Sleep. I miss that.

The Littlest Chum has been unwell for a little while, just full of cold and snot, poor baby. But this means he’s got into a bit of a habit of waking up at 3am and crying inconsolably.

Being the soft touch that I am, I usually bring him into bed. Well, I say soft touch, it’s mostly because I’m so tired and sleepy that I can’t face doing anything else.

Unfortunately for us, he isn’t the calm and snuggly baby he was when we last coslept. Gone are the days when I’d spend every night curled around a small milky, snuffly bundle. Now he’s a great big flailing octupus who prefers to sleep with one foot up my nose and the other across my neck, while he beats a tattoo of tiny rabbit punches across the Rock God’s chest. Every so often he’ll sit up and demand MILK (he hasn’t had night feeds for seven or eight months) or just do his faintly comical ‘wah-wah-wah’ until we give in and get up.

I miss my eight hours a night. I did nearly eleven months of him sleeping like a newborn, waking throughout the night. I got very used very quickly to him sleeping 7-6. I’d like those nights back again now please.

Although secretly, when the Rock God and I are lying awake sniffing his sleepy little head and trying not to laugh out loud at the contortions he has twisted himself into, we do wish he still slept in our bed every night. Just don’t tell him that.

It’s exhausting, this toddler business.

Shiny New Things (and what they really represent)

I have several Shiny New Things lately. I have a lovely coffee machine that I’m all obsessed with, new cutlery in the kitchen (which itself is less than a year old). New clothes, loads of new pyjamas (I have more pjs than daytime clothes, what’s that about?). And I have just bought us a new car.

I like new things. Actually, I LOVE them. I am, I suppose, a teeny tiny bit materialistic. I never used to be at all, and there are still some things that I don’t ‘get’. Spending more than £50 on clothes, for eg, terrifies and baffles me, and I don’t do really do jewellery beyond silver studs and wedding band/engagement ring. I understand (ish) why other people buy them, they’re just not my ‘thing’. But I am a fan of New Things in general, and there are few feelings that beat the warm glow of a joyous purchase.

I used to have very few possessions, and beyond a few books I had nothing I felt particularly attached to. Before I had the Chums I lived a very transient lifestyle, I sofa surfed and lived with ‘friends’ or in temporary accommodation, and my belongings reflected that. Then when my babies were small I had no funds or ability to buy stuff, and counting out pennies from the jar to buy nappies because someone else has spent all the money on crap doesn’t really leave you with much lust for shopping, or life.

When I started my new life with the Chums I did so with the clothes on our backs and nothing else. In the next few months I did go back and get some clothes and a couple of bits of furniture, but it was a fresh start and we really did start from scratch.

I suppose that was my first taste of proper Shiny Newness. My parents took me to Ikea and lent me the money to furnish my Shiny New flat, I spent £500 and bought almost everything, beds, sofa, pots and pans, towels, bedding. I can still remember how wonderful I felt, sitting in my flat with my babies and my new things, having autonomy and proper choices for the first time in years. I remember thinking: this is it, this is my life, I waited all these years for it to start and here it is. And every day since then has been better and better, life continues to improve and I count my many blessings every morning. I actually do, along with affirmations, I talk to myself every morning and tell myself I’m wonderful and life is brilliant. If you don’t already do this, you should. You’d be amazed at the difference it makes, particularly if, like me, you are prone to bouts of crashing depression. I haven’t been depressed for seven years, which is how long I’ve been giving myself a good daily talking to.

Anyway, so I suppose, for me, new things have become a symbol of happiness, of freedom, a reminder that my life is good. It occurred to me in conversation the other day that we have bought every single stick of furniture in this house since we’ve lived here. So everything here is less than four years old. Sofa, bookshelves, beds, rugs, curtains. Nothing is second hand or hand me down, and everything is shiny and new. I didn’t do it on purpose, but I did it. I think it’s all part of reinventing myself, always moving forwards, always starting over.

