tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57783301502867889972024-03-05T10:23:06.807-06:00Some Mothers Do Ave EmOne mother's attempt to grab life by the short and curlies following divorce. The aim is to maximise optimism and minimise cynicism - whilst being aided and abetted by two amazing sons, some great friends and possibly a thimble or two of wine. Admittedly, these are rather lofty aims...Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.comBlogger151125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-88760950329920834552012-07-09T04:28:00.000-05:002012-07-09T11:12:08.241-05:00Before...and After<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL-Cbpey-a_iwdOdmj0k4UiU1Bqk3c0MY6E3LzVE66Vyi3sNZBKXK_Qa76nr6CgcBjiDU9sqpEoKdhhGPK6AZheypRGCEIDx3ZFNqtDoAJyinUzbxtHRCUqcErF2IN_EzoA2SgVAIabJjY/s1600/IMG_2262.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL-Cbpey-a_iwdOdmj0k4UiU1Bqk3c0MY6E3LzVE66Vyi3sNZBKXK_Qa76nr6CgcBjiDU9sqpEoKdhhGPK6AZheypRGCEIDx3ZFNqtDoAJyinUzbxtHRCUqcErF2IN_EzoA2SgVAIabJjY/s320/IMG_2262.jpg" width="249" /></a></div>
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So following on from the multitude of begging requests...well, 3 to be exact but let's not pick at hairs shall we?...here are the before and after shots.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3NXP28GuwT5Gy-0eJJPuqZB5NGSkLQvYrSAj-Inj0m5C3B9cQZQt9K83HuwPw-OfXvUSc3E1LbuMZqDUTyc9SHMPYdfNQlUaqMLQ72iw_6vScxQC1uirlLJdIplqwD9BIwdAEHRqRd6_Z/s1600/IMG_2825.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3NXP28GuwT5Gy-0eJJPuqZB5NGSkLQvYrSAj-Inj0m5C3B9cQZQt9K83HuwPw-OfXvUSc3E1LbuMZqDUTyc9SHMPYdfNQlUaqMLQ72iw_6vScxQC1uirlLJdIplqwD9BIwdAEHRqRd6_Z/s320/IMG_2825.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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And no, this is not the way I typically dress for doing the housework. This is only the second time in approximately 5 years that I have handled an iron, hence the need for photographic evidence (and yes, I was ironing a top at the time).<br />
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Although I am getting slightly more attention than usual when working out. I wonder why that is?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcCWp_rlCocT90gesYM8ws4H1NR9S6NBf8CfKpolubZ6uyhMtPLa4tB90v_h7JOAvWu6U7vbPobnJP5tJT-PV8ewI_4uDMMwLm4EpvX2_gXwqzzTnnHgtB0R1WSONuRD517egVDnxgO1QI/s1600/pp+pic.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcCWp_rlCocT90gesYM8ws4H1NR9S6NBf8CfKpolubZ6uyhMtPLa4tB90v_h7JOAvWu6U7vbPobnJP5tJT-PV8ewI_4uDMMwLm4EpvX2_gXwqzzTnnHgtB0R1WSONuRD517egVDnxgO1QI/s320/pp+pic.png" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-42153473066119917722012-06-22T09:37:00.000-05:002012-06-22T09:37:57.760-05:00Fallen Madonna Wiz Zee Big Boobies...I thought it was about time that I got my slovenly act together and posted an update. You may be forgiven for thinking that I have been far too distracted staring at my own cleavage for hours at a time to consider updating the blog (or housework, grocery shopping, doing laundry, feeding the cat, helping the boys with their homework)...that's not quite the case. <br />
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Well, it's not the case <i>now. </i><br />
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3 months on and I almost have the infatuation with my new tits under control. <br />
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Almost. (Not quite enough to start addressing the back log of housework, gardening or ironing but I'm getting there.)<br />
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Yes, it's Big Boobies Bertha reporting back to base and the outcome is an overwhelming thumbs up. Actually, to be frank, it's a couple of pert nipples up. I am now the proud owner of two beautifully rounded, perky breasts which still take me a little by surprise every time I step out of the shower. And I know it is shallow and superficial and totally lacking in importance in the big scheme of things..but this has to be the best £4,000 I have ever spent. <br />
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The procedure itself was incredibly straightforward. I have had root canals which have taken longer, been more traumatic and resulted in more pain. I must admit, I was incredibly nervous while waiting for the surgeon, in my fetching hospital gown, big paper knickers and support hose. There was a very loud and insistent voice in my head repeating, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? YOU. ARE. INSANE. It will serve you right if this all goes...well, tits up, wouldn't it? WALK AWAY! YOU STILL HAVE TIME TO CHANGE YOUR MIND AND...WALK AWAY!!" <br />
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I did feel a little distanced by it all - I didn't have doubts or second thoughts but I was almost in a state of total disbelief that I was going ahead with a voluntary, purely cosmetic, medical surgical procedure.<br />
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The surgeon duly arrived - nearly 45 minutes later than planned...plenty of time to hyperventilate slightly and start to scan the room for a paper bag to breath in to. He then drew a rather fetching treasure map in permanent marker all over my boobs, which felt more than a little embarrassing. I then walked across the corridor into the operating theatre and lay down on the table, while numerous medical staff busied themselves with sharp looking implements as they discussed various banal elements of their day. I started to feel more than a little light headed at this point - the whole exercise just seemed so ridiculous. The anaesthesiologist started talking to me about having a mid life crisis and asked if Power Plate could help him lose his love handles...and then in the blink of an eye I was waking up in a different room with a very pleasant nurse holding my hand and the feeling of a ten ton weight sitting on my chest.<br />
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The sense of relief was indescribable. <br />
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I got wheeled back to my room and 5 hours later walked out of hospital, slightly gingerly but desperate to be at home in my own bed to sleep.<br />
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The surgery was over and had been a success - now for the bit I had been really dreading. The recovery. That window of time when your body goes into shock and normal service is temporarily suspended, as it adjusts to the violent assault it has been subjected to without its formal consent. I was not looking forward to feeling my body scream at me, "<i>what the hell did you go and do THAT for?"</i><br />
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However, the recovery from the surgery was surprisingly swift. I was absolutely knackered for at least a week afterwards. Sleeping was difficult, because I had to sleep resting on an abundance of pillows at a 45 degree angle. Not the most comfortable position when the aim is a good night's sleep. Getting from horizontal to vertical - and vice versa - took a little bit of patience and some hard core deep breaths. I think waking up in the morning was the worst - I would typically allow myself a little pity party cry as my swollen boobs vehemently protested any shift in position. It was as though they had been filled with a sack full of rocks during the night and upon waking were being hit with a hammer. It was the most painful engorgement I can remember since overdoing the fenugreek supplements when breastfeeding. My breasts were so swollen it felt at times as though the skin was stretched to the point of rupturing.<br />
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That bit was not particularly fun, admittedly. Although remarkably, I really didn't mind the discomfort. It felt like a means to an end because, even 24 hours after the surgery, I thought my new boobs looked spectacular. A little bit porn star to begin with, which wasn't quite the look I'd been aiming for, but that's settled down now the swelling has completely subsided and the implants have settled.<br />
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For anyone who is remotely curious, the details of my surgery are as follows: I had Nagor 330cc high profile silicone implants, placed under the muscle. It has resulted in a C/D cup size - an increase of at least 2 cup sizes. The implants do still feel almost unnaturally firm to the touch, however I am told they will continue to soften and look and feel much more natural in the next 3-6 months. Friends 'in the know' do remark on my new voluptuous physique - but I haven't spotted anyone else doing a double take in the playground, so I can breath a sigh of relief that I am not in Katie Price territory just yet.<br />
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The first and only clueless person to remark on the change was Johnny Drama who, at the age of just 6, already has the markings of a breast man. I hadn't said anything to the boys but JD commented almost immediately that, "wow, your boobs look really big today Mama - it's like they're full of milk!" and then he left the room in search of a Beyblade to battle his brother with. He has passed comment a couple of times since, but hasn't yet ventured to ask, "how did that happen, mama?" Thank God. I like to think I have a policy of being honest with my children, but I might have to draw the line at telling them the fact that Mama has had a boob job.<br />
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Final two words on the subject? I think Hubba Hubba pretty much sums it up for me.Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-16447787142571169812012-03-26T11:51:00.001-05:002012-03-26T12:02:12.048-05:00Some Mother's Do Ave Em...Boob Jobs, that is<div style="font: 12.0px Geneva; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"></div><div style="font: 14.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I can't believe I am about to write the following sentence.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I am 2 days away from having a boob job.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> <div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Actually scrap that. It’s not the writing of the sentence which I find so preposterous, of course it’s not. I just find it hard to believe I am actually going to have surgery to enhance that which God chose not to bless me with. I mean ME - the woman who has been so outspokenly against cosmetic surgery of nearly every description. Not that I don’t believe in a woman’s right to choose, of course. But I have always assumed these women to be fairly vacuous, highly impressionable and most definitely shallow.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Judgemental? Moi? Yep, that would be me in a nutshell.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And now this 180 degree turnaround. What on earth is going on? Fucking hell, the outstanding selfishness and vanity of this decision! It is so grandly out of character. So hypocritical. And in making this decision - which I have to admit has been incredibly swift and without great deliberation - I feel overwhelmingly liberated.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Boob job. Ugh...I really do hate that moniker. In my own head I prefer to quash the pop culture terminology and use ‘Breast Augmentation’ instead. Sounds much more Guardian and far less The Sun, don’t you agree? Far more like the type of procedure an educated, literate, elegant woman of the world would decide upon, rather than the next 20-something hopeful for TOWIE. After all, I am far more Claudia Winkleman or Zoe Ball than Amy Childs. Aren’t I? (Though admittedly less successful, not as well connected, hardly to be described as a household name, definitely not rich and only as good looking when viewed with a squint after a skinful.)</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I appreciate I am kidding myself. It all amounts to the same thing. The words themselves are pretty immaterial. In just 2 days time I will no longer be able to claim that what you see is all a result of Mother Nature. My boobs will be man-made. I will have false tits. My God, I will have TITS. Period. Oh, Naomi Wolf and Germaine Greer you can shoot me now...because I am having a boob job and I can’t bloody wait.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Maybe one of the reasons I don’t align myself with the term boob job is simply because I have never equated my body with ever having boobs. Boobs imply big breasts, in my mind. Ample bosoms of page 3 proportions at the very least. Boobs imply cleavage can be generated without the wire and gel reinforcement of Victoria’s Secret most enhancing brassiere (of which I own a bloody drawer full...my God, it is going to be a distinct pleasure to finally burn them all). </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I do not currently have boobs. I have breasts. Small breasts. Not exactly non-existent (my previous descriptions of two raisins on a rib cage is a slight exaggeration, I confess) but hardly what you would call a decent handful either. Well, certainly not a grown adult’s handful, that’s for sure. I have always been quite self conscious about their lack of volume...although read enough feminist literature in my 20‘s to appreciate this should never be acknowledged aloud lest my persona as a woman confident in her own sexuality was diminished. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Secretly, I always wished my breasts were bigger but at the same time was grateful not to be lumbered with hulking great mammary glands which hampered my athletic nature. Given the two extremes (small vs. massive) I reassured myself I was glad to be on the small side. Or so I thought. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Then I got pregnant in my mid-30‘s and the boob fairy finally made an appearance...and it was amazing. Revelatory. My whole perception of my body changed. My breasts looked - well, to be honest they looked bloody marvellous. Even when copiously engorged and mapped with blue veins they were, in my view, absolutely spectacular.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I went from an A cup to a fully jettisoned C and, all of a sudden, I understood what all the fuss was about. Why men are driven to distraction. Why women are pre-occupied with their boobs and the lack or abundance of them. My husband - supposedly more of a ‘leg man’ - was fascinated and enthralled.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Now I had them I finally understood the attraction and lure of them. