Parenting styles

My friend Charlotte has been harassing me to do a guest post on her blog, personally I think it is genuis (not just because I wrote it) but when you are stuck for words you can harass your friends to do posts for you…wish I thought of it first.  Alas, I am doomed to be a follower.

Any the way, here if you would like to read, click here.



Congratulations, it is a…uhm, what exactly is that?

Being pregnant one always look forward to the first scan, that first time you get to see your little bean/raisin/peanut/miracle/or-what-ever-you-decide-to-call-it.  It is such a magical moment. So I am told, quite frankly, if I am to be brutally honest, it was a bit. Dissapointing.

It may be that because this is not my first time at the circus I kind of want to make the clowns stop frollicking about and just want them to get to the good stuff.  Maybe it was my mindset<I had a humdinger of a fight with just about everyone that I came in contact with that day and more specifically the boss-man, really I should be locked up when I am this hormonaly, society will be safer that way.>

Any the way, so there I am, knees in the air, letting a man I had met a scant 5 minutes ago get to what must be considered ‘home base’ <Usually I would require dinner and at least a couple bottles of wine before putting out like that> all for the sake of getting a sneak peek…and for my troubles I get a blurry image of a grey blob. Which I managed to lose.

If you have ever been for a gynaecological exam, you know that it is possibly the most undignified exam on the planet, perhaps with the slight exception of the ‘old school’ prostate exams, and perhaps it is just me, but I always find it difficult to look the doctor in the eye after one of these exams, the gynaecological ones, not the prostate ones-obviously. I am never sure what would be the correct etiquette to follow.  Is there some sort of special ‘pillow talk’ that one has to engage in? Am I supposed to call again the next day, honestly I find the whole thing very confusing.

So I did what any self-respecting woman would do…tried to diffuse the situation with some humour. Which is surprisingly difficult when someone has a wand roughly the size of a pogo stick up your what-tcha-ma-call-it.  You can’t tell s.e.x jokes because they would just be weird and akward. Maybe this speaks to what kind of person I really am, but I dont know any ‘clean’ jokes-do you?

I cringe when I think of what I actually did say…it is that bad.

I actually said: “Congratulations…it is a blob.”

Judging by the arch of his eyebrow it is definately going to be difficult to make eye contact next appointment.


Honesty is not always nice, but it is needed.

I started blogging because I was living too much in my own head and like my blog title suggested was getting dangerously close to losing a couple marbles.

I lived in my head so much that I would sometimes forget to voice what I am feeling and thinking and that lead to alot of strain between me and my husband.  He would get so upset with me (well still does) when he asks me a question and I wouldn’t answer, of course I would vehemently deny this because I did answer, problem was, in my head.

This is not a good place to be in all the time. I was feeling out of synch, isolated and like I was being a spectator in my own life, problem was, I was being a spectator in my own life.

I don’t know whether this internal retreat was a long time coming, or where it originated, but it got really bad right after the birth of my son and the car accident in Jan 2010.

It is already such a big shock to have a baby, everything you think you know or thought you understood about yourself can pretty much be thrown out of the window.  You will never be the same. You think that you have had nine months to prepare yourself for this, but really ten years would not be enough time to get your head wrapped around the chaos, the sleepless nights, the fear, awe, amazement and the utter horror the first time that baby starts to howl and nothing you do or say gets them to shut the hell up. I saw all of my friends who had their babies and they were totally in love with their little bundles and I was green with envy.  Why couldn’t I feel like that?

Then came the accident. And just when I thought I cannot get more lost, I was proven wrong. I. definitely.could.

I cannot describe the mind altering pain of those first couple of days in the hospital.  I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t do anything but lie on my back and wish I was dead, immediately thereafter to feel engulfed by the rush of guilt that I had just wished to be put out of my misery.  I was not allowed to feel like that, I had to be grateful. I was spared. I was alive. I would walk again. All the while I was screaming in my head, get me the fuck out of here. This pain is fucking excruciating, I want to DIE! Just let me die.  Why won’t you let me die?

Of course my son was also in his own little hell, a hell that he could not articulate in any other way other than crying, violent acne rashes, refusal to breastfeed, refusal to take a feed from a bottle and an inability to sleep for longer than what felt like 3 seconds at a time with hours and hours of screaming to break the tediousness that is sleep.

I hated every moment of it.  I hated my husband, I hated my son, most of all I hated myself for feeling the way I did/being the way I am. I was a perfect breeding ground for postnatal depression. I was the poster child for PND. And I wore my badge with shame.

In front of everyone I wore this façade of the doting mother who was ever so grateful for surviving that which we had. I cooed when it was appropriate to coo, I smiled and gurgled when everyone was watching, but all the while I had this deep dark secret that I kept locked in my head. I retreated in my head because that is where I was safe.  I was allowed to feel what I felt without the judgement. I was allowed to say that I was angry.

Only once in that hell did I try and reach out, I told a friend that I was so tired of everyone telling me I should be grateful, wasn’t a great reception to that observation, so I kept myself in check. I stopped talking apart from exchanging pleasantries.

But I am over that now. This festering feast is no longer going to remain in my head and corrupt everything that I feel and think.

Yes I had PND but for the first time in almost 18 months I can honestly say, I adore my son. He challenges me to be better than what I am, he makes me smile and when I think of him my heart swells.  I think I am finally experiencing that new-motherhood glow. It took me a while but I am finally getting over my anger too.  I actually went to church on Sunday and it felt good.  I did not feel like a hypocrite.

I am taking this in baby steps, but I am getting there. Starting with this post, I am moving a bit out of my head.


Open mouth insert foot…

Someone I know always said that spies should just say that they work for the post office.  It is sheer brilliance really if you think about it.   Everyone knows what a Post man (or woman) does, so there is nothing really to say further on that subject.

If you go to a dinner party or any party for that matter where you are obliged to speak to a bunch of strangers, what is the first question you normally ask them… “So, what do you do?”

I was recently at a friend’s birthday party  Buena Vista Social Café. Which I thought was severely overpriced, the service left much to be desired (that is what happens if you wait an hour for a plate of nachos) the prices where exorbitant. And the food, well lets just say, it was crap.

Anyway, I only knew three of the people there and after an hour of discussing all the possible television series with the guy next to me, I left to go the ladies room and when I returned I saw that someone had taken my place.

I was hard-pressed not to do a little happy dance right there and then and go up to the poor soul that took my empty seat and thank them for the kindness they had bestowed on me, but anyway I am getting a bit of topic.

Anyhoo, there I was, with nowhere to sit but beside my friend’s boyfriend.  Let’s call him S.  I sat next to S for about ten minutes twiddling my thumbs-and anyone who knows me that I am definitely not the shy and reserved type, I can pretty much strike up a full blown conversation with a broom stick, if  given the opportunity.

I was stuck next to S with nary a thing to talk about, so I reverted to the old standby, “so what do you do?”.

(This time wasn’t nearly as mortifying as the time I asked someone who we picked up, thinking that she was in need of a lift and it turns out we picked up the only prostitute in Sedgefield, but that I think is a story for another day)

Thankfully he said he was a Chartered Accountant.

This was pretty much where the conversation stopped.

Or should have stopped, if my inebriated brain didn’t remember this little titbit about National Intelligence Agency, which my pickled brain sent directly to my mouth before I could shut it, at which point I proceeded to tell S that the N I A could tell their recruits that when they are questioned about their employment they should say that they are CA’s because no-one will ask them anything further out of fear of being bored to death.

You could cut the silence with a knife…and then I wonder why I don’t get invited to more these things?