Wednesday, 21 December 2016
I haven't wobbled in a while.
But today I well and truly wobbled.
A wobble by the way is when you need the world to stop for a while, so you can hop off, perhaps travel back to good times when you enjoyed spontaneous drinks in the pub with friends, or even had a bath without someone shouting the name you now go by, 'Mum'.
I think the wobble was initiated by my five year old screaming all round Sainsbury's because I wouldn't buy his grumpy ass a blind bag (a shitty bag that costs the world and has a surprise toy in it that's never the toy they want and causes a strop to ensue.)
The wobble was more or less in full force by the time I got to the self service check out and was trying my best to scan a bastard coupon that got me £4.50 off my shop; with the 5 year old still screaming, now joined by his 2 month old sister, and a shop attendant who was supposed to be there to assist me yet was leisurely chatting to another shopper.
By the time I got home I was ready to quit this 'mum' thing. I didn't know who I was anymore. Whenever I turned round there was someone behind me. Someone telling me to look at something, or someone crying. I was a rope being pulled In a tug of war between two siblings. I had never felt more lonely in my entire life.
The wobble does that to you. Makes you feel like the only mother on this earth despicable enough to actually want 'alone time'
Time to just be the person you once were. Time, so that for 5 minutes you don't feel like a fat frumpy fuck who does nothing but nag.
The wobble may tempt you to tell your partner. But how the hell could they understand? If anything the wobble makes you resent them. Because they get to be 'them' without another set of limbs hanging off them. And by voicing your feelings brought on by the wobble, you will only sound irrational, ungrateful and like a massive twat.
Which is what I did. Obviously.
And do you know what? I'm not bothered! I'm GLAD I wobble! Because without it I wouldn't get to have that moment of clarity which comes an hour or so later. Tonight it came in the form of a smile. As I stared in to space, daydreaming of Leonardo Dicaprio coming and sweeping me off my feet, I glanced down at my 2 month old kicking away in her cot. She had apparently been staring at me and and as our eyes met she gave me the biggest smile I've ever seen her do.
And Mum was back in the room.
I again realised how lucky I was to have these kids. How I had two people who loved me unconditionally. Even if I do wobble. They don't care. And did I honestly and truly need to be anyone else? Because to the world I may just be a mother. But to my children I am everything. And how amazing is that? Pretty fucking amazing.
Wednesday, 30 November 2016
As I walked down the street on a frosty day at the back end of November, my 5 year old wearing a Santa hat and snapping my head off at every opportunity I decided something had to be done.
I'd heard rumours of a magical Elf who visited children in the run up to Christmas and reported their behaviour to Santa every evening. I decided I needed to get me one of those Elves! I was going to get that little arse hole in check if it killed me.
And I believe kill me it will.
For it appears this Elf is not really magic at all. Well, it is, but it's me that has to do the magic. Every night. For a month. Merry Christmas.
Still! It will be worth it to see the look on my sons face, and will save me a fortune in the Prosecco that I'm forced to drink daily due to his crappy behaviour.
After purchasing an Elf, a magic door, and composing a letter from Santa to my son telling him how god damn awful he was I decided I needed some ideas of what my Elf could get up to and decided to enlist the help of a friend (she knows who she is but let's called her Dee)
Dee is the Mother of my sons best friend and Elf on the Shelf extraordinaire. She added me to a secret group on Facebook for Mums whose children were lucky enough to have an Elf visit them at Christmas.
And it soon became pretty apparent that most Mums were in fact doing this for fun, not in an attempt to blackmail their asshole kid.
The more I delved in to the group and was notified of members comments the more I started to become a little 'elf conscious (see what I did there?)
These Mums didn't just have an Elf door that they'd grabbed from Card Factory for £1.99. They had Elf 'areas.' Yes, that's right! AREAS!! Debbi (oh, I mean Dee) herself had set up a 'construction site' in preparation for her Elfs arrival and was planning to put up a miniature fibre optic Christmas tree for him as well as a flashing wreath on his door.
(It actually looks amazing and I'm totally fucking jealous. But let's not tell her I said that.)
Some mums had designed an entire garden outside their Elf door, with a snowy post box and everything!
There were pictures of Elves floating around in hot air balloons in the living room, discussions of 'North Pole breakfasts,' and fizzy pop labels to make 'Elf Punch' and 'Reindeer something or other.'
There were links to shops on Etsy who sell Elf props and Elf clothes.