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">My god, they were so compelling I could have stared at them all day and - given that I was on bed rest for 4 months - sometimes I did just that. I have never spent so much time top-less in front of mirrors, in my life. Once I was breast-feeding, many more people got to stare at them because I would pop out those puppies at any given opportunity. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">During that time I felt a confidence in my body that I had just never experienced before. So sensual, so motherly, so feminine, so womanly, so powerful. My body had a sense of proportion that it had always been missing, I just hadn’t realised it. I felt infinitely different about myself. Softer. Sexier. I couldn’t deny the fact that I really loved having fuller breasts. It was galling, given my overt and typically outspoken feminist stance on female sexuality, and something I didn’t even want to fully acknowledge, even to myself.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Now, here I am over 6 years later. A single parent. Two incredible sons and much in my life to be grateful for. I am healthy, I am happy, I feel inherently confident and optimistic about life. I don’t have any underlying angst about my body. In fact, quite the opposite.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So why a boob job and why now?</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I guess I could list a myriad of reasons, both emotional and rational, which have led to this decision. But at the end of the day, most of them would be a combination of bollocks and flannel. I just suddenly realised - in a flash of clarity and honesty - that I wanted them. That I really wanted to spend the rest of my life enjoying the novelty of having fuller breasts. It was like making a decision usually credited to a selfish child. I want them. I have the means to buy them. Sod it, I’m going to stop denying my latent desire and I will have them.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I think being in America for so many years has influenced this decision. Most of my American girlfriends consider invasive and non-invasive cosmetic surgery a normal part of their beauty routine from their mid-30’s onwards. Botox and fillers are commonplace and as standard as getting your teeth cleaned every 6 months. I felt I was taking a stand for global female beauty by refusing steadfast to participate. My girlfriends didn’t care. (Well...it didn’t register in their facial expression if they did...)</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Two of my friends - both mums - had boob jobs. I was quite vehemently against the idea. But I was surprised at the simplicity and speed of the procedure and the relative ease of the recovery. I was even more stunned by the results. As much as it pained me to acknowledge, their new breasts were gorgeous and much more natural looking than I had envisaged false boobs to be. Even more interestingly, these women - both intelligent, funny, well-rounded individuals who were amazing mothers - were deeply happy with the results. And within just a matter of months, their new boobs were just...well, their boobs. No more a novelty. It was as if they had always been a part of them.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And in the years to come, that’s how I envisage my new breasts to be. Just a part of me, as if they had always been there. Something that I no longer have to give much thought to, one way or the other. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I look at my body appraisingly in the mirror and it is strange to think that in 2 days time my silhouette will change forever. I am overcome with curiosity and a deep seated sense of anticipation. I’m pretty certain it’s not going to change my life. At this moment in time I am not sure it is going to change anything apart from my cup size. But I can’t help but be excited. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Slightly mortified that this radical *cough* feminist is changing her stance, almost on a whim? Yes, but predominantly liberated it has to be said.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Bring ‘em on. </span></div><div><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br />
</span></div></span></div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-57629129053572747862011-10-18T15:50:00.000-05:002011-10-18T15:50:05.027-05:00Not Neurotic But A Potentially Perceptive Mum...Who Knew?It's been a roller coaster few days. Emotionally I have been all over the place. Confused. Fearful. Totally overwhelmed. Crying at the drop of a hat and resembling more a wet rag than a woman.<br />
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My concern for Captain Underpants has clouded my every waking moment - and most of my sleeping ones (not that there's been much of that). Friends have been eager to reassure me that Captain Underpants is a wonderful little boy, who is just under a hell of a lot of emotional strain. And it's true, that is undeniably the case. <br />
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But then again, so is his brother. Yet his coping skills - at even 2 years his junior - are far more honed. Now I know Johnny Drama is a whole different kettle of fish and should not be used as a benchmark where Captain Underpants is concerned. They are as different as chalk and cheese. But I am still - as their mother - beginning to appreciate that personality differences might not be the only explanation as to why one is struggling and the other isn't.<br />
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I happened to mention my concerns to the guy I work with and it turns out that he is a specialist social worker trained to work with children, many of whom have 'special needs'. (I still can't help but grit my teeth where that terminology is concerned...I know it's wrong, but it just holds such negative connatations for me.) After I described the situation in brief he very calmly confirmed that there are definite indicators, irrespective of our personal family situation - yet this is not to be perceived as a bad thing. We talked about it in much more depth and he advised me to go and talk to the school's SENCO (Special Educational Needs Coordinating Officer) to get their opinion.<br />
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I then talked to Mr eHarmony, as we hadn't touched base for a while. Being a woman with blabbermouth tendencies I mentioned to him the issues I was going through with my eldest - and he revealed that he had gone through similar circumstances with his eldest son several years before (his son is now 14). He had a wealth of information and contacts, should I need it, and would be more than happy to help in any way that he could.<br />
<br />
Another couple of friends read my blog and reached out via email, revealing their own journeys along this path (which I hadn't been aware of). One of them suggested I look into Sensory Processing Disorder, a relatively new 'syndrome' aligned with autism/Aspergers, but not. I checked out a website online (www.sensory-processing-disorder.com) and, just for the sheer hell of it, had a little looksee at their all-encompassing checklist, making a note of traits that struck a chord. Once I had a page full of notes - over 30 characteristics (and this was without writing everything down that rung true for CU) - I stopped. <br />
<br />
And just started to sob. <br />
<br />
The picture through that particular looking glass was overwhelmingly clear. I felt terrified at what I was potentially getting us - and particularly him - into, but also the most incredible relief that I possibly wasn't going mad. My biggest fear is that I am being a dramatic, neurotic mother, dragging her poor innocent son into the great unknown, for no reason at all other than sheer desperation, and to detract from the almighty mess that is his family life. To have a sense that this isn't necessarily the case and that there is evidence to back up my concerns, was reassuring to say the least. Maybe not mad. That was a thought worth hanging on to.<br />
<br />
Here is a small sampler of the things that rang true to me:<br />
<br />
<ul><li>Incredibly sensitive, colicky baby with sleep issues and who couldn't be comforted by touch/being held</li>
<li>Never crawled. Walked very late (could be a premature indicator) and walked on his toes. Hated new sensations - walking on sand / grass / different textures</li>
<li>Talked late - and didn't have a tendency to babble.</li>
<li>Drooled excessively for first 3 years of life and still soaks his pillow/bed sheets every night. Sucks fingers / clothing as a comfort mechanism, but was never soothed by sucking a dummy/thumb as a baby</li>
<li>Overly sensitive to changes in routine, even now</li>
<li>Is often overwhelmed by group situations and will withdraw - even on a play date he has requested - to play quietly on his own in a corner</li>
<li>Completely freaks out about his toe nails being cut. We have recently turned a corner with his finger nails, but this is still something that needs to be negotiated way ahead of time for him to be comfortable with it and to not disintegrate into a nervous wreck.</li>
<li>Has an absolute panic attack if he is spun or is threatened to be held upside down</li>
<li>Can't stand loud noises - says it feels as if his ear drums are about to explode if he hears something unexpected. The very thought of attending firework night practically brings him out in hives.</li>
<li>When in an active social group he either stand on the sidelines and keeps with the adults, away from all the commotion, or he enters the fray with abandon and is far more excessive than his friends. He talks VERY loudly and will not stop. There is no volume control. He can easily become hyper, which is very out of character for such a sweet, passive boy.</li>
<li>He can't sit still at meal times and constantly moves in, out and around his chair.</li>
<li>He can't stand his hair being brushed - even with the softest bristles - and as for hair cuts...well, you can imagine.</li>
<li>Sits/stands inches away from the television and, given the option, would always dictate that the volume is at least 10,000 decibels or more.</li>
<li>When excited or overstimulated he will repetitively screech at the top of his voice, like a large bird being violently castrated.</li>
<li>Shakes and moves his hands rapidly and repeatedly in anticipation of something good happening</li>
<li>Moves from placid to aggressive in a split second - over reacting to the simplest of provocations, sometimes with violence (his current preference is to choke / attempt to throttle whoever is upsetting him - most typically his brother who has an annoyance factor of at least 1000%)</li>
<li>In comparison to his friends, has poorly developed gross and fine motor skills</li>
</ul><div>There are other things that his teachers are picking up on, which are little red flags and which seem 'out of character'. And I guess this is the thing that is most confusing for me. Because most of the time, and in the right setting, you could not meet a more delightful, mature, polite, intelligent, caring little boy. He is ahead of the game academically and quite gifted in maths and science. He is far more empathetic and intuitive than his brother and deeply cares about the feelings of others. He is a total joy and I love him beyond measure.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But to ignore the fact that he is hurting and struggling - and that there are potential indicators which could help to explain why (not that I am attempting to diagnose him, I appreciate I am no expert) - will be doing him the greatest disservice. </div><div><br />
</div><div>All I want is for him to thrive. </div><div><br />
</div><div>All I want is for him to be happy.</div><div><br />
</div><div>End of story.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And I will do whatever it takes to make that happen. Ditto for Johnny Drama.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Of course, I have so many doubts about even venturing onto this path. Where on earth will this lead? Will it provide any answers, in terms of a diagnosis? What is more terrifying - getting a diagnosis or not getting a diagnosis? I am intimidated by my Ex a little and his reaction to the steps I am taking. I have treaded on eggshells so carefully over the past few years and I know I need to handle this situation sensitively to avoid a potential backlash. He's a great dad and just as concerned - but I get the feeling that this is an arena which is potentially easier for a mum to negotiate than an A-type, competitive dad (albeit with many sensitive traits himself).</div><div><br />
</div><div>I am particularly frightened of doing CU a huge disservice. From seeing things that aren't there, to over-compensating and creating a co-dependent relationship. I don't want to create a handy excuse for behaviour that is simply not acceptable (ie. throttling his brother, much as I am tempted to a lot of the time). I certainly don't want to make him feel any different to anyone else. He tries so desperately to fit in and be liked as it is. But most of all I don't want to constantly be on the back foot, reacting to situations after they have happened and feeling so fucking helpless in equipping him to handle situations in a way in that he understands.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I am also scared of impacting Johnny Drama. I don't want to replicate how I felt when I was younger - my sister appeared to be always heralded as much more 'special', 'delicate', 'gifted', 'one-of-a-kind'. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I also want to feel far more adept at handling similar 'negative' behaviour from both boys in different ways, suitable for both personalities.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But most of all, I am just plain scared. Scared at how ill-equipped I feel. Let's be honest, I can be an emotional basket case at the best of times. I am rarely a placid and calm human being. My own anxiety, loneliness, lack of confidence and emotional swings between buoyant happiness and abject sadness is not the most solid foundation for coping with this situation.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And above all, I feel guilty. Guilty that I have missed years of potentially obvious clues. Years of people who know me and my son well, trying to bring attention to areas that they have noticed and are concerned about. </div><div><br />
