Maybe You Should Count to Ten?

This working mama business is tough! Sure, tons of women do it, and a lot of them do it a lot rougher than me, but I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m finding it a bit hard. I’m no Wonder Woman of the 21st century; I’m just me. And sometimes “me” is the person wishes she could stay in bed for a week, playing Tomb Raider on an old Playstation console – ahh to be a kid again. But sadly, I’m not, and my Playstation was sold off many years ago, probably to pay for cheap nasty vodka.

On my most hectic days, I’m finding myself being increasingly snappy at the kids. I hadn’t noticed how grumpy I was being until I caught myself berating them for a relatively minor act of non-malicious vandalism. I’m a fairly strict parent. No means no in my household, and I don’t budge for whining or begging; tears or tantrums.

Unless I’m wrong.

And sometimes Mum’s are wrong.


Ahhh fuck it….

Saying sorry is not easy, but I think it’s one of the most important words a parent can say to their children. We all mess up, and it’s important for kids to know that, and to hear what a genuine, meaningful apology looks and sounds like. They need to be shown that ‘sorry’ is not just a word, it’s the beginning of an action toward change. My kids now know that Mum is still trying to adjust to her new schedule, and is a little more tired in the evening. They know that I’ve been a bit short tempered, and that it’s not their fault. They know that I’m going to try better and as per the advice of my wise elder child, next time, I’ll count to ten. A few early nights wouldn’t go astray either.


A Rose By Any Other Name Could Still Fuck You Up Pretty Bad

I was gardening yesterday when an errant rose thorn lodged itself deep in the knuckle of my thumb. I uttered a few expletives, yanked it out and carried on. By dinnertime it was a bit sore; by bedtime its range of motion was greatly diminished and was starting to swell.

Today it’s fucking agony. Every little bump or twitch is yelp-inducing.  Putting my bra on this morning was like attempting some sadistic trial in dexterity, and somehow, I’ve still got to get the thing off tonight. I’ve got a hefty course of Penicillin to kill the horrors festering under my skin, but in the meantime, my appreciation for opposable thumbs is growing. image

Today I Gave my Kid Amphetamines

My daughter has ADHD. It’s a condition in which everyone is an expert and knows better than silly old me. If I had a nickel for every time someone told me,

“Don’t give her drugs, it’ll turn her into a zombie.”

“Teachers just want parents to sedate kids so there jobs are easier.”

Or my favourite,  “There’s no such thing,  it’s just a made up syndrome to excuse bad behaviour.”

Well, then I’d have a lot of nickels to put in a sock, which I could use to smash the teeth of these morons down their stupid throats.


Truth is, these medications aren’t going to suit every kid,  but when they do, they work well.  I’m not going to waste my time attempting to explain the physiology of ADHD, other than to say it’s not exclusively a behavioural problem.

If you are going to have a strong opinion on the subject, please make sure you properly educate yourself before espousing your “advice” to parents who been to dozens of appointments with medical and psychological professionals. In fact, that goes for any condition. Autism,  OCD, PTSD, depression, tourettes,  narcolepsy,  schizophrenia,  herpes; if you don’t know what you’re talking about, don’t give advice! But if you’re curious, or want to learn more, just ask. Really, it’s ok. Unless you’re curious about herpes, then you can ask WebMD, I don’t want to hear about your messed up junk..

Home Sweet – *cough, cough – ack! groan…*

Here we are, all moved in, but still so much to do. I can’t completely unpack until the wardrobes have had a thorough clean, but it’s home, and I love it. The kids love it too, which is great. I’m amazed at how well they’ve coped with our separation. Little Man is young enough to adapt to anything, and Miss is taking it in her stride. She’s a little sad about not living with her Daddy, but she’s happy that he has to take time off working when it’s his weekend to have the kids. She’s looking forward to getting to spend real quality time with him. I think it’s a win-win for everyone.

Little Man and I both have been struck down by some wretched virus, which is taking some of the fun out of moving house. Poor little guy is a bit of a wreck and Nanny is driving over to take care of him for a couple of days so I can work. Not that I feel like working, but, you know, responsibility and being a grown up, blah blah blah.

Ex bought around some TV dinners because he thought I wouldn’t feel like cooking; which was really, really nice of him, but it took all of my willpower to suppress my inner bitch and not snap, “would have been nice if you’d given a fuck every other time I was sick”. Last time I was sick, he told me he wanted a divorce.  But I am not Inner Bitch, and she is not me. She just hovers a little too close to the surface every now and then. Today Inner Bitch is taking advantage of my weakened constitution. I must be nice to Ex, he’s being nice to me.


People often tell me how wonderfully we get on and how funny we are together, which is nice, but not entirely true. The truth is, like any relationship breakdown, there was a reason it ended. No one ends on a happy note. We have years of resentment and anger bubbling away under the surface. We both believe that the other is more at fault (he totally is). I think I’m a little better at keeping my anger in check than he is, and he makes up for his “moments” with generosity and practical help. The anger has already begun to dissipate, but it’ll probably never be entirely gone. It’s good finally being out from under the same roof, we rule our own domains. But that doesn’t mean we can’t still have a drink and share a joke every now and then.