And I am totally not cut out for this shit!!
I wanted my son to behave! I didn't think I'd have to put this much effort in.
The Elf will arrive on Wednesday 7th December (because I'm a sucky Mum whose Elf is arriving a week late because she's still waiting for it to be delivered from eBay! Ahem! I mean Santa is still awaiting a signal from me that we're ready to welcome our Elf).
It looks terrifying on the picture, so I'm now holding out hope that instead of my son behaving because the Elf is magical and does super cool things, he will behave because the Elf looks demonic and he doesn't want it coming in to his bedroom at night. Staging the Elf in that scenario would probably be a lot more fun!
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Wednesday, 23 November 2016
1. Is the baby good for you?
2. Are they sleeping through the night?
The answer to question one is always going to be no. The baby is not good for me, because when you ask this question your definition of 'good' means you are in fact asking "Is your baby not acting anything like a baby?" And of course this is ridiculous considering they are a baby.
Whilst answering question one, you may find you link in by answering question two before even being asked. Because again, we seem to define a baby being 'good' with them sleeping all night long. The pressure for mums to have a 'good baby' who sleeps through the night is immense, and hitting them from every angle. Friends, family, articles on social media (you must know that the internet is aware you're sleep deprived and desperate), apps, books, and even your Health Visitor.
At a recent appointment my Health Visitor was rather concerned that at the grand old age of 5 weeks, my daughter was still waking every 2-3 hours through the night. Apparently we needed a plan to fix this! Immediately! I'm not quite sure why. She asked me how often she fed through the night. I gave her an honest answer. I never once said I had an issue with the amount of times she woke. And if I don't have an issue, I'm finding it hard to understand why she does? Or anyone else for that matter.
It made me feel quite sad. Sad that new mums were being bombarded with the thought that their child acting like a baby was a problem. Sad that those mums would then go down every route they possibly could to fix the problem, and then feel hopeless when nothing worked. Because it's just not reality.
Which is why instead of blogging about 'how to get your child to sleep through the night with ten simple steps!' I decided to blog about how my baby is definitely not 'good' through the night, and why I like it! Well, not like it but...you know. Im trying to see some kind of silver lining here guys!
1. She pulls cuter faces at 1am, 3am and 5am than she does throughout the daylight hours. Only I get to see these. It's just me and her. These are moments that I'll miss when she no longer needs me physically or emotionally through the night
2. You can learn a host of new things whilst feeding your child through the night. Last week, whilst scrolling through Facebook in the dark in an attempt to keep myself awake, I came across an article that stated yawning is actually your body's way of cooling your brain down when it's overheating! Of course I now think my brain is about to explode every time I yawn, but STILL! Amazing! Think of all the new knowledge (useless facts) I'll have gained by the time she actually does start sleeping through the night! I'll be like a walking encyclopaedia!
3. Regular waking through the night can protect your child from SIDS. Night nursing can also help to develop your child's sleep cycle. So by waking regularly my darling daughter is in fact preparing herself to do the exact opposite, when she's learned how.
4. The twilight hours are a great time to do online shopping! There's nobody around to tell you that no, you really don't need that and yes, you should put down your credit card! In fact, this point alone may actually be a reason to gently prod your child awake, around 3am, just so you have an excuse to buy lovely shit. Can't have them sleeping through and ruining the retail therapy can we?
5. I know I'm following my baby's lead, instead of forcing her in to some regimented routine devised by the likes of Gina Ford and other such Ass Hats. My baby knows best. She is A BABY! She momentarily lives purely through instincts. She is totally incapable of acting a particular way because of 'behaviour.' At least this is what I believe. You're free to believe what you choose and that's why you parent your child and I parent mine. And that's fine!
But let's face it. It is pretty shitty being dragged from your slumber every few hours, relentlessly. I truly believe that the ageing process officially starts when you have children. I definitely have a noticeable amount of new crows feet of late. BUT! The point I'm trying to make here is IT'S NORMAL!!
Your baby NEEDS to wake. They need YOU! The sooner you embrace night waking the sooner you will accept that it won't be forever. Baby's are cranky, miserable, irritable, sleep robbing bundles of pudge. But that is kind of what happens when you don't have the ability to talk. You can't say "hey mum! My tummy kind of aches and a breeze went past my toe!" So you have to cry. At 3am. Exactly 11 minutes after you cried the last time.
But don't worry Mummy.
You were made for this.
You'll survive the lack of sleep.