</div><div>With less than 24 hours to go before the big SENCO meeting this morning, I spoke with a woman who is one of the leading campaigners for autism today and who has knowledge and experience across the spectrum of neurological disorders. She couldn't have been more insightful and supportive and reassuring. She had a voice similar to a meditative CD, which instantly calmed me irrespective of the informed advice she was imparting. The fact that I have this woman in my corner, to go to for advice and support, is so incredulously fortuitous. She listened. She reassured. She articulated simple and straightforward advice, which made absolute sense. There are obviously no answers at this point, but she talked me through the process, gave me guidance and offered a wealth of support and people to talk to. God love her, how lucky am I?</div><div><br />
</div><div>And the meeting with the SENCO woman today was...you know what? I can't put it into words. It reassured me beyond measure that I am doing the right thing in moving this forward and checking out every avenue. None of my concerns were dismissed as immaterial. None of the evidence disregarded. Yet also - importantly - no assumptions immediately made.</div><div><br />
</div><div>We have a plan moving forward, with in-house assessments to start and specialist assessments to follow. Maybe there is no diagnosis as an end result, but I am convinced I am going to reach a deeper understanding of how to help my son more effectively than I am doing at this present moment.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And that is all that matters.</div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-75955137785105215452011-10-13T16:37:00.000-05:002011-10-13T16:37:13.425-05:00Anxiety...or Aspergers?I have always felt incredibly over-protective towards Captain Underpants. <div><br />
</div><div>But never more so than now.</div><div><br />
</div><div>My son is hurting. His courage is failing him. His ability to deal with life with ease and confidence is deserting him. He is distraught and lost and struggling with everyday situations. He over-reacts impulsively and without warning. His tummy hurts. His enthusiasm is waning. He is trying so hard to cope and to keep up with the ever-changing situation around him. It is all proving to be too much.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I feel utterly, utterly helpless.</div><div><br />
</div><div>At this moment in time, if I could wrap this boy in cotton wool, pull him into my lap, lock the door and never let him go...I would.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I just want to stop him hurting and it kills me that my efforts, right now, are verging on ineffectual. I am floundering almost as much as he is. </div><div><br />
</div><div>He loves the fact his dad is now living close by. He loves his father unconditionally and misses him enormously when he is not around. But he doesn't want to go and stay at his dad's temporary home. He is not sure he wants to go and stay at the new house, once they move in November. He wants one home, absolute routine, no to-ing and fro-ing. He is desperately trying to put on a brave face; he has always tried to conceal his deep un-ease with the situation. I can tell he doesn't want to upset me or his father, by saying the wrong thing. He loves us both and is highly attuned - even at 8 years old - to other people's feelings. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Not only that, but he is also struggling at school. Academically he is ahead of his years. Socially, he can find it hard to fit in. He is struggling to deal with a larger class size, of 30 children. There is more noise and it is generally less orderly. He seems to be finding the environment more stressful than his previous school. Not only that, but this year he has a mish-mosh of teachers. His main teacher is there from Monday to Wednesday lunchtime. Then he has another teacher for one day on a Thursday - and yet another for one day on a Friday. He likes them all but is finding it hard to develop a sense of confidence and trust with so many adults to get to know. He is getting less individual attention than at his private Chicago school, which appears to be making him feel lost and inconsequential.</div><div><br />
</div><div>A lack of stability at home. In conjuction with a lack of stability at school.</div><div><br />
</div><div>This child, who thrives on absolute structure and routine and adult interaction, is floundering in a sea of change and uncertainty. Will he adapt, as everyone says he will? Or will things go from bad to worse?</div><div><br />
</div><div>I just can't take the risk of waiting to find out, can I?</div><div><br />
</div><div>But it is also more than that.</div><div><br />
</div><div>There are aspects of his behaviour - the depth of his sensitivity - which lead me to believe it could be something more.</div><div><br />
</div><div>You know. The sort of something where people start to bring the word 'spectrum' into the mix.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The sort of diagnosis that both his father and I are terrified to consider - and have possibly been in complete denial about for many years.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I think his father is still in absolute denial. After a meeting with the school on Tuesday - where they expressed their concerns and we dismissed them with countless logical reasons - Ex turned to me outside and suggested that Captain Underpants is demonstrating this type of behaviour due to a lack of consistent disciplining on my part.</div><div><br />
</div><div>He cited the birthday weekends as an example - where I ignored mayhem and let Ex deal with the admonishing.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I was too busy attempting to stem a flood of tears to either defend myself or slap him. I have NEVER proclaimed myself to be the perfect mother. How convenient that these troubles with our adored son could potentially be attributed to the gaps in my parenting technique.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Anyway, that's immaterial. Nothing else matters except opening our eyes to the fact that we need to get some help - some professional help - before our diminutive son crumbles even further before our very eyes.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I spent the day talking to friends and colleagues who have experience with sensitive / anxious / autistic children. There are several indicators, that he has had since infancy but which have definitely become more pronounced in recent years, that fit within an autistic / Asperger's diagnosis. Maybe I am jumping several guns here. I can have a tendency to think 'worse case scenario' but I have reached a point where I want to leave no stone unturned. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I made an appointment next week with the school specialist, as one of my first ports of call. I have ordered book upon book from Amazon. I felt a bit calmer, once I began to consider the possibilities and take action in getting some outside help.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I was on my way home tonight, internally mocking myself a little for being such a neurotic mother, when I received a phone call from Captain Underpants.</div><div><br />
</div><div>He was in tears.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Not sobbing, angry or stub-your-toe tears. These were the saddest tears I have ever heard. Quiet and heartfelt. I sank onto a step outside my office and my own heart plummeted. I fought to stop myself crying in sympathy alongside him. He softly cried and cried, while saying that he didn't know why he was upset, why he was feeling the way that he did - he couldn't even articulate what it felt like - but he didn't want to feel this way any more. He wanted to stop this feeling and he wanted to come home to my house. He was crying out for help - and I had no idea what to say or do. I listened to him and talked to him gently and reassuringly for nearly half an hour. He calmed but didn't seem significantly happier. I talked to his dad, hearing the concern and emotion in his voice mirroring my own.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I am so terrified of failing him. I love him immeasurably and wish I could magic all his cares away. But I think we need to rely on a little more than just love at this stage. </div><div><br />
</div><div>My special, special, special boy. </div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-86395806251094694752011-10-11T01:55:00.002-05:002011-10-11T04:16:39.178-05:00I Think My Soulmate Might Possibly Read The Guardian...Now Ex and I are living in the same country and sharing the parenting once more, it seemed time to dust off my libido (shoved hastily into the 3rd drawer down on the left), tenderly cradle my bruised and battered heart...and enter the fray of Online Dating once more.<br />
<br />
Oh, more fool me. <br />
<br />
The first hurdle is setting up a profile. I guess there are worse ways to spend my time. But really, I can't think of many. It's right up there with writing a new CV...and I have been successfully putting that fun pastime onto the back burner for over 2 years now.<br />
<br />
Oh to be able to skip this part of the process altogether. It's a shame it is pretty much essential. I did attempt to do without it (I sat and simply stared at the Guardian Soulmates website for quite a few days) but nothing much happened as a result. No winks. No emails. No totally fantastic, compatible man beating my door down and sweeping me into his arms, before carrying me off into the sunset...<br />
<br />
Turns out guys on GS may have many weird and wonderful talents or characteristics. But telepathy isn't quite as common as you might expect. This was an unfortunate discovery, particularly where my writer's block was concerned.<br />
<br />
I think the reason I hate sitting down to write a profile is due to the fact that my expectation of being able to write something <i>out of the ordinary</i> is quite high. But the reality is, I don't have a single innovative idea when approaching a piece orchestrated to capture the essence of 'me'. I sit and stare at those stupid empty boxes, waiting to contain 2,000 characters, and feel a fug of distinct antipathy.<br />
<br />
Put down on paper, I sound much the same as every other woman featured. Which is very annoying - given the fact I like to harbour the illusion I am pretty bloody special, most of the time.<br />
<br />
Whilst pootling on the edge of 'am I going to dip my toe into these muddy little waters, or what?' I did a little site research and was staggered by the ease with which most people were able to blow their own trumpet. It would appear that all the attractive, intelligent people in this country are - in fact - single, judging by the content of most of the profiles. I felt more intimidated than ever.<br />
<br />
Finally I sat down and scraped an unimpressive profile together, then uploaded a few photos which vaguely resemble the real me, if you look at them from a distance with a squint. Then I ran from the computer at a sprint that Linford Christie would be proud of and waited for a reaction.<br />
<br />
Sweet FA. <br />
<br />
That's what happened. <br />
<br />
Well, this is reassuring, I would think. Yet another lesson in 'well, if you were going to make the mistake of ever thinking too highly of yourself...then please, <i>don't</i>'. A week went by and every now and then I would furtively check into the site and see if my profile had been viewed. Honestly, I have seen the carcases of dead chicks, which have fallen out of nests into remote gutters, get more attention. It was depressing stuff. <br />
<br />
I hadn't paid anything at this point and was considering aborting the whole exercise and simply hiring a sandwich board with "I have been single for so long I will pretty much consider dating anybody", then standing outside my local Sainsbury's handing out my phone number with the headline "VERY single (and just as desperate...) call me". <br />
<br />
And then *PING*, I received my first email.<br />
<br />
I opened the message with caution. It was funny. In fact, it was original <i>and</i> funny. So I read his profile - which was also incredibly witty. I was impressed (but also, let's be honest here, a little pissed off that he had succeeded where I had failed). There were two photos, which were so-so. Not necessarily my cup of tea, but he looked interesting all the same. And, most importantly, the profile was right up my street.<br />
<br />
I replied and we bantered back and forth for a few days, before arranging to meet. I was curious but not particularly excited. The ongoing trials and tribulations of Captain Underpants were unnerving and distracting me. However, I thought a coffee with this guy would be a pleasant distraction and, after all, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I had at this point paid a subscription, so may as well attempt to get my money's worth by actually meeting up with at least one person of the opposite sex.<br />
<br />
The next day I bump into a friend in the playground, who is also on Guardian Soulmates. She is slightly embarrassed and reveals she has just received <u>the<b> exact same</b> (original <i>and</i> funny) email </u>from the guy I am due to meet. Identical, word for word. Which kind of throws me a little. I am not surprised that he is still approaching other women. That's the whole point of the site, after all. But I didn't anticipate that his initial approach hadn't been specifically crafted just for me. He had said my profile was 'witty and delightful', after all. What a big, fat fibber. He quite possibly hadn't even read it.<br />
<br />
After the initial shock, I thought it was quite ingenious, if a little lazy. It had been a really funny email - I could see it would have been a shame to have wasted such literary genius on just one woman alone. If I had managed to be so inspired, I would have been emailing men left, right and centre. I actually quite admired his tactic, I thought to myself ruefully. <br />
<br />
My friend emailed the guy back and said something along the lines of, 'gee, thanks for the email, but you are due to meet up with a friend of mine shortly, so I think we'll just leave it here, shall we?' <br />
<br />
A couple of days passed. I was supposed to be confirming our meet up plans, but, what with one thing and another, just hadn't got around to it<br />
<br />
At which point he panicked and emailed:<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 10px;">My only thought was: I hope it's not Nicola!<br />
Anyway, it looks like it was.<br />
Shame, because you are definitely the main reason for me staying on here.<br />
I think you are COMPLETELY gorgeous, and very funny.</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 10px;">I'd rather put dignity to one side, than miss a chance like this..</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 10px;">30 minute coffee?</div><div>I think that was an email worthy of absolution, don't you? I chucked to myself as I replied to put him out of his misery. <br />