This year is going to be a lot more frugal, I’ve decided I have all the stuff I want or need now. So I’m going to spend a year saving like mad in order to buy a shiny new house. Which is kind of the ultimate in Shiny New purchases.

Wish me luck

In which I finally realise drinking is boring

I have successfully completed Dry January, and it’s been a bit of an eye-opener.

As a dyed in the wool, fully fledged binge alcoholic I thought it would be difficult or even impossible to do. But after the first week, the urge to reach for the wine at the end of the day had almost disappeared. In fact, there were only two days in the whole month that I had any cravings at all; one was a snow day when I’d had eight children all day and the other was a day filled with bad news and expense. But I resisted and managed to stay ‘dry’ for the whole of January.

So, obviously, the first of February heralded a night of boozing and schmoozing. Or, more accurately, boozing and slurring, talking shit and ultimately vomiting on my shoes.

I didn’t have enough fun to make today’s hangover worthwhile, I spent money that I would rather save, I spent an hour making myself beautiful and wore new clothes out and for what? So that I could end the evening with smeared lips and smudged eyes, shambolically staggering towards the taxi rank and trying to disguise the fact I’d just been sick in the gutter.

For a lot of people, the solution would be obvious: just don’t drink so much. But for me (and I know I’m not alone in this) there are no half measures. Once I start I usually don’t stop until all the grog is drunk or I’ve passed out. It’s a bit pathetic really.

I’m better at drinking at home, I can mostly stick to just a couple of glasses in the evening. But my problem there is with frequency. Only drinking on the weekends used to be my goal. But then, Thursday is nearly the weekend. And on Wednesdays the Rock God goes to Wing Chun so I’ll curl up with a glass of wine and One Born Every Minute. And Tuesdays is music lesson night so I’m banished upstairs while he teaches. May as well take a glass of wine and a book up with me…

So having a purpose to sobriety (the dry January thing) was very useful. I’m very good at sticking with my principles, at least in the short-term. I boycotted Nestle successfully for years until the Chums ground me down with their pleas for Kitkats and Nesquik. I was a vegetarian for a long time until I decided that was boring. I find that having a defined purpose means I stick to my guns, and although I tend to be a bit, erm, fickle with my beliefs, I stand firm while they last.

I thought that not drinking would be hard and boring. But actually it was much easier than drinking. No guilt, no hangovers, no memory lapses. I was getting stuff done in the evenings instead of collapsing with a glass and switching off. I went out to dinner several times and it cost fifty percent less, and it turns out I can still be sociable and fun without alcohol (who knew?), and I’m probably much less annoying. Drunk me is obnoxious and repeats herself a lot. Sober me is still pretty obnoxious but at least I know when to shut the hell up. And I swear a lot less, too.

So (and I promise this isn’t just my hangover talking) I have decided that Dry January is going to extend into Dry February and beyond. Will I stick to it forever? Who knows. But for now, this is what I’m doing.

Much love, amigos xx

January 2013. Where I get all frugal and buy a car.

Which is not as much of a contradiction as it sounds, I promise.

After collapsing in conniptions at the carnage we created on our credit card at Christmas, the Rock God and I have vowed to make 2013 the Year Of The Big Savings™.

Combined with my alcohol free January (I’m not just doing it for my liver, but for Cancer Research, hey, you can sponsor me if you like http://www.justgiving.com/dryathlete-samantha-davis), and the usual January hibernation, we are approaching the end of this month feeling pretty bloody rich. Now we just have to keep it up for the next eleven months.

This week, in a frankly brilliant display of bodged logic, I decided that my old Hyundai was a money pit that I wasn’t prepared to invest in further, and that buying a new (ish) shiny S-max with a whole host of interesting gadgets and pretty displays was not just a good idea, but would SAVE us money as well. The Rock God is less convinced of its money saving attributes (well, that was a stretch, really) but everyone’s been drawn in by its shiny loveliness, so that’s a win.

So I am doing the Dance of the New Car, and the Dance of the No Booze for a Month AND the Dance of the Money in the Bank.

Woo!

 

<dances>

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why Blog?