Tuesday, 8 November 2016
A few hours after you have given birth, been plonked in a wheelchair, wheeled backwards and delivered to the postnatal ward, you will feel like you have literally been beaten to a pulp by a heavy weight champion. You'll hear every other new mothers sigh, every baby apart from yours will cry, and other people's visitors will make you want to drop kick them to the floor through the adjoining curtain. None of this will matter of course as you spend endless hours staring at the tiny little human you made, lying there in a see through box.
Prepare yourself in advance for the sight of any children that already exist in your life, as it will shock you to the core. Your once cute son, daughter, niece, nephew have now warped in to actual manbeasts. How did you never recognise how gargantuan their heads were? And what's with those enormous eyebrows and saucer like eyes? Grotesque. Be warned.
You might become a bit of a shit friend. Or realise that your friends are a bit shit. Whilst you're still the person you were pre baby, you're simultaneously almost completely not. Your new best friend is now Google. Google is always on standby, and never gets tired of hearing you ask questions that begin with
"is it normal if my baby....?"
or "why does my baby.....?"
Google never rolls its eyes at your insufferable over anxiousness, or tells you that all you talk about these days is the baby. It only serves to provide the answers you require. Even though most of the time they will be completely inaccurate and quite possibly cause an emergency doctors appointment with suspected meningitis for a mere milk spot.
You will never come closer to slamming a hardback book on your partners head at 3am whilst you sit there feeding your child, head bobbing as you try not to nod off, with your partners snores echoing around the depths of your skull.
It will be the best of times and the worst of times. All at the same time. Before 8am on a Monday morning.
You'll become a weeping, paranoid wreck. Your first child thinks you don't love them anymore. Nothing will be the same again. Your partner thinks you're ugly. That blanket is going to smother the baby and can't possibly be used. The midwife looked at me funny.
And then all of a sudden you'll be fine again, and you'll curse fellow mums for not warning you about the nuts stage a few days post birth.
The squelching sound of a freshly soiled nappy will evoke multiple emotions from you, dependent on time and situation. Annoyance, as you tip the pram to be wheeled out the front door; relief as you rub your child's tummy who has been squirming and struggling for the past hour at 3am. It will be the first time another humans bowel movements will toy with your emotions.
Your baby will always want to eat when you eat. Standard behaviour.
Intimacy with your partner will have to be 'booked in'. Gone are the days of spontaneity. And you'll have to be wary of not spoiling the mood by discussing the colour of the baby's last turd before you get it on. Although it's guaranteed you will. You won't be able to help yourself.
You will be so tired, the word tired doesn't even cut it. We're talking eye stinging, body shivering, everyone's face is pissing me off kind of tired. And then some.
Thursday, 27 October 2016
Breastfeeding is beautiful. But that doesn't necessarily mean it always looks beautiful. I appreciate the gorgeous photos of women breastfeeding, modelled in an attempt to normalise the natural way of feeding our children, but seriously, that's just NOT what breastfeeding looks like (Unless you are particularly blessed, which undoubtedly some of you are. The rest of us however, aren't so lucky.)
The beauty of breastfeeding does not have to be portrayed by half naked, perfectly posed filtered shots. It's beauty comes from the act itself, not the way we look when performing that act.
There's beauty hidden within the rawness and vulnerability of sitting upright at 3am, with blurry eyes and disheveled hair, looking down at your feeding baby as they curl their tiny cold hands round your finger.
Beauty lives in the eye rolling awkwardness of your baby needing to feed at the exact moment you sit down to eat, resulting in you eating one handed and spilling crumbs on their head.
Beauty can be seen in the mum who sits with cabbage leaves stuffed down her bra, googling further tips to relieve tender breasts, with determination on her face to keep going, even though at the minute she has never felt more like giving up.
As wonderful as some of the trending breastfeeding photos are, they don't always portray the reality of breastfeeding, and the various relationships and journey each woman and child takes.
It's important that breastfeeding in its entirety is illustrated, in all its beauty. All of its gloriously awkward and inconvenient beauty.
Women do not sit naked, in a graceful position, with perfect hair and size 6 bodies, breastfeeding. If we do happen to be naked, it's more than likely we've been dragged out of the shower, or were halfway through getting dressed when our baby has cried to be fed. Our bodies are rarely size 6 considering we've just spent the past 9 months being pregnant, and no one with a new baby has perfect hair. Right?