<br />
And as it turned out, the coffee meet up was great.</div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-25366174342036720962011-10-09T03:17:00.000-05:002011-10-09T03:17:55.599-05:00Me, My Ex...and His American GirlfriendSo Ex <i>did</i> finally move over to the UK in September, much to many people's surprise.<br />
<br />
Given our typical communication brilliance, I didn't have any insight into his actual plans other than an approximate arrival time. "Where's he going to live?" friends would enquire. No idea, I would tell them. I could see them look at me with the obvious 'well, haven't you just asked him?' question in their eyes. The next question would typically be "is She coming with him?" followed by, "Do you think they will get married?"<br />
<br />
I knew the answer to the first question - yes, American Girlfriend was upping sticks and relocating to the UK. As for marriage - this wasn't something that I particularly wanted to dwell on in too much detail, although it did occur to me that actually things could be a lot worse than Ex marrying AG. At least I knew what I was dealing with, where she was concerned. I knew she was lovely to my boys. I knew she was very respectful to me and that we were able to spend time in each other's company without feeling compelled to claw each others eyes out. In the past two years she has allowed Ex and I to parent our children together and not to interfere - at least not where I was concerned - and I appreciated that to be a BIG deal.<br />
<br />
I felt a little edgy about them both moving to the UK and - presumably - taking their relationship to the next level. But all in all, I knew it was a good thing for the boys.<br />
<br />
However, as it happened, AG's visa failed to materialise and Ex arrived alone. Oh. I thought. Interesting.<br />
<br />
September was crazy busy, with both boys birthdays being celebrated within 2 weeks of each other. Ex and I hosted parties and took the boys on a long awaited trip to Legoland. When in each others company we were stiff and a little awkward. But we started to text and email each other, sometimes late into the night. It would start off with sensible enquiries and updates, before morphing into teasing ribs and personal mockery. It felt like the beginning of a new friendship. <br />
<br />
During one of these exchanges Ex dropped a text like a bombshell. 'With AG moving over in the next few weeks, I would like to talk to you about my plans moving forward...' I instantly felt a little bit sick. He's going to tell me they are getting married. Crap. Now this moment is here, how do I really feel about it? I knew I should write a breezy response, but couldn't bring myself to. I felt really grateful that he was keeping me in the loop and wanted to share information before I heard it from anyone else. Really grateful. But I still wasn't sure I was quite ready to hear it.<br />
<br />
In the end a few days passed before I got a chance to respond and then I received another email:<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">I know its a difficult topic to address but I just realised we did not talk about that text I sent last week about me and AG.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">The long and short of it is that in moving to the UK she is making a pretty significant commitment to me - and to the boys, in fact - and in return I want to make a commitment to her. I am definitely not talking here about marriage (I don't think that's right for the boys at all) but definitely some form of commitment and I wanted to let you know first.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">This is probably the wrong way to talk about this, so am happy to talk face to face when I'm back. But I didn't want this to linger, I tried to broach it a couple of times but we kept getting interrupted.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">This past weekend has shown me how committed you and I are to being a team around the boys, and the importance of our closeness and I never want that to change.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">I hope me sharing this doesn't make it change.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><br />
My heart sank, but I felt bad that Ex had to reach out one more time. I took a breath and wrote a response before I could think too much about it:<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">I know - I kept meaning to refer to your text but what with it being a busy week...</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Thanks for sharing. I really appreciate your openness and your communication. I know how tightlipped you can prefer to be - so this act of sharing means a lot.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">As for marriage - you know, I don't think this would be such a bad thing for the boys in the near future, if it's on your mind. As long as you are happy they will be happy. And having at least one of their parents settled and in a steady, reliable situation is good for them. I won't deny it - I wish it was me providing them with that type of security, that base of 'family'. Oh well. My time will come. There is some poor bugger out there who will be blinded by my charms at some point, I'm sure ;-). (he's no doubt hiding under some huge distant rock right now...come out! Come out! Wherever you are...)</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">So thanks.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">I'm happy for you. I'm happy for you both. I really like AG and think she is lovely with the boys.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">I still struggle with the situation sometimes, as I'm sure you're aware. You know me - over emotional and terribly envious with a touch of insecurity. Not the most endearing combination of qualities. I'm working on it...</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">And yes - I love the fact that we are a team where the boys are concerned. I do value your support so much.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
<br />
And then I shut down my phone and went to bed. It felt good to have been so honest. And when I received Ex's response the next day, I wish I had been honest a little bit sooner:<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Oh Nicola, your writing is so raw, so open and so honest. Its so you.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Thank you so much. Your note and your support means so much.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">PS no dating anyone who's crawled out from under a rock. Top of the heap for you.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Ex x</span><br />
<br />
Within a matter of days, AG's visa had arrived and she was in the UK. The boys drew her a welcome card. I bought her the fantastic book "<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Rules-Britannia-Insiders-United-Kingdom/dp/0312336659/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1318147796&sr=1-1">Rules, Britannia: An insider's guide to the UK</a>" written by the amazing <a href="http://expatmum.blogspot.com/">Expat Mum</a> (<i>does this make up for the previous shoddy post???</i>) and wrote a brief message in it, along with my mobile number and the invitation to get together.<br />
<br />
Which has resulted in AG and I planning to have dinner together next week. I am trying hard not to find an excuse - any excuse - to weasle out of it. I remember how hard it was to move to a new country and find my feet. Woman to woman - if I can make this easier for her, then I know that I should. <br />
<br />Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-15237619638573757112011-10-08T01:42:00.000-05:002011-10-08T01:42:19.136-05:00The Inexplicable Mindset of My 8 Year Old...The walk to school yesterday was pretty much like any other. The boys run ahead through the woods, only to instantly return and cling to my side like limpets when I bump into a friend and attempt to have a conversation. <br />
<br />
What is that with kids? The telephone has the same effect. They can be playing quietly for hours...but if I <i>dare</i> to pick up the phone <i>for any reason</i> and attempt to call <i>anyone </i>- they are there, by my side, loud, insistent, irritating, irksome and pernicious.<br />
<br />
I was trying not to raise my voice, I really was. I was trying to enjoy our morning walk, because they would be gone all weekend to stay with their dad and I didn't want them to start their weekend with the memory of me snipping and snapping at them every 2 metres (which is, unfortunately, how it can be some mornings...much to my chagrin).<br />
<br />
We bump into other families on their way to school. A friend from Captain Underpant's class whizzes by on his bike. Captain Underpants walks alongside me, holding my hand. I look at him, in his new specs, as he looks back at me and smiles. This boy is a total joy, I think. I squeeze his hand in mine.<br />
<br />
"Mum?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, love?"<br />
<br />
"Erm. Nothing..."<br />
<br />
There is a big pause and CU starts to look a little uncomfortable. He has a look on his face that typically appears just before he is about to make a confessional admission. You know the sort of thing. Spilt drinks. Uneaten lunches. Getting told off at school. Losing his library book. Forgetting to hand in his school club money.<br />
<br />
"What is it, sweetheart? You can tell me. It's okay." I look down at him and smile reassuringly.<br />
<br />
He is not convinced. He can't quite meet my eyes and starts to shift his gaze around the path we are walking on. He looks embarrassed and just a little bit guilty.<br />
<br />
Well, I am all ears now.<br />
<br />
Now, I have to know what it is that is bugging him. What it is that he can't possibly tell me. I look at him a little more keenly. Oh yes, I think. He is itching to tell me really. Oh boy. This must be really bad. I search my brain for things that I might have forgotten, which concern him. PE kit? Nope. A request for loo rolls / cereal boxes / egg cartons that I have forgotten about? Nope. Something - anything - concerning his dad? Possibly. Worries about school? Could be.<br />
<br />
I am very much aware that CU is not a happy bunny right now. He is struggling to adapt to the extent of change in his life - a new school year with teachers who are job sharing plus a new routine spending two nights a week with dad, freshly moved over from Chicago, plus me now working 3 days a week is not providing the platform of consistency that he prefers. There have been ongoing complaints of tummy aches. Tears before school. Tears before going to stay at dad's house. My heart aches to observe his anxieties, heightened by the fact that he is desperately trying not to say anything to upset either me or his father.<br />
<br />
Now he wants to tell me something. Something big. Something that is troubling him. But he can't find the words and the last thing I want to do is to add to the pressure I know that he feels he is under.<br />
<br />
Once this walk to school is over, I am not going to see him until Monday pick up. Light years away. This moment will have long passed by then. I don't want him to have to internalise and fret about anything else. He has enough on his plate as it is, my sensitive older child. I have no idea what to do - how to drag this information out of him so that he can just relax.<br />
<br />
I stop walking and crouch down to his level.<br />
<br />
"You really don't think you can tell me? I promise not to get upset or angry. I promise not to say anything at all, if that's what you want." <br />
<br />
He shakes his head, glumly. <br />
<br />
"Well, how about this then. If you fancy telling me later, you can take Daddy's phone and just call me, okay? And if you want to tell me in private, with nobody else listening, you can go into the bathroom and lock yourself in, so no-one else can hear what you are saying."<br />
<br />
His face brightens.<br />
<br />
"So no-one will hear me? And no-one will see me. Right mum?"<br />
<br />
I nod.<br />
<br />
He nods, solemnly and walks forward with a new spring in his step. "I will call and tell you later. On the phone. From the bathroom." He seems reassured. I am anything but reassured, however it appears that a weight has been lifted and he skips off in search of his brother.<br />
<br />
After drop off, I head off to work troubled by our conversation. The day passes. I am conscious of the time and hope that CU will follow through and tell me what's on his mind. I dash out of the office early because I desperately need to get to the bank. I had my brand new purse stolen a week before and still hadn't received replacement bank cards. The bank's location is not convenient, the tube and streets are heaving and I am a sweaty mess by the time I get there. I dive into the branch with minutes to spare till closing time, completely flustered and stressed. As the clerk deals with my request, I dig into my bag for my phone, wanting to check the volume is at its highest.<br />
<br />
No phone.<br />
<br />
I can't find my phone.<br />
<br />
I really can't find my phone! I am already sweating rather unattractively due to legging it across central London in the rush hour and unexpected 27 degrees heat. Now I am seriously sweating <i>and</i> experiencing the onset of a panic attack. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God! I can't find my phone! <br />
<br />
As desperately as I search for it, the bloody thing fails to materialise. I dump the bag out onto the floor, rifling through it like a woman possessed. <br />
<br />
"I can't find my phone!" I shriek at the other customers and the bank staff.<br />
<br />
"I can't find my phone. Oh God, I've lost my fucking phone. I don't fucking believe it. I've lost my fucking phone....shit, shit, shit, shit, shit." <br />
<br />
The cashier looks at me uncomfortably - I am guessing that customers having a nervous breakdown on her watch is not commonplace - and hands me my cash. I grab it without looking at her, embarrassed by my panic and the fact that I am now in tears.<br />
<br />
First my purse. Now this. The grip on my sanity has always been a little bit tenuous. Now it appears the grip on my possessions is following suit.<br />
<br />
I try to breath normally, go outside and empty out my bag for the second time. I need the phone. How else will CU call me? Normally it wouldn't be an issue. But today it is imperative that I am there to talk to him. He needs to know I am there when I say I will be. That despite all the flux in his life, my being there is a constant that he can depend. Oh for God's sake - where is my fucking phone?<br />
<br />
