Shits in glitter

There are beautiful people in life, with ugly souls. Fact.

Regrettably life has a tendency to throw shits like this into our paths. Social interaction with them is the only time that I wish my parents hadn't brought me up to be so polite, but as I try to console myself, the meerkat wouldn't be picking a fight with me.

You know the adage "shit in, shit out"? Well it's a phrase that was coined to describe what happens when shits breed. While I've four decades of experience, my children are only starting out on their own journey.

My girls know bullying is not OK. They know it's not right to call people names. They know it's not OK to criticise the way people look, or talk, where they live, how they live, what they have or don't have. We gave our children boundaries. Not everyone does.

I can't protect my children completely, but I've been able to use their experiences to demonstrate how shits in glitter are still shits.

Of course we don't …

Mummy's letter to the Corintheans

It’s that time of night when I’m lying in bed letting random shit run through my head - what I need to buy tomorrow to restock the fridge; how long I can leave it til I absolutely must wash my hair; how I’ve inadvertently smashed January. 

If I'm honest, sleep is elusive tonight - Ju is away for work, so his place in the bed, as well as most of mine, is occupied by a snoring micro Humphrey, currently Bogart-ing the duvet. There are two studies that I would love to read: how something so small (your average child/toddler/baby/cat) can a) take up so much room and b) make so much noise. Oh, and why baby poo stains everything orange... 

I’ve also just found the sweetest letter waiting for me in mini-me’s room - a little note that has made my heart happy. All is well in our house, yet I'm still awake, worrying.

Parenting is fucking hard. I’m doing my best and I’d like to think I’m doing ok. Sometimes I shout, sometimes I cry and sometimes I seriously consider boarding school. I’m perp…

The silent minority

I'd just like to clear something up.

I acknowledge I've been quieter than usual where my online presence is concerned.

No, I'm not dead, and no I haven't faded into obscurity - if you thought (hoped) that, then 2019 is not going to be your year.

But as it seems to be important to some, here's the lowdown on why I might be quiet... 

I'm thinking...

If you think I talk a lot, well I think even more. A lot of my thinking is about my work, creative cylinders firing constantly. Most of my thinking is about my loved ones, particularly my girls. Some time is spent redesigning my kitchen. Some is spent plotting 😌.

I'm ill...

On this occasion, I've had the annual Christmas bug. It's week 4. I missed Christmas - basically I served up dinner for everyone and went back to bed, surfacing occasionally for medication or help over the next four days. The girls spent whole mornings during their school holiday making lurid green slime - I simply blew my nose. 

I'm busy.…

Shifty Fades of Grey - My Story of O

It's Day 4 since I decided to accept my grey, and so far it's going better than brilliant - very happy with the colours and it's made a tremendous difference to how I feel about myself.

I've been rather reflective since Sunday (and that's not just reference to the silver catching the electric light in our house).

If I'm honest, I struggled a bit with the term transitioning, because of the significance the word has for the transgender community (for the record, I'm pro LGBT+ - my anxiety rested with using the same word for my fade to grey), but I'm an English scholar, so I know it is the right word for this.

For years, my roots have been an indication of my mental and physical health. When they've started to peek through (usually a week or two after they've been pasted into brown benevolence), it's been an emotional struggle to face the world - for me it was tangible evidence that I was too tired/busy/unhappy to touch them up, and people knew…

Shifty Fades of Grey

Sunday, I had an epiphany.

For years, I've been dying my hair to hide the grey. Stuck in a corporate role, I've been slapping on the dye to present a corporate face, and hairline, and it's been tiring and expensive (and smelly - ammonia... ugh).

For my 40th birthday, I was given a medical menopause, something I still have (it's the gift that just keeps on giving) and since then, the grey has become more resilient than ever.

Actually, it's more white than grey, and ironically the parts of my hair that get the most dye (parting, hairline) are the baby white of an nonagenarian. Not a great look when you're not even half that age.

Since I've been working for myself, and since I rarely see anyone other than my family and the postman, the need to dye my hair has become less and I've just touched up my roots for meetings and photo opportunities.

On Sunday I was reading an article about the effect of the menopause on hair which mentioned the Facebook group Grey…

Mummy gets absolutely bladdered

When I was a little girl I figured I would marry a prince and live in a castle.

I would inexplicably wear period costume and we would live happily ever after, probably with a unicorn in the garden. At no point in my innocent daydream was there even a hint that my pelvic floor wouldn't join me in this nirvana.

I'd not received "the talk" at that point. When it did arrive, it involved some indistinct mumbling from a nun about snails and cupids arrows, and a demonstration of what happens to a tampon when it's put in a glass of water. That was all mildly horrific, but really got interesting when Sarah Baker's brother had to come in to our girls-only lesson, and go to the teacher's desk, where said tampon resided in all its saturated majesty.

Life and reality teach us a lot, and so my childhood fantasy matured with me, until there was no period costume and no castle. I kissed some frogs and found my prince. And I exchanged my unicorn for children. As for happ…

Hard as fuck

I've never hidden the fact that I'm an emotional person. I don't just wear my heart on my sleeve, it's in every fibre of my body, plastered across my face, and my clothes are cut from its cloth. It's fair to say I emote my way through life.
If I were to hear someone talk about me, perhaps my eulogy (you'll be leaving the service - likely non-denominational although I am a Catholic - to Green Day, so I hope you have the Time of Your Life), I'd hope to hear from someone that I'd achieved my wish of being a kind and considerate person to others, strangers as well as friends.
You see, even though I don't have that much, I'm willing to share what I have. It may be my advice or a shoulder to cry on, it could be a last-minute favour or a place of refuge, but I am always generous with my time, friendship, love and support.
I readily admit, I don't just befriend or acquaint, I adopt. That's not to say I'll suffocate you - but expect me to be…