The very lovely and clever DillyTante posed this question for us over on Mumsnet, and has started a bloghop about it.

It’s a fascinating question, and I’ve really enjoyed reading the other blogs in the hop. People either ‘get it’ or they don’t, I’ve found. For me, blogging is completely narcissistic and fills a need I have to commit my every waking thought to paper. Or in this case screen.

I first found Mumsnet in 2007, read a thread talking about the shaggability (or otherwise) of Mr Tumble and realised I’d found my spiritual home.

I literally posted about everything back in those days. For a while I was a stay at home mum when both children were at school, so I had lots and lots of time to avoid the housework  think of things to post about. I had the bug. Badly.

Then, about a year and a half ago, I followed a link to the MN Bloggers network, and my new obsession was born. I have less time to devote to this blogging lark than I did in the heights of my MN posting, but I try to blog whenever I have something to say (or, often, nothing to say. Then I just waffle on). Or when I have a few minutes or hours spare.

Dilly has suggested some questions, so I’ll answer those here.

Why do you blog?

I blog because I like to write. It’s that simple. I find it relaxing, often cathartic, sometimes amusing and always enjoyable. I like writing publically because I like the validation of people reading and commenting. I get a real thrill from checking my stats and seeing that 100, or 200, or one memorable day, 1,378 (!) people have read the blog.

What do you get from it?

I get a great deal of pleasure from the act of writing and from knowing people are reading it. I also love to read back over my posts like a diary, Wills’ birth story for example. If I hadn’t written that then I would have forgotten most of the detail, committing it to the internet means it’s there for me to look back on whenever I want. Or often it’s just me venting my spleen.

Is it trivial and is that ok sometimes?

It usually is! And that’s fine, for me. I do occasionally venture into more weighty subjects but generally I like to keep it about fripperies and trivia.

Why should people be interested in what you write?

I have absolutely no idea. I think I’m interesting (clearly, that’s the narcissism creeping in again), and plenty of you seem to appreciate my posts (which I think is WONDERFUL), but I don’t think I’m writing the Great British Novel anytime soon, it’s just a bit of fun.

Do you care if they are not?

Of course not! If people aren’t interested then they don’t have to read it. So long as no one leaves me nasty feedback, because then I’ll cry.

If you blog just for you why do it publically?

Because I am a MASSIVE attention seeker and love to a) air my laudry (dirty or otherwise) in public and b) talk about myself at extreme length to anyone who will listen.

What value do you think you are adding to the world by blogging?

I think I’m making the world a more awesome place. I have no idea, really. I don’t really think about it like that.

Do you feel defensive about blogging?

No, not at all. I feel more defensive about my MN use, because people who don’t DO the internet don’t seem to understand that it’s where some of my best friends live.

So that’s my thoughts on it, for now. Thanks again to Dilly for the prompt, and to you guys for reading.

Love to you all as ever xx

The lessons we learn.

There is a pig in our toybox, with SAM written on it in biro.

I was contemplating it yesterday, following a conversation with my Pie. At eight, she has a boyfriend. He dumped her for her friend and then started calling her a pig, shouting ”bacon’ at her across the playground. She is considering taking him back because he’s promised not to call her names anymore.

I am so sad about this. I am trying to get through to her, even at this tender and innocent age, that this is not what she should be settling for at all. To set her sights higher.

The pig in the toybox was graffitied by my ex husband. I was playing with my babies and the farm and it was his idea of a joke (what’s the matter, can’t you take a joke? Mummy’s got no sense of humour, has she? Silly pig Mummy, oink oink’).

I have no idea why we still have the bloody thing, I have never got round to throwing it out, the farm still gets played with and I don’t often remember it’s there.

I am married now to a man who has never called me a pig, or lazy, or fat, or a cunt. Who compliments me several times a day, who puts my needs ahead of his, who is respectful. And that’s how it should be, for everybody. We work hard to make the other happy, instead of doing things that are upsetting or hurtful or selfish or spiteful.