I race back to the tube, barging through commuters and provoking many a disgruntled glance. I start to retrace my steps. Where could I have left it? I must find it. I absolutely must find it. <br />
<br />
After 45 minutes of frantically chasing my tail from Holborn, to Baker Street, to Selfridges and back to Bond Street, I admit defeat and head back to the office. I start to think about the photos I have taken on my phone, which I haven't yet downloaded. I very rarely synch my phone, because I am a lazy arse and generally technically inept. Now I can't speak to my 8 year old AND I have lost the only photos I have from both the boys recent birthdays. What has happened to me? Why am I always lurching from one crisis to the next? I need to stop being so easily distracted, so away with the fairies. <br />
<br />
I walk into my office, sweating so copiously that there is steam rising from my skin and my clothes. My colleague looks at me in surprise and I explain what's going on. I try to think clearly about what I need to do next. The important thing - above anything else - is that I speak to CU. My colleague dials my number and we both sit and listen to the phone ring and ring. I am pretty certain it is on silent. If someone has found it, maybe they just can't hear it ringing. I sit and breath for a minute to calm down, collect my thoughts. I mechanically empty out my bag again and sort through the debris that is its contents, while trying to remember Ex's phone number. I reach for the bag to shove everything back in it again - and there nestled at the bottom is the phone.<br />
<br />
I stare at it in disbelief and start to laugh. The relief is overwhelming. My sense of stupidity overrides it. I am such a moron.<br />
<br />
I quickly dial the number to speak to CU.<br />
<br />
"Oh, hi mum!" He sounds chirpy and untroubled. I start to relax just a little. I prompt him to tell me what was on his mind that morning.<br />
<br />
"Well, you know we saw X riding his bike in the woods this morning? And you remember you said that when I am older I can ride to school all by myself? After I have been on the cycling course? Well...me and X have talked about it and we are going to wait for each other and ride to school together, when we are older. But only when we are older. Not before you say so. And his mum says so. Okay, mum?"<br />
<br />
After all that - and with everything else that is going on in his life - this is what was plaguing him? Really? I am utterly stunned into (almost) speechlessness.<br />
<br />
"That's a great plan sweetheart - I like your thinking." I tell him. For once, I really don't have the words to say anything else.<br />
<br />
I breath a huge sigh of relief and think...if I thought I understood my 8 year old, this just goes to prove that I really have no concept of what is going on in his head. At. All.<br />
<br />Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-25986575950397142142011-08-21T13:54:00.001-05:002011-08-21T14:16:33.356-05:00Reckless BehaviourSo last night was interesting...in a stereotypical, cliche, cougar type way.<br />
<br />
It's been an emotional couple of days, for a myriad of reasons. Chicago is starting to get to me. The walls are closing in. Too many bad memories pervade my thoughts. It is the scene of too much tragedy in my life and ultimately that energy finds me again and closes in. <br />
<br />
It's hard not to miss my ex, when I am here, and the life we initially had together. It's still hard to believe that it all fell apart so spectacularly. It's also coming up to Mack's birthday. He would have been 9 this year. And if I think about how much I miss him and how much he continues to mean to me, the only option is to curl up and keen like the freshly bereaved. I love him and miss him in equal measure. I thought at the beginning that the intensity of these feelings would fade with time. I guess not.<br />
<br />
I have also had a big bust up with a friend, which has tipped me over the emotional edge. This woman is one of my rocks. I love her. I never meant to upset her. She definitely meant to upset me, I think. At this moment in time I am not sure how to resolve this fight and if she even wants to. It's so unexpected and has catapulted me back in time to High School, when female relationships seemed so fraught and loaded with nuance, compared to my long-standing friendships of today. It makes me really sad.<br />
<br />
So there I was yesterday, feeling sad and, yet again, like a bit of a tearful sop. Honestly, I have not been like this for a while! When it hits, it tends to hit hard and then bugger off again, which I suppose is a bit of a blessing. I went to dinner with girlfriends and - par for the course - just had an itch to get absolutely trollied. To let the smooth vodka in a multitude of martinis sooth all these cares away. My friends didn't share this desire, because they are grown-ups and don't feel the need to blot their life and feelings away as a 20 year old, like I do. I sat at the dinner table in a bit of a sulk, because yet again I was alone in my desire for a bit of a buzz. C'mon people! I wanted to implore them. At least one of you help me get this fucking party started! <br />
<br />
I am distracted a little by a young man sitting next to me at the bar. He's nothing special in the looks department, although he reminds me a little of Chris Martin from Coldplay (who I have a bit of a thing for) and his body is to die for. I don't think it helped that I had been to the movies in the afternoon and spent 2 hours ogling Ryan Gosling with his top off. It was quite depressing to come to the realisation that I would have between Fat Chance and No Chance to have a romantic (oh, who are we kidding? sexual) encounter with a guy like that again in my life time. In fact, probably closer to No Chance, let's be honest here. Goddamn libido. My life will be that much simpler when the menopause hits and my sexual desire goes for a long lie down. <br />
<br />
Anyway, young man is intrigued by my accent and we chat for a while. I am grateful for the attention, it has to be said. Thank you Universe, for this little distraction from my messy and complicated emotions. Thank you for this little boost to my ego, after wailing over my lost husband and dead baby for an hour or so this afternoon. It couldn't be better timed.<br />
<br />
Ultimately, we part to go to our tables and I think no more about it. The next couple of hours are spent in a blur of talking, sushi and (in my case at least) martini consumption. The dinner comes to a close and everyone is happy to make their way home. Except me. I don't want to go home. I have nothing to go home to. And I am certainly not ready to stop drinking. My two martinis have definitely taken the edge off but have left me feeling a little bit reckless. A little bit destructive. I feel peeved and also embarrassed that I am the only one that feels this way. I know I am not in danger of my behaviour spiraling out of control, but I just want more of a buzz, some excitement, loud music, possibly dancing. I want to lose myself for just a couple of hours. <br />
<br />
It's not very mature behaviour for a 44 year old, admittedly. I knew I should have had more of a misspent youth and got it all out of my system then. I resign myself to an early-ish night, thinking Sod It I Am Going Back To My Friend's To Drink All Her Grapefruit Vodka While She Is Sleeping - Until I Am Legless - You Just See If I Don't.<br />
<br />
We walk out of the restaurant and, low and behold, who is the first person we bump into? Oh young man...your stroll to get cigarettes from the bar across the road couldn't have been better timed. I hadn't appreciated how tall he is, while at the bar. He's 6ft 6, making me - even in my heels which make me over 6ft tall - feel petite and diminutive. Oh dear. I can feel a bad decision coming on.<br />
<br />
We chat for a couple of minutes. He asks us all to go for a drink. My friends demurely decline. I pause. He senses my temptation and within minutes my friends are in cabs and I am sitting in a bar across the road with a young man holding my hand. There are no prizes for guessing where he ultimately wants this to go, I think to myself wryly. Well, what was I expecting? A conversation around our favourite classical literature?<br />
<br />
We kiss. Holy Mother of God, his lips are like nectar and he is a fabulously gentle and sexy kisser. There is a part of my brain saying <i>not cool, this is so not cool </i>and rolling its eyes in a reproving way. But mainly it is just screaming YIPPEEEE! It was so nice to just sit there, in the corner of a bar full of strangers and smooch with this relative stranger (I had at least got his name by this point, so maybe he now classified as an acquaintance, don't you think?) just for the sheer pleasure of it. My urge to get drunk dispelled and was replaced with an urgent desire to get laid. <br />
<br />
But as reckless - or maybe just impulsive - as I felt I was being, I knew for sure that I wasn't going to have a one night stand. Been there. Done that. Only twice admittedly, but it's never left a good taste in my mouth afterward (I know what you're thinking, depraved reader...and No, it was not due to the old spit/swallow conundrum.) <br />
<br />
So after 2 hours of wild snogging, first in the bar and then (with obvious glamour and sophistication) in a darkish alley, where the chemistry is established without any doubt whatsoever, I end the night (despite heartfelt pleas, which actually aren't that hard to resist). He takes my number, but I doubt I will hear from him again. <br />
<br />
Which is a little irritating. I have another week to go and it would have been a very satisfying distraction. Just the chance to run my hands over his taut abs again, would be quite thrilling.<br />
<br />
So I will dwell on this pleasant daydream, while sitting here smothering my lips in chapstick. A vain attempt to soothe the 2 inch circumference of skin which has been removed around my mouth. Ah, the detrimental side effects of a 2 hour snogging session. My lips are going to look like shit for at least 3 days.<br />
<br />
But I have to say, it was worth it.Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-56994906633249213172011-08-18T21:44:00.000-05:002011-08-18T21:44:50.349-05:00Unintentional EavesdroppingI press the phone closer to my ear. <br />
<br />
In the background I can hear muffled chatter and lots of laughter. An American woman, requesting ever so politely to a waitress that none of her food comes within spitting distance of butter. <br />
<br />
"<i>Hello? Hello, are you still there? Hey big guy - talk to me!</i>"<br />
<br />
I press the phone even closer to my ear, straining to hear the sound of my son's voice, but he is too obviously engrossed in the happy family situation he is a part of, while on holiday with Ex and American Girlfriend.<br />
<br />
I try to shut out the sound of her voice, intermingled in normal everyday conversation with his. <br />
<br />
They sound really happy. I can almost hear the smiles in their distant voices, via this unusually clear mobile phone reception. I feel the bitter taste of envy rising from my stomach and the tears begin to smart behind my eyes.<br />
<br />
Oh, not again.<br />
<br />
For God sake, you big nelly...are you not over this already? <br />
<br />
Just when I think I have a handle on this. On her. On him <i>and</i> her. <i>And</i> them (meaning, of course, the boys), I get challenged. I get a peek into their life together and Oh-My-God it always sounds so bloody picture perfect. So very balanced. Two loving adults. Two happy children. One small yappy type dog. What could be better?<br />
<br />
It just still makes me sad that it isn't <i>me</i> that is able to provide this for them. <br />
<br />
Finally, Johnny Drama returns his attention to the phone, whilst still clearly distracted. "<i>Bye Dad! I mean Mum. I love you...bye."</i><br />
<br />
The phone is duly passed to his big brother. I get to overhear yet more laughter at the dinner table. Oh joy. Lucky, lucky me. "<i>Hey Mum. I went in a tow truck today! Bye.</i>"<br />
<br />
That's it. That's my lot for today. I hang up the phone and try not to cry. Thank God they're happy. Thank God. Thank God. Thank God. It's all I want for them. But, fuck me, it hurts that they just sound SO happy. Surely a little bit of a grump, maybe a moan or two, possibly a few tears, wouldn't be too much to ask?<br />
<br />
I miss them. It's been 10 days since I have seen them and, despite having a lovely time in Chicago with my friends, I am beginning to crave my boys. Life is beginning to feel distinctly off-kilter without them around.<br />
<br />
It's been a fun summer. We have already been to visit friends in Stockholm and had a blast swimming in the Baltic (brrrrr) nearly every day. Seven kids, one dog, two cats and three parents (intent on having at least one alcohol free day, but never quite managing it. Can't imagine why.).<br />
<br />
The boys are approaching their 6th and 8th birthdays and seem to have turned a maturity corner. They are becoming young men. Their company is delightful. I am head over heels in love with them right now. <br />
<br />
And I guess it's a good thing that I am not the only one. <br />
<br />
It's what I have always wanted for them - to be surrounded by love. To be a part of a really happy family. <br />
<br />
Yay!<br />
<br />
Right. Where's my drink? Let's make an attempt to drown these tears (and the sound of their combined laughter) in a litre of California's finest.<br />
<br />
After all, looking on the bright side it's not as if a hang-over is going to matter...I'm not due to get woken up at 6am and be on 'summer fun' duty for another 4 days. Might as well get the vino opened and make the most of it. Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-7162856089627229372011-07-07T15:16:00.000-05:002011-07-07T15:16:34.118-05:00The DoldrumsI don't suppose, given the title, that I need to preface this post by stating the bleeding obvious: this week has been a little bit sh*t.<br />
<br />
It's always the same after Ex departs. I try not to pre-empt the situation, but the correlation between Daddy leaving and the boys morphing into children that I barely recognise is beyond any form of reasonable doubt.<br />
<br />
The week started with Captain Underpants breaking his glasses during playtime. The school called me. I had that heart-in-your-mouth moment, where I thought, "Oh God, please don't say that one of them is sick and needs to be picked up early?" No. Apparently there had been a playful kerfuffle and CU's glasses bore the brunt of it. I wasn't even slightly irritated, these things are to be expected with boys. Truth be told, I am surprised the glasses have lasted this long without being smashed to smithereens, given the amount of rough and tumble that goes on.<br />
