I have journals, perhaps obviously, for my babies. My youngest's has broken (dodgy notebook) and my eldest's is nearly full (it's only taken me 3 years) so I'm off this weekend to buy new.
I feel a bit guilty, really. Since starting this blog, I've written less in the Baby Journals than I used to. Mind, a lot of other things have been happening as well... it's been a busy year or so.
Sorry, Bunnyman. You came into our lives at a hectic time, and you have not had the full benefit of my attention, in the way that I would have liked. And sorry, Snunkie Bear. Your brother arrived at a time which was potentially inconvenient to your plans (various assessments, the start of nursery, etc) and you have felt the lack of my attention, as well.
These things (life, baby-raising, relationships, everything, etc) never go as planned. Still, all is well. I love both of you so much, and I wouldn't trade either of you for anything in the world. I will continue to tell you so in your journals, and I will continue trying to write more for you, so you will always know it.
Whatever else I am--and I am many things, not all of them good--I am a mother who is absolutely in love with her children.
Friday, 27 November 2009
Thursday, 12 November 2009
New Partners
New partners, bring new in-laws (well you know what I mean)... I get to meet my new partner's dad, this weekend.
So, like, tomorrow.
Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!
.................................................
It is now several days later, and I have an update.
I have met my new guy's dad. He is a very nice man, and I liked him.
Lol. And basically, that is it, that is all.
So, like, tomorrow.
Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!
.................................................
It is now several days later, and I have an update.
I have met my new guy's dad. He is a very nice man, and I liked him.
Lol. And basically, that is it, that is all.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
Winter, and the Lurgy is Upon Us
Everyone in my house has diarrhoea, or vomiting, or some combination of the two. It started with me last Thursday, and has not yet finished with me... but now, it has moved on to all the other members of my household.
I'm sorry, sweet eldest child, that you awoke covered in half-digested nuggets and stomach-soured milk, this morning. I'm sorry, lovely youngest child, that you were torn from sleep at 4 a.m., by the blistering liquid poo that filled your nappy to overflowing. Poor babies. I would have this malaise for another month or more, if I could, if it spared you from even a week of it. Indeed, I don't know why you haven't been spared.
I have been washing my hands. I have bathed even more vigourously and often than my usual one-and-a-half-ish times per day. I have avoided all but the most necessary of food preparation, up until last night, by which time I had thought I was well again. But all my caution and cleanliness is to no avail. My illness spreads :(
I'm sorry, most recent addition to my household, that even now, you sit at work; and though you try to do your work, you are forced to frequent the loo to relieve the runny tummy that has been my gift to you. It was *not* the raw eggs--I was ill long before I licked the brownie spoon, and forced you, in your turn, to have a taste. Though with your effortless intelligence and customarily deft grasp of things, you point out something I'm forced to agree with... I doubt uncooked brownie batter is helping to settle my stomach.
But the real problem started before then, and you know it.
I'm sorry, you guys. I know that if a moth sneezes in Southeast Asia, I catch a cold in Northeast England, but I didn't mean to pass my germs (pathogens!) on to all of you. Get well, my lovelies, and I'll look after you as best as I can in the meantime... and never fear.
You'll all be well again long before I am.
I'm sorry, sweet eldest child, that you awoke covered in half-digested nuggets and stomach-soured milk, this morning. I'm sorry, lovely youngest child, that you were torn from sleep at 4 a.m., by the blistering liquid poo that filled your nappy to overflowing. Poor babies. I would have this malaise for another month or more, if I could, if it spared you from even a week of it. Indeed, I don't know why you haven't been spared.
I have been washing my hands. I have bathed even more vigourously and often than my usual one-and-a-half-ish times per day. I have avoided all but the most necessary of food preparation, up until last night, by which time I had thought I was well again. But all my caution and cleanliness is to no avail. My illness spreads :(
I'm sorry, most recent addition to my household, that even now, you sit at work; and though you try to do your work, you are forced to frequent the loo to relieve the runny tummy that has been my gift to you. It was *not* the raw eggs--I was ill long before I licked the brownie spoon, and forced you, in your turn, to have a taste. Though with your effortless intelligence and customarily deft grasp of things, you point out something I'm forced to agree with... I doubt uncooked brownie batter is helping to settle my stomach.