I thought I was doing enough to model good relationships for my children, but I’m starting to realise the damage may have been done. I don’t want her to make the mistakes I did, to seek out the ‘bad boys’, to not value herself, to tolerate abuse.

I tell her every day that she is so beautiful, and clever, and funny and special and loved. I don’t know now if it’s enough. It took me until I was twenty six to claw my way out of the fog of insecurity, to realise that it was possible to be happy on my own, to know that drama does not equal passion. 

I want her to have the kind of real, solid, safe love that I have now, without having to go through the teenage heartbreak and then the abusive cycle of relationships that so many of us experience. I want to protect her from being called names, from the shifting sands of living with a liar, from the physical and emotional hurt.  Every relationship I ever had until I met Rob was damaging in its own way, and each one left its own scars.

I am terrified for her. How can I protect her from the world and all its dangers when the biggest threat is her own self esteem?

 

 

Childwrangling and snuggles

I don’t think I’ve posted much about my job before, other than the basics.

It’s brilliant, I am so very lucky to be doing what I do.

I started Childminding not long after we bought this house, so nearly four years ago. It seemed like an ideal plan as fitting paid work around school drop offs and holidays was proving tricky. My previous work experience was shops, bars and care work so paying for childcare would have wiped out most of my wage.

I love children, always have, and I’ve never found babies or toddlers a chore to be around. I wasn’t at all sure how much fun I’d find other people’s children, every day, but to my absolute delight I have found it the most rewarding, fulfilling and joyful career I could have chosen.

I am sitting here typing while my gorgeous 3yo mindee is snoring on the sofa, and my own Littlest Chum is playing the piano with a plastic block. My lovely mindee is only with me for a couple more weeks, and then he’s going to be at home with his Mummy while she is on maternity leave with Baby Elmo. I have looked after him for three days a week since he was ten months old, and I love him like one of my own. We’ve had such great adventures. He carries Eeyore with him everywhere and has the best imagination of any child I’ve met. Today he has been telling me about Sarah,  a Pontypandy Pioneer, who is small enough to fit in his hand (and invisible). I have loved learning all the things she’s been up to today, mostly falling down holes and taking the plug out of the beanbag bath. After lunch, he was a pussycat, and curled up on my lap for me to stroke him, and told me he loved me. And now he’s fallen asleep, perfect little thumb in his mouth, with a slight snore. He makes my heart swell.

I am going to be so desperately sad to say goodbye to him, although I will still see him often (his parents have become good friends of ours and we will see each other every week, with luck) it won’t be quite the same. So I will choke back a little sob and move on to the next phase.

It’s worked out quite well, as my sister is returning to work the same week that J’s Mum starts her leave. So I am looking forward to having my 3yo niece back, and having my 10mo niece for the first time. They will be with me for four days a week.  I am the luckiest Aunty in the world to be able to do this, and earn my living from it to boot. My nieces are just adorable, and they will be growing up alongside my own children (they only live opposite, too!), so all the cousins will be as close as siblings. My youngest sister is having her baby soon, and I’m hoping to mind her little one as well. It’s the most wonderful situation to be as close as we are and to have this opportunity.

I have such a lovely bond with the little ones I mind, I don’t know any other job I could do which would bring such rewards. I run my setting as a home from home environment, where we do all the things we would do if I was a SAHM, toddler groups, the park, visiting friends, going to clubs, and also doing the shopping, going to the dentist, popping into the bank, sorting the laundry. And reasonably often, simply snuggling on the sofa with a book or Cbeebies.

It does have its downsides, of course; my house looks like the ELC catalogue, for instance, and working at home means I don’t get to go home at the end of the day, and my own children sometimes get the rag end of me. But the upsides are so up that it never matters. I am here for my own babies, and I don’t have to worry about childcare for them. I have a steady stream of income coming in that props up our finances (we wouldn’t starve without it but it means we have a lovely standard of living). It never feels like work, it’s being paid to have a jolly old time with children I adore. I may not do it forever, but for now I am evangelical about it. It really is the Best Job In The World™.

Right, must wake him up and go and get the Chums from school.

Much love xxx