Instead of donning tattoos like so many of the breastfeeding models that are popular of late, we are more likely to be in possession of stretch marks; and rather than full, pert breasts, chances are they are lopsided, with the free breast leaking and slowly making a damp patch on our Primark bought pyjama top.
So yes, lets share beautiful imagery. Let's celebrate feeding our children in the most natural and wonderful way. Let's support each other as women and mothers and continue to freeze frame these moments in our children's life that will soon become a distant memory.
But let's share reality.
I don't breastfeed to follow a fashion, or because I'm influenced by the latest pin up mum model. I breastfeed to nourish my child, to provide warmth and security, and because it's who I am. And you don't get much more beautiful than that.
Monday, 26 September 2016
So I went for a 35 week scan yesterday. A routine thing as I'm high risk due to my first child being underweight and a bunch of other problems in my pregnancy.
Expecting the usual "yes everything is ok blah blah blah" I was quite shocked to hear that my waters surrounding the baby have just decided to disappear. There has been no gushing, no trickling sensations. I've observed a few 'damp patches' but doesn't every woman in pregnancy?
I sat waiting for the registrar to come and talk to me and literally shit a brick when she told me she was going to examine me and if I was showing signs of leaking then she would admit me to have the baby delivered immediately.
And then the universe remembered this was me.
And there was no way that such a drama could go down without me also having to suffer deep humiliation and hilarity at the same time.
I lay on the bed, knickers down, with a blanket over my ghost white legs to protect my dignity. Cursing myself for ever writing A Hairy Situation , as ever since my partner has refused to assist me down there and I am now sporting...well, I don't know what I'm sporting as it's impossible to see, but I doubt it's pleasant.
As I lay there, panicking about the state of my vagina I picked up a horrific whiff in the air.
It was a hot day. I was wearing pumps with no socks and had walked the school run that morning. Those pumps now sat neatly at the side of the bed, letting off the most offensive smell known to man.
"Erm...I'm really sorry but I've had to take my shoes off and my feet really smell!"
I had to warn them! And when I say 'them' I mean the registrar, the nursing assistant who was helping her, and some random woman who had entered the room, failed to introduce herself, but had decided to stick around and give me sympathetic smiles.
They all glanced in my direction but none of them seemed to be perturbed by the foot confession. They were too busy muttering and whispering amongst themselves.
"This is why we usually send them to MAU"
"Do you have one on your phone?"
I lay there, craning my neck to see what the commotion was about.
It appeared that they had the equipment to perform the examination, but the light was too bright. They were in need of a small torch. And of course that small torch was going to come in the form of the nursing assistants iPhone!
I found it hard to lie there, legs akimbo as a nursing assistant held an iPhone in between my legs and the registrar prodded and poked me.
"Just make sure your finger doesn't slip and you don't take a picture by accident!" I shouted.
"I don't think my vagina is in a selfie mood today"
God bless the NHS!
Luckily there were no signs of leaking at the time (except for everybody's eyes from the stench of my feet) and I was booked in for a scan the following week to monitor the situation and to look at possible induction.
This is particularly the reason why when the health visitor asked if "Mum had a birth plan in place" Mum stated that no she didn't.
I have a perfect birth in my head. A natural birth (ideally in water) on the midwife led unit with no pain relief. From the offset its been clear that the likelihood of that happening is slim. Therefore I'll skip the birth plan and take my labour the way it comes.
On a serious note, because I've found myself a bit pissy when discussing my current situation with people and they've felt the need to have an opinion; some women will get their perfect birth. It will go exactly as planned. Some won't. And that's fine too. People seem to have an opinion on your birth the way they will have an opinion on every other fucking thing you do as a parent. From feeding, to sleeping, to toilet training. But it's MY birth. I own it. And in the end, what will happen will happen.
Saturday, 17 September 2016
It seems whenever my children are involved I immediately seize up and think that every professional is judging me and making notes on how inadequate I am as a mother. I just can't help it.
I spent the day before she arrived throwing paint at my lounge walls, spraying bleach over everything, and sobbing that no one lifts a finger in this god damn bastard house!!!
But it turns out there was no need to worry. Because my health visitor is clearly insane. And as I sat opposite her plastic smile, as she balanced on my wonky couch that is being held up with two books, I found my mind wandering as to whether health visitors had to go through specific role plays to determine whether they had the correct patronising nature that is clearly needed for the job. And throughout said role plays do they have to touch on a list of requirements that I imagine include the following;
1. NEVER address someone in the first person. Always the third.
"And how is Mum feeling?"