But the real problem started before then, and you know it.
I'm sorry, you guys. I know that if a moth sneezes in Southeast Asia, I catch a cold in Northeast England, but I didn't mean to pass my germs (pathogens!) on to all of you. Get well, my lovelies, and I'll look after you as best as I can in the meantime... and never fear.
You'll all be well again long before I am.
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
It's Possible
Only possible, you understand--I admit no culpability--but it is *possible* that my last entry was a little harsh.
Of course, there are two ways to say what you mean: taking a dozen opportunities to make snide, sarcastic, or just plain bitchy remarks; and coming out and, well, saying what you mean. Tact and subtlety not being my strong points, I generally just say what I mean; and in case someone's having an oblivious day, or they just happen to be as lacking in subtlety as I am, I try to make myself as clear as I can. Sometimes, I overdo it a bit.
I was just going for honesty. I was just trying to keep it real. I'm just not in the habit of pulling my punches.
I was just mad as a hornet, lol.
But if I said anything under the influence of petty anger, as opposed to the righteous type, then I am sorry, and I do apologise. And for the language I used, which is less than uplifting, I apologise again. See? Temper, temper.
But the fact remains--some people love to throw stones, but they can't handle it when something bigger is lobbed their way.
Can I help it if I only throw boulders?
Of course, there are two ways to say what you mean: taking a dozen opportunities to make snide, sarcastic, or just plain bitchy remarks; and coming out and, well, saying what you mean. Tact and subtlety not being my strong points, I generally just say what I mean; and in case someone's having an oblivious day, or they just happen to be as lacking in subtlety as I am, I try to make myself as clear as I can. Sometimes, I overdo it a bit.
I was just going for honesty. I was just trying to keep it real. I'm just not in the habit of pulling my punches.
I was just mad as a hornet, lol.
But if I said anything under the influence of petty anger, as opposed to the righteous type, then I am sorry, and I do apologise. And for the language I used, which is less than uplifting, I apologise again. See? Temper, temper.
But the fact remains--some people love to throw stones, but they can't handle it when something bigger is lobbed their way.
Can I help it if I only throw boulders?
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
Reality Returns
Enough of these delicate flights of fantasy, these gentle sojourns into the land of poetry and imagination. I am happy, yes; but the time for exclaiming over it, with song and dance and crashing cymbal, has passed. As the title says--reality is once again mine. It has returned to me, in the form of an ex-husband.
What a complete whinge. Does the man have nothing better to do, than bitch about me? Yes. Yes, I divorced him, and he's pissed off. I get that. And yes, I don't raise the kids exactly as he would, and it makes him cross; which is easily half the reason we got divorced in the first place, while we're on the subject. And, indeed, I had the unmitigated gall to move my new guy into my ex-husband's house (mine too, we bought it together, I haven't stolen it) but since he's in no position to pay ANYTHING towards keeping this roof over his children's heads, I rather think he has no right to complain about *anything* I do in a house I'm paying for without any financial support from him.
He might not like my current bloke, but I'm thinking it's all to the good if ONE of the adults in daily contact with my babies can actually hold down a fucking job, no? Yes? YES.
I do not excuse myself, you understand. I don't have a job either, and I'm not even pretending to look for one. But then, I don't have to--I have a significant other, who's perfectly happy to let me stay at home and raise my kids, while he goes out and earns our daily bread. You know. The little woman, staying at home, looking after the house and kiddlies, while the big brave man travels into the real world, and puts food on the table. (Food which, incidentally, I cook... that's amazing in and of itself.) We're a pretty little picture of domestic bliss, straight out of the 50's: Mom, Dad, one son, one daughter, the perfect imitation of the traditional nuclear family.