<br />
However, turns out it wasn't just larks that got a bit out of hand. The next day the teacher informed me, in the gravest of tones, that Captain Underpants, typically a cautious, less physical child, had initiated a fight with one of his friends. Lunged at him in anger. Snapped and retaliated violently when a boy teased him one too many times. I cannot begin to tell you just how unlike him this is. How out of character. His brother? Totally. But Captain Underpants? Instigating a <i>fight</i>? I was stunned into speechlessness, which, believe me, only happens on the rarest of occasions.<br />
<br />
At the time I was on my way to pick the boys up from after school football club. I was a little pre-occupied, following my conversation with the teacher. The football coach, upon seeing me, pulled me to one side. Captain Underpants had been causing such a rukkus throughout class, apparently, that he won't be allowed to attend football club if that type of behaviour continues. Endless shouting. Constant loud fake burping into other children's faces. Repeatedly pulling his shirt up and his shorts down whenever a goal was scored. Totally blanking the Ref/football coach and carrying on regardless.<br />
<br />
I was completely and utterly mortified. And my heart breaks for Captain Underpants, just a little.<br />
<br />
Oh, this situation is so hard on him. On both of them.<br />
<br />
When Daddy leaves both boys are bereft and sorrowful. All they want in life is for their mum and dad to be together. And if not together, then preferably on the same continent. Emotionally, they can't tell their arse from their elbow when they are seemingly wrenched from their Daddy. It's so hard to witness them acting out their emotional struggle with it - and harder still to know how to help them, apart from cutting them a bit more slack than usual and making sure they quickly get back into their regular routine.<br />
<br />
I know that this belligerent, hyper, uncooperative behaviour will fade after a few days. We just have to weather the storm and soon enough things will be back on track. The over-excited, ADD traits will fade and my sweet, loving, generally sensible-ish boys will return. <br />
<br />
But bloody hell, getting through those days is no fun at all. For any of us.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, today was actually a turning point.<br />
<br />
This morning I was to attend an Inspire Day! at school with Captain Underpants. Unfortunately, the only thing I felt possibly inspired about, upon waking, was another 8 hours of sleep. I seem to have given myself a fake variation of jet lag, by staying up until 2 or 3am while Ex was here and waking mid-morning. <br />
<br />
My body has not adjusted well to this abnormal sleep pattern. <br />
<br />
It expects me to be on the way to the land of nod by 10pm, or thereabouts - possibly 11pm if I am truly living life on the edge. Any variation to the norm is greeted with a distinct lack of humour I have discovered, much to my chagrin. I won't be repeating that again in a hurry, let me assure you. In my experience, jet lag is only mildly preferable to severe sea sickness, and that is hardly a condition described as a barrel of laughs, is it? <br />
<br />
I turn up at school looking distinctly green around the gills and with all the enthusiasm of a teenager being cajoled into conversation about personal hygiene with a parent. We are tasked with being Inspired! to make a board game, revolving around the theme of Transport, with our children. Two hours later and all is back on the road to being well with the world, with Captain Underpants. <br />
<br />
The activity reminds me - and not in a good way - that I rarely, if ever, spend 2 hours of quality one-on-one time with either of my children...and that doing so is so much fun. Captain Underpants and I are not the best of teammates, admittedly. I am slightly too rash and impatient, impetus for his liking. He is a little too considered and thoughtful, verging on a daydreamer, for mine. I would <i>like</i> to say that I allowed him to take the lead on, what is after all, his project. And I <i>can</i> say that. But it would be a giant big fib. Thankfully, Captain Underpants is, at the age of 7, still tolerant of his (slightly) overbearing mother, plus a tad lazy, which worked to our advantage today.<br />
<br />
After school we hang out with a new set of friends. I have to be honest and say that the behaviour I witnessed, during that 2 hour time frame, resembled more your average moshe pit than a play date with 5 and 7 year olds. I find myself being catapulted into a parallel universe, inadvertently taking on a professional alter ego as a bullish referee for this unexpected vertically challenged cage fight. <br />
<br />
It. Was. Madness.<br />
<br />
You rarely witness such mayhem, this close at hand, involving just a trampoline, 3 laser guns and a light sabre. I am pretty confident this chaos would not have ensued had the 'players' involved been a group of girls labouring over a book of Barbie stickers. I have not seen this many tears, tantrums and hysterics since watching The Real Housewives of New Jersey (if you're a fan, you'll know exactly what I am talking about).<br />
<br />
The only saving grace for this particular play date was that my sons, by and large, behaved immaculately. This time it was Captain Underpant's buddy's turn to be the out-of-control, truculent, abhorent little <s>shit</s> monster. <br />
<br />
I felt for his mum.<br />
<br />
As I heaved a big sigh of relief. <br />
<br />
Phew. Not just me and my boys then.<br />
<br />
Looks like we are over the worst of it. Until next time.Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-64376073699547090332011-07-03T17:21:00.000-05:002011-07-03T17:21:34.049-05:00Just Call Me ImeldaGood evening everyone. My name is Nicola. And I am an addict.<br />
<br />
A shoe addict.<br />
<br />
This addiction reached fairly ridiculous heights this week, when in a single day I bought 7 pairs of shoes. Most of which are highly impractical and aren't going to last more than 20 paces on the school run through the woods. <br />
<br />
What was I thinking?<br />
<br />
In all honesty, I don't think that the brain was completely engaged in any of the purchases, which happened rapidly in the space of approximately 75 minutes. I certainly wasn't thinking, "What I desperately need, more than anything else on this planet, is 7 new pairs of 3 inch heels...to accompany the mountain of neglected and rarely worn 3 inch heels that I have stuffed in special shoe storage bags, under my bed." <br />
<br />
Could it be that I was a millipede in a past life? Does this explain the urge to own more shoes than I can possibly wear in this lifetime?<br />
<br />
So I took it upon myself to photograph my new purchases - to illustrate quite clearly, to potential disbelievers, why these shoes were purchases of the Absolute Necessity variety. Then I thought...hey, there's an extension on that great idea! Why not photograph all the pairs of shoes that I have bought this year alone and <i>OUT</i> myself in spectacular fashion? Reveal myself to the world as the frivolous shoe spendthrift that I truly am. <br />
<br />
That was not a particularly easy feat. First, there was the challenge of actually remembering, then finding all the shoes I have bought this year. Second, there were so many of them that it took me a while to recover from the shortness of breath and dizziness that set in. Once I'd had my little lie down, with a sweetened cup of tea and a couple of custard creams, I found I didn't actually have sufficient floor space in my bedroom to lay out all the shoes to photograph them. Unthwarted in my mission, I did manage to fit them all onto my king size bed. <br />
<br />
28 pairs of shoes. <br />
<br />
In 6 months. <br />
<br />
And I love and am deeply attached to every single pair of them. No, really. Even the pair of black sequin Converse that haven't made it into the photograph (because I had quite simply forgotten all about them until mere seconds ago and have absolutely no recollection to their whereabouts).<br />
<br />
In my (slightly insane and desperate) defence, I will stand tall and say very loudly 23 PAIRS OF THESE SHOES WERE ON SALE, YOUR HONOUR! In fact, many of them were half price...which means I have effectively only brought in the region of 17 pairs of shoes. Quite a sensible, justifiable number of new shoes in the space of 6 months, I am sure you will agree.<br />
<br />
When I was photographing the shoes (it took a little time, with all the breaks to breathe into the brown paper bag) it did occur to me that, whilst the money spent might not have stretched to a 5* holiday in Mauritius...it could possibly have afforded me a 4 day yoga treat. In India. Where I could have meditated all day, every day on the answer to why I innately believe that the hole in my heart can be successfully filled with shoes. Ah well. I am guessing that is a question that will remain unanswered, for the time being at least.<br />
<br />
As for the timing of the purchases, well that couldn't have been more awkward. Ex arrived in town last Wednesday and has commandeered my house till Monday. (Yes, I can see that there is probably some Cause and Effect relationship here - these recent years of therapy have not been a complete waste of time and money I can assure you.) I was therefore in a situation where I was still trying to smuggle the evidence of my purchases into the house, without his knowledge, yet again. <br />
<br />
Why I couldn't just waltz brazenly in, swinging the bags containing multiple shoe boxes, I have no idea. I was tempted to parade my very own shoe fashion show during tea time, which surely would have garnered much appreciative applause, quickly followed by praise in my economic ability to 'save' myself £280 in shoes, in one day alone. But no. Instead I sneaked in while the house was empty and, quickly and quietly, shamefully hid all evidence. <br />
<br />
It strikes me as a little odd that I am no longer married to the man, yet I am still participating in this little charade. Funny how some habits (particularly the bad ones) are hard to shake.<br />
<br />
Anyway, before I delight you with photographic evidence of my truly superficial and slightly unhinged addiction, I will just say this about shoes:<br />
<br />
<ul><li>Shoes are the easiest thing in the world to try on, because they do not require a changing room and the removal of several layers of clothes</li>
<li>When you try on shoes, you are rarely in danger of horrifying yourself with close up images of your own dimpled bottom and/or thighs in a 3-way mirror</li>
<li>If a shoe is too small, it doesn't provoke an emotional "God, I knew I shouldn't have eaten half the contents of the kid's treat tin!" reaction...you simply get the next size up</li>
<li>Similarly, if a shoe makes your foot look less than attractive your brain very rarely asks the question "Does my foot look fat in this?" It is purely an ugly bloody shoe and can be instantly cast aside </li>
</ul><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwfbsoP48JwsNhglVSp7CyOx1AK2ZlW_Dwo9HMK8PYykPBXbTqFyM9zPXK-hqAN5pWInwRm4nHLqEZKNjZj-KD1dsL1n6GXGFoz51sOySKFsrlJ4bDpnx1tjgLxh8ActuJ_8Mr9wOI-Bw2/s1600/IMGP0223.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwfbsoP48JwsNhglVSp7CyOx1AK2ZlW_Dwo9HMK8PYykPBXbTqFyM9zPXK-hqAN5pWInwRm4nHLqEZKNjZj-KD1dsL1n6GXGFoz51sOySKFsrlJ4bDpnx1tjgLxh8ActuJ_8Mr9wOI-Bw2/s320/IMGP0223.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-37451449382289098032011-06-28T04:49:00.000-05:002011-06-28T04:49:08.175-05:00The Four Man Method - yet more dating disaster stories<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dating. It’s not an activity I thought I would have to endure in my 40s, whilst in the midst of trying to raise the next generation of men myself. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m not proving to be very good at it.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was always much better being a one man girl, so the modern approach of dating several prospects simultaneously seems a sure fire recipe for guaranteeing that you are about to get yourself a ‘reputatation’. And not one of being a pillar of the community.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If, like me, you become obsessed with the romantic activities of celebrity single mums, you might be fooled into thinking that bagging a new man following a relationship implosion is a piece of cake. I’m surprised I have any molars left and haven’t ground them into stubs, when being subjected to tabloid images of my celebrity peers, holding hands blissfully with their new beau's. Like it really is that simple. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yes, I’m talking about you Halle. The front door had barely shut on Gabriel’s behind and there you were, gazing blissfully at Oliver Martinez. Not fair. Elizabeth Hurley, you’re no better, getting instantly bowled over by that hunky cricketer bloke. And don’t even get me started on Rachel Weiz, who found consolation in the arms of Daniel Craig no less, when her marriage fell apart. There are others. Many others. Including a plethora of Kates (Hudson, Price, Winslet) and the elfin Anna Friel. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So this is how I spend my days. Spitting toast at the source of the latest celebrity single mum’s love tryst in agitation (then grinding my molars into stubs with - let’s face it - raw envy). And my reaction is always the same....This is Not Real Life! </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At least, it’s not my real life. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">More’s the pity.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Not that there hasn’t been some small flurries of potential romantic activity in my life over the past few months. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Here’s a brief run down:</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mr eHarmony</span></span></b></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The only man I met up with, following a knee jerk 3 month stint on eHarmony (the membership of which is now cancelled - FOREVER). Now, this is a guy who knows how to treat a lay-dee. He took me out to dinner, to the theatre and even to Ladies Day at Ascot. He was well travelled, well read, engaging, thoughtful and had a good sense of humour. On paper he ticked boxes, and lots of them. In real life, there was just no sexual chemistry (well on my part at least). I tried to muster up the enthusiasm for a good ol’ tongue thrashing snog, because God knows I could do with the practice, but even two powerful Mojitos and half a bottle of Chablis couldn’t get that party started. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We’re now just friends.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Italian Stallion</span></span></b></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This tall sexy hunk has been swinging me around the dance floor for weeks, while I practice my Ceroc moves and try to out-Britney Ms Spears. I have to admit, I’m a little bit shameless when I am dancing. I don’t set out to be - but the right music can trigger an almost Pavlov response in my celibate pelvis, which starts wiggling and jiggling with blatant abandon. Most men regard me with abject fear in their eyes - but the Italian Stallion has no such fears. “</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am tempted by you</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">”, he tells me seductively, in his wildly attractive Italian accent on the dance floor, and then later, over pizza. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was a little bit tempted, I’ll confess. I’m only human. These nether regions were never intended for a nunnery. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But I’m taking a pass. It’s only going to be a shag at the end of the day - and that’s just not what I am looking for. It’s not going to stop me dancing like a wanton freak with him on a Tuesday night tho...after all, I am only human.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sexy Single Dad</span></span></b></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It doesn’t seem very politically correct to be scouring the playground for potentially available men, but in the single mum world it’s best to leave no stone unturned. One of the dads in Johnny Drama’s class caught my eye. Nice looking, great smile. A little bit of a Harry Hill Lookee-likee. I have never seen such a perfectly spherical head. It was a happy day when I found out he was a single dad. A slightly less happy day when he dropped into conversation that he had a girlfriend. Drats. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Anyway, all is not lost. I now have a new buddy to coordinate the odd weekend play date with and that really is a bonus.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Tall American</span></span></b></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On my last night in Chicago in April I bumped into The Tall American and had that kind of swoony experience which doesn’t happen very often. That tantalising combination of instant attraction and sexual chemistry, accompanied by an intuitive sense that you’ve met before. I knew it was pointless and there could be no future in it, but I was smitten. After a 15 minute conversation and no snogging action whatsoever, I was hooked. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I then found out, following a succession of emails and even a couple of phone calls, TTA is dad to two children and that his wife was tragically killed last summer. How heartbreaking is that? It sent me into a bit of a tailspin and I couldn’t get him or his children out of my mind. To me, there really can be no worse case scenario. The thought of my own boys growing up, without me there screwing them up every step of the way, is unimaginable. I ached for her and for their children. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Not that I got to tell him that. It appears that TTA has unwittingly got trapped under something very heavy and I haven’t heard from him for weeks. There could be any number of reasons. I tell myself that it’s definitely better this way. Far less complicated all round. After all, I didn’t really want to even contemplate moving back to Chicago again, did I? No, I did not. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Such a lovely man. I hope he finds happiness again. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Such a shame I didn’t get at least a kiss out of him, all the same.</span></span></span></div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-88764976171006843192011-06-27T06:46:00.000-05:002011-06-27T06:46:36.943-05:00How Is It Nearly July Already?At last. A near perfect weekend. About bloody time. The previous 3 weekends have all involved tears (mine) in one form or another - from muffled sobs into a tea towel while curled up by the washing machine on a Saturday morning, to full out hysterical sobs at a child's birthday party, on a bright Sunday afternoon - so this has to be progress.<br />
<br />
June, for some reason, has been a tough month.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's simply down to the fact that tomorrow I will have been living in the UK for 6 months. <br />
<br />
6 months?<br />
<br />
Doesn't seem possible. Time is moving way too quickly and it's hard to see how my life is truly moving on, how I am actually making progress, now that I have nothing to complain about, finally being home.<br />
<br />
The past four weeks have been pretty...well, challenging. I say that although, of course, good things are happening all around me. The boys are great. I am out and about, meeting new people, doing fun things. However, in spite of this, in spite of the fact that I am spending an abundance of energy getting myself out there, none of it appears to be tipping the balance on my 'general happiness and well being' meter. <br />
<br />
At times I feel just as lost as I have ever been. Just as angry, exhausted, disappointed and scared. I aim barbed arrows of judgement at people all around me, but in truth it's myself that I am disgusted with. My inability to be a motivated, optimistic person 100% of the time. The fact that some days I am just so sad, for no reason at all. Why can I not just trust that it is all really okay?<br />
<br />
Maybe I'm just not drinking enough alcohol.<br />
<br />
Nah. <br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure that I am.<br />
<br />
Ex and AG were here for half term and, obviously, had a gay old time with the boys and various friends and family. God, that still rankles, though I so wish it didn't. When I think about it all rationally, the situation couldn't be much better for the boys. (Actually, not true...the situation would be much better if <i>I</i> was the one in the fantastic new relationship, while the gitbag who actually dessimated this family was alone and bereft...but I digress.) Friends who haven't been in this situation find it hard to understand. Surely I should have let it all go by now? After all, it's fairly amicable, isn't it? It all could be so much worse. <br />
<br />
And I agree. <br />
<br />
But this isn't about the rational, is it? How can you be rational about the person that you planned on loving and spending the rest of your life with, loving someone else? And that being okay? I struggle day to day with my little torn apart family, dealing with boys who cry heartbrokenly because they miss their dad. I did everything I could to keep this family together and it wasn't enough. I had no idea I was so disposable. That my replacement would not even be born until I was 13 years old and lived on the continent that I, stupidly, dragged us to over 10 years ago. <br />
<br />
I want to find it in my heart to be the bigger person and just 'let it go'. I don't want to be petty and mean spirited, because I know I am no longer in love with my Ex. By allowing my vulnerability to override my common sense, I continue to disappoint and frustrate myself. I feel I am on the verge of losing friendships due to the fact that this situation still paralyses me, impacting me to physical nausea. Rationally it's all so unnecessary, but in truth it's how I still feel. <br />
<br />
One day I am going to read this and not be able to equate with it at all. That's a comforting thought at least. How I long for that day - and may it just hurry up and get here.<br />
<br />
I think the cat being released from quarantine marked the passage of time that I have been home for quite a while. Bert arrived home, looking none the worse for wear. For the first few days he seemed to have had a personality transplant following his ordeal, to the point where he even sought and tolerated the boys affections. Then he stopped eating cat food and started a new diet, consisting mainly of his own fur. Bald patches started appearing with alarming frequency. He succeeded in scratching most of the fur off his ears and his face. His tummy, instead of featuring silky black hair, became predominantly pink. The hair that remained attached to his skinny frame became greasy and lank. In my usual slack Alice fashion, I ignored it for the first week thinking I could simply stroke him back to health. When that failed I conceded defeat and rushed him to the vet. <br />
<br />
Good God, I thought mercilessly, if you pop your clogs now after I paid out thousands from my divorce fund to get you through quarantine, I am going to be a teensy, weensy bit annoyed.<br />
<br />
Turns out that it is anxiety. Must be contagious. This is the effect I have on animate objects, apparently. Even the cat is now stressed to the eyeballs after a few days of living with me.<br />
<br />
No sooner did the cat move back in...then my sister moved out. She found a great place to live, just over a mile away. I have mixed feelings about the move. I miss having her here, even though I know it was the right time for both of us. The fact that we survived going from hardly seeing each other for 10 years, to living in each others pockets for the past 6 months, pretty much reflects the strength of our friendship. <br />
<br />
It feels strange not to see her on a daily basis though. And my eating habits have gone completely down hill since she left. Funny how it was so easy to motivate myself to prepare a healthy meal each night, when there was someone else to cook for, who appreciated it so much. For the past week I have lazily forfeited preparing salad and protein for my alternative nutritious combo of kettle chips and Haagen Daaz. Not really food for the mind, is it? Or the thighs, come to think of it. Still. It does taste bloody delicious.<br />
<br />
Anyway, rather than let this general malaise lead me down the inevitable rocky road of a permanent sugar coma, I have decided to try to face this period of my life head on and booked myself some therapy. Rather than keep this simple and also boost the local economy, I have begged the therapist I used to see in Chicago, to help me out via Skype. Sounds a little pretentious I know, but I just couldn't bare the thought of having to go through my recent history <i>yet again</i>. All the details of the dead baby, then the high risk pregnancies, premature births, infant surgeries, marital breakdown, separation, divorce and transatlantic move - and everything else in between. I don't have the time or inclination. <br />
<br />
Luckily for me, my therapist said You Betcha! in that optimistic, American way and so now, at last, help is at hand. There's hope for me yet. Although apparently, tears are like burps and farts. Better out than in. And while I'm not aiming to cry me a river any time soon, I am mildly regretting not having shares in Kleenex at this point in time.Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-33008635107700954832011-06-25T15:28:00.000-05:002011-06-25T15:28:31.368-05:00A Day With FriendsWhen you're going through a rough patch, there's nothing better than spending time with friends, people that genuinely care.<br />
<br />
And that's just what I did today. At Cybermummy.<br />
<br />
Now I have the amazing <a href="http://tattieweasle.blogspot.com/">Tattie Weasle</a> to thank for passing along her ticket, as she had a conflicting family engagement. How fortuitous. How generous. I am very, very grateful. Apparently her boys thought I could do with the break from my own rambunctious monkeys - and I have no shame in readily admitting that it couldn't have been better timed.<br />
<br />
The conference itself was meticulously planned. I wouldn't really class myself as a 'serious' blogger - I am not seeking marketing partnerships or revenue, would prefer to avoid sponsored posts, am not focused on increasing readership and have no intention of using the blog as a jump start to a business venture. Therefore the value of some of the workshop content was a little wasted on me.<br />
<br />
But oh, what a day. What a productive and inspiring day. <br />
<br />
It really brought home the reason why I continue to, somewhat haphazardly, blog. Because I have met some remarkable women. Women who have supported me over the past 2 years and provided such a wealth of advice and comfort. Women who have spurred me on, again and again and again. Women who have inspired me with stories from their own lives. Women who, if I had tripped over them on the high street, I wouldn't recognise from Adam.<br />
<br />
Until today.<br />
<br />
Today I got to meet these lovely ladies. I got to <i>hang</i> with these funky mamas. I don't have to regard myself as one of their cyber stalkers any longer. (Now I can be officially upgraded to Real Life Stalker...I have real names, phone numbers, can provide a pretty accurate police fotofit description if ever called upon. It's all pretty heady stuff, I can tell you.)<br />
<br />
So a big THANK YOU to <a href="http://www.homeofficemum.blogspot.com/">Home Office Mum</a>, <a href="http://www.expatmum.blogspot.com/">Expat Mum</a>, <a href="http://blogiota.blogspot.com/">Not Wrong Just Different</a>, <a href="http://potty-diaries.blogspot.com/">Potty Mummy</a>, <a href="http://www.notsupermum.com/">NotSupermum</a>, <a href="http://www.morethanjustamother.com/">MoreThanJustAMother</a>, <a href="http://www.jobeaufoix.com/">Jo Beaufoix</a>, <a href="http://www.familyaffairsandothermatters.com/">Family Affairs</a>, <a href="http://www.londoncitymum.com/">London City Mum</a>, <a href="http://www.nixdminx.com/">Nixdminx</a>, <a href="http://www.muddlingalongmummy.com/">Muddling Along Mummy</a>. I had a fantastic day - but the best part, by far, was getting to meet you all in person. <br />
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Another bonus? The four bags of swag that I unashamedly pilfered from every sponsors stand and workshop table. It's been quite a while since I have attended an event that featured an abundance of Free Stuff. I think I might have embarrassed myself a little with my enthusiasm to bag every freebie going, regardless of whether or not I could actually make use of it. It was like being a contestant on Supermarket Sweep. Quite what I am going to do with the 3 tubes of nipple cream, the sippy cup and feeding bottle I haven't quite figured out yet. <br />