"Does Mum have a birth plan in place?"
"Is Dad looking forward to the arrival of baby?"
It's important to make 'Mum' feel as though she no longer has a name or an identity, in fact she is so insignificant as her former self that she is now spoken to as though she were not even in the room. Pair this with a soft spoken voice and a condescending smirk.
2. Use strange questions to trip Mum up. I particularly enjoyed the ones I was asked at my recent visit.
"What does baby look like?"
Erm.....I'm not...sure? She hasn't come out yet?
"Yes but how does mum imagine she'll look?"
Like her brother? I don't know.
“Yes but does she have hair?”
I'm not sure how to answer this question
"Ok, moving on! What is baby like?"
Small? Squidgy? A baby? What's the deal here? Are mums now required to already know their child's facial features and personality prior to birth?
"Yes, but when Mum and Dad talk about Baby, what do they imagine her to be like?"
I'm not sure, we haven't really talked about it. I don't think it's sunk in for 'Dad' yet that we're having another baby!
Which brings me to the next point
3. Be deadly serious about every word that is spoken by Mum.
*shakes head sympathetically*
“It's really important that Dad is involved in the pregnancy as much as possible. You might want to think about having these conversations with Dad. Perhaps Mum and Dad could sit on the sofa together whilst touching Mums tummy and discuss the questions we've just been over?”
Or…..you could just kill me .
4. Just as you have driven Mum to the depths of despair and have her at her most vulnerable, you need to strike while the iron is hot
"Does mum feel low, depressed or have any feelings that her life is pointless or worthless?"
Well, I didn't!!!......however! Now you mention it!!
Tuesday, 16 August 2016
Now, I can cope with looking like Humpty Dumpty in a costume, but I'm not sure fellow swimmers want to see Humpty Dumpty in a costume with half of her lady garden on show. I owed it to the general public to groom myself and prevent the occurrence of any nightmares that I may provoke. Now when I say "groom myself" I think any pregnant woman alive knows that this is virtually impossible. Some women may be able to do it. Those who are well practised in yoga and can bend with ease in to a suitable position. I however am not one of these people.
Last week I got stuck in the bath. My five year old had to literally prize my arse from the tub where it had suctioned itself down like a vacuum. I can only imagine the psychological issues he's going to have from that.
Deciding that emotionally scarring my child wasn't enough I decided that I should have a bash at damaging my partner also. He got me in this situation after all! I'm not going to strain myself like a struggling Buddha when the person who contributed to my newly accustomed figure sits downstairs eating tea and biscuits. If I have to lose my dignity he's coming along for the ride.
This thought process eventually led to me lying here on the cold bathroom floor, legs open as my partner looks on worryingly at the mission ahead of him, glancing nervously in my direction. Feeling sorry for him I decide to shut my legs and call off the mission when he breaks the awkward silence.
"When you think about it, a vagina looks a bit like a ham sandwich doesn't it?"
"I don't know. I haven't seen it in months. Can you just concentrate on what we're doing here please"
"If you lift your legs a bit higher I can do the back part too"
"What back part?"
"You know. Your bum"
"My bum? My bums fine Thankyou! Just concentrate on the task at hand"
I lie back and close my eyes
I stretch forward to see actual clippers looming towards my hoohaa.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING??
"Stay still or they'll nip you."
Jesus. I wanted a quick tidy up down there and I've ended up lying on a cold slab with Sweeney Todd stuck between my legs! Mind you, wasn't he played by Johnny Depp most recently? That might not be TOO bad then. He'd probably have more of an idea of grooming than this bloody bozo!
After squealing like a pig from what is definitely one of the most traumatic experiences of my life I feel around to see that literally nothing has changed. That bikini line is still exactly the same.
"You're going to have to use a proper razor"
Krrrrrr krrrrrr krrrrrrr
That's the sound of my skin being scraped off with a bic
"With shaving foam you idiot!!!"
Foam squirts on to my hand and I'm instructed to put it where I want shaving. Well if I could do that I wouldn't be in this position would I?
I reach down to cover the area, looking like a half crazed hippopotamus and end up blindly shaving the damn thing myself.
Once finished I then lie there, stuck on the floor as my partner takes out his phone and proceeds to tweet or whatever the hell else he does as if I cease to exist.
I'm stuck here!!!
Bottomless, on the bathroom floor, writhing about in shaving foam.
And then it strikes me ladies.
