I deserve it. It’s left me far too much time on my hands to think about things that are completely useless, like does the TV remote possess magical powers? Why do they fight over it then? Yet also to reflect back at how surreal my life has been with a clone of me always in tow asking for multiple episodes of whatever-kid-show-is-most-annoying-at-the-time and juice by the truck load. I’ve had time to think about me, in all my weirdness and strange habits that have formed from this life I’ve created.
In a conversation I had with me recently, I came to the conclusion that I’m truly not insane. Insane implies it’s not my fault and I probably need meds. I don’t need meds. I need a shot of Tequila and a back massage. Sane is completely just NOT me, because no one has a conversation with themselves who’s actually sane. I’m pretty sure no one would describe me as sane, the words crazy and nuts are used far too often in my presence to be clinically sane. No, I’m unsane. Unsane teeters on the edge of sane and insane.
Unsane is a lifestyle choice.
That’s right. I am choosing to reject sane and since it’s a choice, I am not insane. I am consciously aware and reserve the right to not be sane. I need this to stand in court. I need to start a revolution.
Unsane is the new black.
Unsane is totally me. I am so working this.
Jul 25, 2014
I think the title of this post suggests that I’m an over-emotional-basket-case-nutjob. Which is entirely true, but focusing on that right now would miss the entire point of this post. Besides, there’s still no medication to fix that level of crazy, believe me my doctor is at his wits end. The NHS should really give that guy a pay raise.
So this year my other half and I decided that in honour of how we met and the fact that we both love music, we needed to hit a festival. One of the festivals we had no real choice but to attend, since it was part of the reason the cosmos aligned perfectly to ensure we got together in the first place. We figured that not going was going to mean impending doom on our relationship if we didn’t actually make it. I mean, you can’t mess around with superstition you guys and we are on a pretty good roll here. So Download was on and we had this amazingly awesome time, bands happened and fabulous company witnessed it all. Deal was sealed and we had pictures to prove everything. Some of which we are still fighting to have removed from the internet…..anyway……
But then, Sonisphere was also on this year just a few weeks after Download. We ooh’d, we ahh’d, we stared at our bank balances for a very long time. We ooh’d again, we scrunched up our faces, we thought “do we? Don’t we?” Really though……. Metallica. There just wasn’t anything left to decide after knowing Metallica was there. I started plotting my get rich quick scheme and even though no body bought into that at all, somehow by the powers that be enough luck was on our side that we made BOTH festivals happen. I’m fairly sure I’ve used up everything in my karma bank now to make that happen. I’ve just bought some bubble wrap on eBay until I can do enough good deeds again to rack up my balance and I probably have quite a bit of interest to repay now too. Also any tips on how I can bubble wrap myself efficiently would be great right now.
Metallica were on the Sunday, which gave me enough time to practise keeping my cool until the big day arrived. However, it also provided quite a bit of torture of the kind I have only ever really had with Santa Claus. My brain was a little “CHRISTMAS IS ALMOST HERE” for most of the weekend, but a little voice in my head kept saying “You’re a grown woman, man up for god’s sake” I kept it under wraps, I didn’t lose my shit on the Friday or the Saturday, but by the Sunday I was starting to become a bundle of excitement and nerves. That is, until the band before Metallica (which by the way was Therapy? and if I don’t mention that Jay is probably going to unfriend me on Facebook for forgetting. Keep calm and don’t unfriend me!) That was when, everything got a little weird…….
You know how something major is about to change your life and you know it’s coming, but the only thing you can do is get really nervous and say stupid things because your brain is slowly frying and attempting to process what is about to happen? By the time we were standing there watching Therapy? I was slowly turning into a mindless mush. Time was going way to freaking slow, this band was playing way to freaking long and I needed someone to just punch me in the face to ensure I wasn’t going to pass out. I couldn’t really say anything and as everyone was like “you ok?” the only thing that could come waltzing out of my mouth was “Metallica”. In a brief moment of sanity, I just put it out there to someone (it may have possibly been a stranger, I can’t really remember) “You guys, I am going to cry. No, really, I am going to cry.” I’m pretty sure no one really believed me, because honestly
Who the hell cries at a heavy metal concert?
If you ever need anyone to break a few new boundaries for you, take a few things to whole new levels of weird, it seems I am indeed that someone. I always knew it deep down. Thankfully, no one decided to actually have me committed, which I want to personally thank them for that was really sweet. I also need to thank Chris for not holding this against me at any time during or after the event, he was entirely supportive of my mentally unstable moment. That’s real love you guys. After swooping through the biggest crowd I have ever seen in my entire life, Metallica hit the stage and I swore I was just going to hold it together. Yeah……that worked out for a grand total of 5 minutes when I realised I was just standing there with tears streaming down my face. Since I don’t do anything by half…..ever…..I managed to cry
For the entire 2 hour set.
Yeah. I’m not even embarrassed. I have waited for over 20 years to see these guys live. Ok, I’m a little embarrassed now that I am old enough to have waited over 20 years to see these guys live, so can we just stick with the story that I have liked Metallica since I was 5? No? Alright suck it.
How could I not cry? Metallica you guys. Seeing them live was on my bucket list. (of course I have a bucket list) I will point out now that I don’t really cry that often, especially in front of people. I dunno it’s a thing. It felt like everyone and their second cousin twice removed had seen Metallica before me, for no less than 25 times. My 13 year old self was standing there rendered stupid at the sound of them playing absolutely every single song I have ever adored from them. There was an overload of nostalgia and they sounded just amazing. In case just being there wasn’t perfect enough, the whole show was BY REQUEST. Worth waiting over 20 years (I WAS 5! Sigh.)