Except Mom and (Step)dad aren't married, the kids aren't his, and I have a griping, whining, complaining, obnoxious ex trying desperately to call the shots, in every way he possibly can.
My ex is a real piece of work, he really is. He wants to tell me how to look after the kids. He wants to give me a stern talking-to when I don't answer his texts in a timely fashion. He admits, in his very last blog entry, that Newcastle is well within easy driving distance for casual sex with some tasty foreign cyber-slut; but if I try to move his kids all 15 miles into the city, he'll fight to keep them in this podunk coal-mining town in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, where half the residents are trying to get the FUCK outta Dodge right now, and the other half are sitting around picking their noses going , no, let's never leave it and only speak to our blood relatives and why don't we join the BNP as well, and university what's that? is it not good enough to work down the pit all our lives, or maybe get some call-centre work, or better yet pop out another 15 kids and live off the State, and *if* I succeed in thwarting his poorly conceived and repressive plans and I manage to move my kids out of this hive of under-educated, non-achieving, inbred, dole-scrounging chav-tastic pissheads, my ex will refuse to undertake the half an hour drive to Newcastle or the surrounding areas, to see his children.
Do you know what. Do you know what. Sometimes, there's only one thing to say.
Oh FUCK YOU, you ignorant cunt.
He makes me want to move the babies into Newcastle just to get them away from him and his unreasoned, negative, short-sighted attitude.
What a complete whinge. Does the man have nothing better to do, than bitch about me? Yes. Yes, I divorced him, and he's pissed off. I get that. And yes, I don't raise the kids exactly as he would, and it makes him cross; which is easily half the reason we got divorced in the first place, while we're on the subject. And, indeed, I had the unmitigated gall to move my new guy into my ex-husband's house (mine too, we bought it together, I haven't stolen it) but since he's in no position to pay ANYTHING towards keeping this roof over his children's heads, I rather think he has no right to complain about *anything* I do in a house I'm paying for without any financial support from him.
He might not like my current bloke, but I'm thinking it's all to the good if ONE of the adults in daily contact with my babies can actually hold down a fucking job, no? Yes? YES.
I do not excuse myself, you understand. I don't have a job either, and I'm not even pretending to look for one. But then, I don't have to--I have a significant other, who's perfectly happy to let me stay at home and raise my kids, while he goes out and earns our daily bread. You know. The little woman, staying at home, looking after the house and kiddlies, while the big brave man travels into the real world, and puts food on the table. (Food which, incidentally, I cook... that's amazing in and of itself.) We're a pretty little picture of domestic bliss, straight out of the 50's: Mom, Dad, one son, one daughter, the perfect imitation of the traditional nuclear family.
Except Mom and (Step)dad aren't married, the kids aren't his, and I have a griping, whining, complaining, obnoxious ex trying desperately to call the shots, in every way he possibly can.
My ex is a real piece of work, he really is. He wants to tell me how to look after the kids. He wants to give me a stern talking-to when I don't answer his texts in a timely fashion. He admits, in his very last blog entry, that Newcastle is well within easy driving distance for casual sex with some tasty foreign cyber-slut; but if I try to move his kids all 15 miles into the city, he'll fight to keep them in this podunk coal-mining town in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, where half the residents are trying to get the FUCK outta Dodge right now, and the other half are sitting around picking their noses going , no, let's never leave it and only speak to our blood relatives and why don't we join the BNP as well, and university what's that? is it not good enough to work down the pit all our lives, or maybe get some call-centre work, or better yet pop out another 15 kids and live off the State, and *if* I succeed in thwarting his poorly conceived and repressive plans and I manage to move my kids out of this hive of under-educated, non-achieving, inbred, dole-scrounging chav-tastic pissheads, my ex will refuse to undertake the half an hour drive to Newcastle or the surrounding areas, to see his children.
Do you know what. Do you know what. Sometimes, there's only one thing to say.
Oh FUCK YOU, you ignorant cunt.
He makes me want to move the babies into Newcastle just to get them away from him and his unreasoned, negative, short-sighted attitude.
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