When pregnant you must come to accept the fact that your dignity is none existent. You're taking NO ONE along for that ride with you. It's just you. Accept defeat. And in some cases be grateful that despite the fact you're 3 times your normal size, breath like Darth Vader, and have been constipated for a week, someone loves you enough to sit in between your legs and assist you to do something of which you're temporary unable. Whilst commenting on genitalia and the foods in which they appear similar to.
Tuesday, 19 July 2016
Don't get me wrong, if my child is pissing you off and it is directly affecting you or your own child then go ahead and fill your boots. Tell him to stop what he is doing. Explain that you don't like him doing that. Or turn to me and tell me to sort my demon child out before you do. I totally get that. I don't want my kid aggravating you. I will try my utmost to prevent it. However if I happen to be daydreaming at that particular point I will fully expect you to dive in and give them an ear bashing.
But this is not the situation I've found myself in.
For a couple of weeks now I have found myself in the company of an adult who has been chastising my child, whilst I stand there with my eyes wide open and my mouth gaped, because they are behaving in a way that is undesirable to THEM. Because they have placed their own expectations on MY child. Expectations that are clearly higher than my own.
Let me give you an example.
As we happened to be walking with this particular parent we passed by our old house. Clearly feeling confused my son walked in to the garden and knocked on the door. I laughed lightheartedly and whispered "We don't live there anymore!! Quick!! Come out!"
However all of a sudden a voice boomed at the side of me "We don't knock on people's doors!!! That's very very naughty!!"
Hang on a minute.
"We don't knock on people's doors?"
Well clearly that's bullshit because everyone knocks on people's doors. It's something we do to announce we have arrived and are waiting to be let in. So, not only have you just humiliated my child by chastising him in public, you have also just belittled him for doing something perfectly normal.
So if you're going to discipline my child without my permission and against my wishes, try not to do it in such a fucked up, confusing manner.
Secondly, I don't like the word naughty. I especially don't like it when a stranger says it to my child. I will be the judge of what is deemed inappropriate behaviour or not. I am after all his mother.
This announcement of my sons "naughtiness" then provoked his child to get in on the act. She begun telling Oliver that he was so naughty he could not have ice cream. At which point my son began to cry.
I explained to Oliver that it was my decision as to whether he could have ice cream or not and to ignore the child, hoping this would be an enormous hint to the parent that I did not like his actions.
The hint didn't work. We turned the corner, my son and I slightly ahead as we tried to escape the gruesome twosome, when we came in contact with a dog and asked if we could stroke it. The dog was a bit jumpy and my over excited child was clearly making it nervous. As I opened my mouth to tell him to calm down I was interrupted by "don't jump like that by the dog!! He doesn't like it!! You need to calm down or come away!!"
Seriously. This guy was asking for a spade to the head.
At six months pregnant, hormones flying everywhere and knowing I couldn't be trusted to approach this in a friendly manner I marched off in the other direction.
Oliver did not seem overly perturbed by the events. But I was!
It made me feel that not only is there pressure on parents these days to discipline their children in a particular way, but now if an adult deems you incapable of doing so they will step in and do it for you. It made me feel worthless. Humiliated. It made me angry. Angry that in 2016 I am not given the freedom to raise my child in the way that I choose to. I felt like a disappointment. Because I should have stuck up for my son more, but struggled to make a spur of the moment decision between showing him how to defend yourself, or showing him how to walk away and be the better person.
It's times like these that I really struggle with motherhood. And I don't want to come across like a whiny bitch. But I want my son to be shaped by my own values. Values that I'm proud of. Not some other Tom Dick or Harry's who decide to open their big mouth.
Usually when I'm struggling and I blog I can see the funny side of the predicament I'm in. But with this I just can't. There's just nothing funny about it. It's awful.
So to all those that have read blogs of parents who encourage others to tell their children off please remember, we don't all feel that way.
In fact, some of us find in damn right rude.
Some of us believe that chastising is a parents job. We lay the boundaries. They may not be the same boundaries as yours, but really, it's none of your god damn business. Don't over ride our authority with our own children by stepping in and telling a child off because they don't fit your idea of perfect behaviour.
It doesn't take a village to raise a child. It's takes the person responsible for that child at the time. And you can bet your bottom dollar that if the Mother/Father is accompanying that child then it certainly doesn't mean you, you nosey bastard. This blog has been verified by Rise: R013e576ff807146501eb086f64c8a247