Friday, 12 January 2018

All The Single Mummy’s 

The ‘Single Mother’ conversation seems to have resurfaced of late, along with the charming video of David Cameron making a speech after the Looting took place a few years back where he stated that he doubted the looters “had Fathers at home”
To be fair David, it’s a tough call to decide whether you’d rather have a child from a single family who loots, or a child from an ‘unbroken middle class family’ who fucks pigs.
Anyway..I digress.
Let’s ignore the sexist idea that children need a father at home to instill discipline & morals. The idea is ludicrous and really doesn’t deserve acknowledgement.
Instead, let’s look at the idea that single mothers are ‘bad mothers.’
Despite being a single mother myself, I just can’t take offence to this ideology. Mainly because becoming single hasn’t made me a bad mother. It’s made me a better one. A happier one.

Yes, I may be alone. But I’m no longer lonely.

My children are no longer surrounded by a mother who is snappy and irritable because she’s miserable.

I have less time but somehow more than ever. Time to just listen.

Instead of a snoring man in my bed I have two cosy, chubby cheeked minis crawling in with me in the middle of the night

The bond with my children is stronger than its ever been.

I’m less stressed. Probably because I now only have to raise the children that grew in my womb rather than a fully grown one that didn’t

I just don’t get this idea of ‘Single Mum, Bad Mum’
I’m absolutely killing it as a parent.

Yes, I’m juggling 5 million things at once and my life is chocolate and snot stained chaos. But the same can be said for ALL Mums! Not just the singletons!
We all second guess ourselves, feel the guilt, roll our eyes silently at yet another tantrum.

But I parent no differently now than I ever did before.

I don’t fit the ‘Stereotype’ and if you look closely I doubt any of us do.

The very fact that when a family breaks up it’s the single mother who is blamed for the way their children turn out speaks volumes. We’re here, holding the fort! As per fucking usual! Single or NOT!

Which particular single mother are we discussing here?

The ones who ended up here by chance?
The ones who planned to raise children alone?
The widower?
The young mother who wasn’t quite ready?

Let’s face it. We’re all in the same boat but with very different journeys.

You can be a bad parent as a single mother. You can be a bad parent when not.

But most of us fucking rule! With men or without!

And all our children have every chance of conquering this world.

So to EVERY mother out there. Keep on keeping on! You’re doing a marvellous job

Saturday, 11 November 2017

Two Children Walk In To A Doctors. 

Two children walk in to a Doctors. One in need of an assessment for a chesty cough, the other in need of a referral to CAMHS (Children and Adolescent Mental Health Services).

The first child who had been coughing for a week was stripped down and given a thorough check up. The GP listened to her chest on both sides (twice), monitored her heartbeat and her oxygen levels, took her temperature, and checked inside her ears and mouth. The whole process took around 10 minutes.

The second child was glanced at but not spoken to. No questions were asked in regards to the nature of the referral and after tapping a few words on his computer the GP matter of factly said
 “This referral will get rejected”
The whole process took 2 minutes. If that.

If you’re waiting for the punchline for this absolute joke, then I’m afraid there isn’t one.
Just more of a ‘punch to the guts’
Because this isn’t a joke. It’s real life.

The fact is that I took two children in to surgery with me that day, and both of them needed the help of a GP. Yet they couldn’t have been treated more differently.
In 2017 where equal opportunities is an actual law, how is it that a comparison can be visibly seen between the treatment of two small children by a supposed professional?

Between two anybody’s even?

Is it all just bullshit?

Let’s face it. My child has been discriminated against before he’s even been diagnosed with having a problem.
Does he not deserve the opportunity to have his symptoms investigated, just like his sisters were?
Just because they can’t be physically measured, does it make them any less real? Or any less worthy of treatment?

The GP was right.

HIS referral was rejected. Due to insufficient information.

Luckily, my children have been blessed/cursed with a mother who takes absolutely no shit, especially where her children are concerned. So upon finding out my son had been rejected from CAMHS I did my own referral. And this WAS accepted. Not only was it accepted, but he was deemed as high priority and given an appointment for three months time.

Yet I can’t help but feel unsettled. How many children have been rejected from services they truly need due to an insufficient and quite blatantly incompetent GP referral?
How many children have then grown to be adults and struggled with day to day tasks, which could have been lessened had they been given the opportunity to be diagnosed in the same way a person with physical ailment does?
Probably too many to even bare thinking about.

Do equal opportunities even exist at all when parents have to fight and jump through hoops just to be listened to when they cry for help in relation to their child’s needs, just because they don’t follow the lines of normality?

Are these children set up to fail even from the word go?

If anyone reading this has experienced something similar then I truly am sorry.
Every voice deserves to be heard.
Please don’t feel discouraged.

I may be mocking the idea of the existence of equal opportunities at present, but the only way we will truly make a change is if we don’t stop shouting.

Continue to make a fuss.

If you don’t agree with the treatment your child has received, demand more.

You are perfectly within your rights to do so.

Friday, 6 October 2017

The Flowers Remind Me Of You 

The theme for today's post is 'Flowers'.

I'm not going to write about flowers per se, but instead, the thought that comes to my head when I think of them

My Nan.

I'll spare you the long winded list of everything that I found fabulous about her. Im sure most of us could write an essay on how perfect our Grandmothers are/were. My favourite things about her were her imperfections. I once wrote her a poem about bluebells. She said she liked it but next time I should write one about daffodils, and gave me the first line that should be included. These are the things that make me giggle when I think of her.
I also admired her ability to take shit from nobody. I think she passed that trait on.

When I was 16 she came to stay with us for a while as my Grandad had recently passed. Although they were renowned for their bickering (my Grandad would often stick his tongue out at her behind her back, and I remember an alarming spat over a jam tart once), he was the love of her life.

She had not been staying with us long when I had a dream. I dreamt my Grandad was in a Greenhouse and I asked him what he was doing. He handed me a rose and told me to give the rose to my Nan.

A few days later I went out with my friends for the evening. Before I left, my Nan said I looked Beautiful.
They would be the last words she would ever say to me.
The next day my Mum and I found her in bed. She had passed away through the night. We always say she died of a broken heart.

More recently, my six year old has been questioning death. He has fears that I'm going to "grow old and die" and he'll be left without a Mum. I've tried to reassure him, but every few days I was finding myself having the same conversation and giving the same reassurance. Yes, I will die eventually, but not for a very very long time.
I couldn't seem to reassure him. He needed to hear that I wasn't going to die at all.
So after thinking about my Nan one night, I decided to take a different angle.
I told Oliver the story of my Nan. I explained that sometimes, if a person is really special and they are incredibly loved, they never die. They live forever.
They live in the memories you have of them.
They live in the stories you continue to tell about them.
Their legacy lives on.
I told him that my Nan will never die, because I think about her every day, I talk about her often, even to people who never knew her. I even named his sister after her

"Gwyneth Rose"

Oliver seemed happy with that.

And realistically, I can't tell him when I will die. I can't promise him I'll be around for as long as I'd like to be. No one knows what the future holds, and the hard truth is too much for six year old little shoulders to bare. But what I can tell him is that I hope when I do finally go, I made my mark, and was loved so much that I could never truly die.

And I hope that someone will be reminded of me, when they smell the flowers.

Just like Gwyneth