I’m actually quite proud. I’m just going to own it. I don’t even care if you guys want to mock me now and make fun. Do it. I totally dare you to do it. However since my Mom might be reading this post and since she decided in my early teens that heavy metal was a phase I was going through…… and she didn’t want me to end up as a convict because I listened to such angry music…… and I secretly used to listen to Metallica when she wasn’t looking….
Mom I’m not grounded now am I?
She can’t still do that right? I mean she lives over an entire ocean and a huge chunk of land mass and I’ve moved on, apparently into adulthood, to become a Mother for many years now. Her groundation rights are revoked right? I would like to take this opportunity to point out that I did not grow up to be a criminal Mom…..
Whatever. It was totally worth it.
Thanks for not having me committed guys. Although your own sanity is also questionable. You guys rock.
Feb 18, 2014
Everything has a time frame.
If you Google getting from one place to another, Google gives you an approximate time frame. For instance, Google tells me that it will take approximately 11 hours and 10 minutes on a non stop flight to get to Tijuana, Mexico. It also tells me I’m going to need to fly there from a London airport and since you guys aren’t playing ball with me, Google says it’s going to take me 10 hours and 7 minutes to walk to London City Airport from my house. Google obviously isn’t taking into account that I could potentially pass out en route. I hope it’s factored a Starbucks somewhere on my walk to prevent any medical disasters.
So tell me what if I need to get to Tijuana? What the hell am I supposed to do then?
See DVLA, if you just gave me my freaking license back I could be sitting in Tijuana with a bottle of tequila in 12 hours and 3 minutes. In 12 hours and 20 minutes I could be passed out on the floor of a dodgy pub wearing a sombrero and flip flops, after having devoured the worm with party goers laughing and dancing around me. If we do this shit your way, it’s going to take me 21 hours and 17 minutes to even get to Tijuana, in which the only place I am going to pass out is right outside the plane stepping off the damn thing from sheer exhaustion NOT wearing a sombrero and flip flops.
Which to you sounds more economical DVLA? None of this seems remotely humane.
I’ve been waiting for four months for you to process my application. At first you said, hey give us six weeks to get back to you because honestly the coffee here is absolute crap and we can’t work any faster on the cheap £1.99 jar of instant stuff. I understood. I thought, you know what, that’s fair. After more than six weeks later you guys said, well we’ve finally got Ted in the other department to type up a letter to your neurologist and he’s actually posted it. We’re sorry it’s taken so long, but Ted’s wife left him over Christmas and he’s been crying all over your previous letters and we thought it was unprofessional to send those out. It’s going to take another six weeks to see if we get a reply. I thought, ok so the DVLA obviously doesn’t give out personal leave time very well, but you’re probably under staffed and Ted is clearly dedicated to his job and it’s all he has left. I just hoped that my neurologist was having a better time in his love life and could get his secretary to type up a letter in less than six weeks.
So when today, my update consisted of well yes, we got a letter from your super efficient neurologist WEEKS ago and now we’re going to pass this onto our medical team. They will evaluate the letter, decide whether or not your Neurologist is paying his secretary enough money based on whether she can type and spell properly, get a handwriting analysis investigator to analyse his signature and figure out if he’s telling us the truth or not about your medical condition and sit and have open therapy sessions with one another because all of this could potentially drag up some deep seeded emotional issues, especially with Ted because his wife WAS lying to him for 14 years. Then we’ll calm him down and get him to write you ANOTHER letter whenever all that is finished to let you know what our decision is about your license. I was pretty much devastated. Especially when I nicely asked you on the phone how long all of this was going to take, expecting a standard six weeks time frame and you jerk wads said Uh, there is no actual time frame on this part of the process. Do you know how heartbroken Ted is? It could take months of personal therapy and since he is our priority and our coffee is STILL the cheapest £1.99 crap, and we need to do a background check on your Neurologist to make sure he’s not wanted for fraud in any other countries, this could take….. you know what we don’t even know how long this could take.
You guys could have at least lied to me and said it would take possibly six to eight weeks and not just leave me hanging like this.
I know I’ve been off the road for like four years. I get that. I know you’re swamped with sob stories about people who have to endure public transport and I’m also aware that walking is incredibly good for my health and will keep me from all sorts of other medical problems. I know, I’m a grown woman who knows all about calorie intake and output, I get that.
But seriously, when Ted’s marital breakdown is affecting my ability to just drive down to buy cat litter in bulk, or just be able to nip down to the store on a rainy day without hesitation, or get down to Tijuana to save a friend from a Mexican drug lord named Paco and wind up passed on on the floor of a dodgy pub wearing a sombrero and flip flops, well…..
I have a problem.
Either give Ted some proper personal leave to sort his life out and get a temp in, who at least will work faster than Ted is right now provided she wasn’t single over Valentine’s Day this year- or just say truce and issue me with my license so I can get on with my life on the road. This isn’t a difficult choice you guys, it’s not like Paco is in your office yelling at you in Spanish in a poncho being scary, waving your cheap jar of instant coffee around like a hostage. He’s in Tijuana, in flip flops, probably with a whole case of Tequila maybe even eating a burrito.
Which is where I need to be you heartless bastards.