Endlessly

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Thought this was applicable to all mums not just those of us who are single!

Gingerbread's campaign blog

A poem on being a single parent by Gingerbread supporter and single mum, Tina Davenport.

Tonight I took a mirror, for the first time I could see,
All the people that I am, reflected back at me.
This woman, just a face, but in the eyes they tell a tale,
Of love that’s lost and things that I must be and never fail.

The mother and the father and the healer of young hearts,
Teaching them to fly again when lives were torn apart,
Creator of the safest place and catch them when they fall,
Working late into the night and juggling it all.

By day, the leader of a team, responsible by far.
Conference calls and meetings, rushed commuting in my car,
Fixing what is broken and supporting my own team,
Being full of energy, maintaining self-esteem.

Taxi driver, shopper, hamster-tamer, chef and nurse,
Expert plaster putter-on-er, world’s most…

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One of life’s realisations

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I am fat. There is no denying it, I knew but didn’t want to face up to it but now I’ve reached an all time low. My engagement ring is too tight. I struggle to take it off, it leaves a dent. I’m fat, see!

I am officially the fattest I’ve ever been and getting bigger. I need to stop. No more shit. I say this every week but my resolve is weak. I’ve spent lots of money on fitness equipment that is just languishing in the corners of my house.

When smallest was born I was back to my pre children size, I’ve eaten myself into my worst nightmare. I’ve eaten myself into my own mother.

Mum is fat, she always has been. She has done every diet ever. Yes she has lost weight, but it’s eaten back on very quickly. I’ve always had a hidden repulsion to her body. The sheer size, the way her stomach falls over her underwear. And now this is me. I’m the product of my own hatred.

My problem? I will tell the truth is embarrassment. I’ve been raised to believe excercise is horrible, that only freaks would actually want to do it. Truth be told, I enjoy it but the years of being told it’s another thing that can be used to call me a freak makes it something to avoid.

I hate the clumsy feeling that comes with this size, the fact I’ve only dresses or leggins that fit, and fuck me I’m fed up of elastic waistbands.

So today my lovely friends is the last day. I cannot be like this anymore, as I creep towards 14 stone on my 5″2 frame I need this horrible reality check. Tomorrow is a new day, not just another okay I’m going to do this. It’s a real I CAN DO THIS!!

So goodbye fatty, hope to never see your ugly arse again.

Oh and if I fail I will just have to have another baby, this is when I am queen of weight loss would you believe!!

PMM

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jenbug1001's Blog

In the last week I have mentally written a number of blogs (all wonderfully witty and interesting obviously) but managed to commit none of them to paper (or whatever the internet equivalent is). This, for once, was not pure laziness or even being too busy. I was suffering from a little known condition know as PMM.

What, I hear you cry, is PMM?
How have I never heard of so debilitating a condition?
Are you sure you haven’t made it up to excuse your own laziness?

PMM stands for Pre Menstrual Meh.
Unlike PMT I am not particularly tetchy, possibly a little grumpy if I’m tired, but none of the scary stabiness more commonly associated with PMT. I simply feel ‘meh’ about life, the universe and everything.

I have read deeply moving things and hysterically funny things and intended to comment on both, but PMM has prevented this actually happening.

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Waiting……just waiting

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I don’t like waiting rooms. They are always stuffy and uncomfortable. Although this morning I find myself the pleasure of sitting in one. It’s the car owners annual dread feast, it’s MOT day.
I hold out good faith it will pass, but I did that last year and the bastard failed on emissions.

So back to the waiting room. It’s busy today, there are two other women here. One older woman {read-mums age} and another who is the definition of mutton and refers to her car as the beem, short for Beemer. Twat.

Older woman is very good with her waiting room etiquette. She came in nodded a suburban nod hello and has proceded to sit nice and quietly playing with her phone.

Mutton does not know the rules. She has been on the phone, moaning about the cost mbe charge for tyres. £350 each before VAT if you are interested. oh you’re not? Shame. I’ve got some more tidbits about her week. Dial a dog are coming tomorrow, and she is having her eyebrows done at home, not sure what to them. I just hope she’s not indulging in HD brows, not at her age or with her colouring. It’s her daughters play on thirsday and then Friday they are going away. This level of knowledge should not be gathers from a waiting room. She has spent the rest of her time sashaying her blonde locks from side to side while tapping away on her phone with the noise on. She doesn’t two fast so it’s like a slow deathly heartbeat of the iphone touch tone.

I’m watchin, I’m watching every move they make on my car. It’s currently up high and for some god only knows what reason was shook. The fear seeing my car wobble like a fat person on a bouncy castle was a bit extreme. I had visions of it crashing to the ground and them telling me that’s what it failed on, wobble ability.

I wish I had washed it now. I normally always present a beautiful shiny clean car for testing as how could you fail something so clean and tidy? But then a bird shat on it from a great height on the way here.

Some may consider that lucky, I don’t. There’s no screenwash in it.

Let’s talk screenwash. Please!!!! Oh how I love thee screenwash! How I feel my life pails in significance without your presence. I wash my windscreen at least once every journey. I like a clean and clear screen and to tell the truth quite like the smell.

I ram out a few weeks back and I keep meaning to add it but forget. Or don’t have time. Or have been out and I’m scared of burning myself on a hot engine. Screen wash is one of the only things I know how to maintain.

Hopefully the lack thereof will not fail me.

The oiliy fumes are getting to my head leaving me to ramble. I will return with superior knowledge and a valid MOT.

God speed.

 

*it passed!**

What I hope for for my son

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My dad has today told me that the main thing he wanted for me in life was that I’d “not be a wimp”. I don’t really know what that means, but since I was bullied through school and am still occasionally paralysed by shyness, I’m not sure it worked out. Either way, it’s not something that had ever occurred to me as a priority for bringing up a child.

So I’ve been thinking about characteristics and behaviours that I’d like to support in my boy. (These may or may not be influenced by my own experiences).

I want him to be emotionally secure enough to recognise happiness in the everyday things.

I want to help him to be naturally kind, with no emotional obligations attached.

I want to encourage him to look for the best in people, not be instantly critical, snobbish or suspicious. To have empathy.

I want for him to not consider it normal to drive for short distances, so that fitness comes naturally to him and is not an effort.

I want to help him have the confidence to try things and not worry about failing. Not feel he has to be a perfectionist.

I don’t want him to be paralysed in social situations by feeling he has to have a “best behaviour”.

I want to show him that it isn’t lazy or irresponsible to think that work isn’t the most important thing in life.

I want to help him to be curious and interested and love life. Most of all, want him to be happy and bring happiness to others. Of course, I hope he is secure and confident in himself, but not being a wimp doesn’t come into it.

Goodbye Disney. Hello War Horse

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By the time I was nine, I was happily watching Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Friday the 13th and Halloween. My eldest is nearing that age, and as I really can’t bear to sit through Annie or Frozen for the millionth time I’ve decided it’s time to start watching some *proper films*.

I am giving my old slasher favourites a miss for now. We decided to start with Spielberg’s War Horse, both having a passionate attachment to a furry animal. It’s a long film but we managed to watch it in one go. Athough she did rainbow loom me an anklet as we watched. Apart from the scene when Joey runs amok in No Man’s Land, no cushions were required over face. We spoke about trenches, the massive loss of young life, and the sheer horror of having to say goodbye to a son or brother as they went off to war. Tonight she wants to start the Twilight saga. I’ve said no but I’m meeting her half way. We are watching Jaws.

Sitting up late

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It’s late. Very late for me! Big one is on his way home and I’m very excited!!

He went on Friday and it’s now Saturday night. I dropped him off at nursery, gave him a huge kiss and cuddle before leaving for his first time away from me. Him and man shape have been to a family wedding while me and small one stay home. It’s been a long day but I wasn’t expecting his return until tomorrow afternoon. For some reason though plans have changed and he will be home in the middle of the night!

I can’t wait to see my baby again but fuck me I want to sleep!