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But oh boy, am I going to get brownie points tomorrow when the boys get their sticky little mitts on the soft toys, the dvds, note books, Crocs. Even the spaghetti will probably raise a cheer. (You can tell we don't get out much.) <br />
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So thank you gorgeous fellow bloggers. I count myself as very lucky to be one of your peers.<br />
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And thank you to the organisers of Cybermummy. A very worthwhile day - and a truly great day with friends.Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-22300678152705838402011-05-31T12:08:00.000-05:002011-05-31T12:08:38.016-05:00The Art Of Positive ThinkingCaptain Underpants, "Mum...I think it's going to rain..."<br />
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Me, "C'mon on now, Captain Underpants...let's think positive shall we?"<br />
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(Short pause)<br />
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Captain Underpants, "Okay mum. I'm <i><b>positive</b></i> it's going to rain."Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-3818312954964249782011-05-29T05:01:00.001-05:002011-05-29T05:17:20.631-05:00NHS: The Good, The Bad and The UglyThis morning my sister and I should be waking up to this:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSm__5s84Jn6nLCFb4FSWuIr_2k0m_4cmlLhul1nuDTeHI3-UpwL_XLlfvFu30NIK5-ie9di_fAo6dBmgKGM6Q080Iwj_lPw7r2_9-QN3ixO5xj0Lh61oMGbWp5SGP6FsK5aaqO5cqq-w0/s1600/gozo+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSm__5s84Jn6nLCFb4FSWuIr_2k0m_4cmlLhul1nuDTeHI3-UpwL_XLlfvFu30NIK5-ie9di_fAo6dBmgKGM6Q080Iwj_lPw7r2_9-QN3ixO5xj0Lh61oMGbWp5SGP6FsK5aaqO5cqq-w0/s320/gozo+pic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Instead we are still ensconced in North London. Not fair. But at least it's not rainy. <i>GOT to look for the glass half full, got to look for the glass half full...</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(said through fairly gritted teeth).</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span><br />
We were due to fly to Malta yesterday for a 4 day break. Ex and AG are over to stay with the boys for 5 days and I had planned to gallivant off to the island where I was born and lived until I was 3 years old. I don't have personal memories of living there, but watched so many cine films growing up and saw so many baby pics, that those 2D snapshots created perfect memories for me to adopt as my own. For some reason I have never got around to revisiting before, although always planned to. Now was perfect timing. Or so I thought.<br />
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The universe thought otherwise.<br />
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Goddamn you universe and your wicked, wicked ways.<br />
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Last week the household shared a communal cold. No big deal. Happens all the time in a generous, sharing household such as ours. None of us thought anything of it. Maybe it did cross my mind that diving might not be an option if my sinuses continued to play up, but I dismissed that thought as too negative to even contemplate. Of course I would be going diving. Positive thinking Nicola! This cold is going to clear in no time.<br />
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On Thursday I noticed my eyesight was a little blurry, as though I was trying to peer through a permanent fog. Odd and a little disconcerting. Friday morning I was woken by the boys at 5.15am and it was as though my eyeballs had been doused in acid. The pain made me want to physically scratch them both out with my fingernails. I could barely make out my own hand in front of my face. Needless to say, I panicked. Just a little.<br />
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Thank God for my sister - Florence Nightingale reincarnated in a pair of Gap pajamas. She called NHSDirect while I lay on my bed, crying in pain and fear. She coraled the boys into clothes, called a cab and we hotfooted our way to the nearest A&E department at the Whittington Hospital.<br />
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<b>Nicola's Public Health Service Advice #1: If you are ever in need of emergency medical assistance <u>DO NOT</u>, I repeat, <u>DO NOT</u> bother with the A&E department at the Whittington Hospital.</b><br />
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For a start, the place was deserted except for a couple of security guards having a cup of tea in a side office and a homeless man curled up asleep/comatose on 3 chairs in one corner. I was in full panic mode at this point. The pain was excruciating and I was terrified I was losing my sight. My sister was desperately trying to source some help, while I moaned and sobbed in a heap on a chair, but nobody appeared. The boys were leaping around the waiting room as though it was their own personal race course/play centre, which didn't help to create the aura of calm, medical professional efficiency we were seeking. <br />
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We were there for nearly 30 minutes before a nurse deigned to turn up. Thirty minutes of me carrying on like a woman semi-possessed and my sister banging on glass partitions and striding about corridors screetching "What is it going to take to get some bloody emergency help around here??? For God sake, my sister is in agony and needs someone to help her NOW!".<br />
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The nurse, when she arrived, was worse than useless. Hardly spoke any English. Led me, blindly, to a room down the corridor and then left me there, alone and unable to see a bloody thing, for another 15 minutes. She returned with a saline drip to rinse out my eyes, which became a farcical exercise. She disappeared again. After another 10 minutes I stumbled down the corridor, practically on my hands and knees, to find my sister and the boys. "Use the iPhone - let's find a specialist or something and get out of here. Find someone that can actually help me." I begged her. Moorfields Eye Hospital. Of course! And they had an A&E department. Perfect. We told the nurse sitting at another reception desk around the corner that we were leaving to try to find specialist help and she barely registered our existence. "Whatever", was her only response. Her abundant care and concern was reflected by the casual and dismissive manner in which she turned the page of her Grazia magazine. <br />
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I was past the point of despair at this point and could scarcely believe that this had been our experience. I was desperate to get some help, having never been in this much pain before and, in typical Nicola Drama Queen fashion, was truly terrified that my eyesight was going to be permanently damaged. I stood on Archway Road with the sensation that my eyes were trying to burn their way out of my skull, while my sister tried to hail a cab to no avail. We staggered to the Tube, while my sister did her best to both guide me and keep both boys under control. At this point it is rush hour. Hundreds of people jostle past us, although once on the train a very kind man leads me into his seat and I pull Captain Underpants onto my lap and bury my head into the back of his sweatshirt. God knows what all the commuters thought of me, moaning and crying. I must have looked quite deranged. I didn't care. I felt deranged. I just wanted to get some help to make the pain go away and couldn't believe we were having to go to such lengths to get it.<br />
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We finally stagger into Moorfields Eye Hospital and our experience is instantly transformed into one of infinite medical care and efficiency. I am seen within seconds of a walking through the door, even though the waiting room is full to the brim at 8am in the morning. Anaesthetic eye drops are administered immediately. The relief from the constant pain is indescribable. I could snog the nurse in gratitude. She is an angel. Within another few minutes my eyes are assessed for potential chemical damage, which is negative. I am assessed by three different nurses, who are calm and incredibly sympathetic, yet reassuring. A very kind friend, with two boys of her own, offers to look after the boys (who, at this point, are leapfrogging the waiting room chairs then running sprint relays up and down the hospital hallway, blatantly disobeying repeated orders from my sister to behave in anything resembling a calm and orderly manner). They depart and I wait to see the consultant, still half convinced that my eyesight (or lack of it) is damaged beyond repair. <br />
<br />
It's not. It's all going to be fine. I had a severe viral infection which spread from my sinuses to my eyes. I have various lotions, potions and eyedrops to lubricate my eyes for the next 4-8 weeks, which is how long it is going to take the infection to heal. 48 hours later and my eyes feel relatively fine. Certainly fine enough to be sitting on a sun lounger or mooching around historic relics on a Meditarranean get-away. *sigh* The timing of my most recent of medical escapades was poor, to say the least.<br />
<br />
But not as poor as my experience at the Whittington Hospital. Which pains me a little, because I have always been a great defender of the NHS. <br />
<br />
When I lived in Birmingham for 6 months, in 2006, I received excellent care from my local doctors surgery. It was beyond anything that I had experienced in Chicago, from the time and attention I was given to the knowledge and care I benefited from. In addition, Captain Underpants has a mild blood clotting condition called Von Willebrand Type 1. This was diagnosed in Chicago, however the specialist in Birmingham was the first to insist that the whole family was tested and Captain Underpants was added to a national database, to ensure his medical condition is on the record in the whole of the UK. Yet again, the level of care and efficiency was impressive and beyond that which we received in the US.<br />
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When I returned to the UK in December I registered with the local practice and passed on the medical notes concerning my Melanoma diagnosis and treatment. I was referred to a specialist dermatalogist at the Whittington Hospital and an appointment was set up within 2 weeks. The consultant I saw was amazing. My case was going to be referred to two other consultants in the hospital, including an oncologist, and I would be seen and assessed every 3 months for a minimum of two years to ensure I remained cancer free. Yet again, this surpassed the medical care and treatment that I had paid through the nose for in Chicago. When the consultant was closely scanning my body for other suspicious mutant beauty spots, she discovered a lump in my groin, which I was pretty certain had been there for a year or so and, as it was painless, I had thought nothing of it. I was referred for an ultrasound scan. <br />
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I went for the scan within a matter of weeks and yet again, was impressed with the diligence and expertise of the radiologist I encountered. He performed a multitude of scans, then took the time to talk me through his findings, reassuring me that he found nothing out of the ordinary. <br />
<br />
Overall my experience has been that the level of care available in this country is definitely on a par - if not exceeding - that which I enjoyed in the US. Even given the dismissive - verging on negligent - nature of medical assistance I received at the Whittington's A&E department, I remain a huge fan of the NHS. <br />
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Although the gaps in the system are a little more apparent through my rose tinted spectacles (...the contact lenses are unfortunately out of commission for at least the next 2-4 weeks).Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-71935423748558945562011-05-26T08:53:00.000-05:002011-05-26T08:53:44.930-05:00A Better Quality of Life? Not Necessarily...One of the things most British people assume is that you can enjoy a much higher standard of living in the US.<br />
<br />
Most Americans also typically take this for granted. I have had total strangers in Chicago guilelessly tell me, "Wow, from England? I bet you are really enjoying a much better life over here, aren't you?" One person even had the gall to ask, "Tell me, did you have showers where you came from?" (I kid you not, I was actually asked that on one occasion - the person in question then went on to tell me they had a friend in England who only bathed once a week, so they assumed this applied to everyone due to the water shortages in the UK. Far be it from me to tell this person that they obviously had very dubious, pikey friends and were slightly misinformed about a) the British water reserves and b) the hygiene equipment/habits of the entire nation.)<br />
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I am not about to launch into a USA bashing tirade here, but I have to tell you that, in my experience, a lot of this superior standard of living nonsense is just that. It is pure myth and conjecture. I think it is compounded by the fact that many Americans are far more patriotic than we are and are led to believe that things are, in general, bigger and better in the US than anywhere else in the world - and many Brits love any excuse to diss their own country and believe the grass to be greener in other countries, but particularly America. <br />
<br />
Now I know I lived in an American city, rather than a suburb, which can be more expensive overall. My rent, for example, to live in a 3 bedroom apartment in a nice part of Chicago is the same as the rent that I pay to live in a 3 bedroom house in a salubrious part of North London. However, my utility bills in Chicago were far higher. I typically paid $300 per month for gas and electricity (which is equivalent to £200 in the UK, roughly). This would be higher if it was an extremely cold winter (it costs a bomb to keep a house warm when external temperatures are constantly below freezing for months at a time) and/or a very hot summer, when air conditioning was essential. It wasn't unusual in harsh winters to receive at least one monthly gas bill that was as high as $400 or more. And this was for an apartment. Having this information to hand was a foolproof way to shut my dad up every time he whinged about his heating bill (which even for a 5 bed detached house in the UK was a fraction of the cost). My combined utility bill in the UK is approximately £100 per month, which I know isn't cheap but still, for me it represents a significant saving.<br />
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My mobile phone costs were typically $150 a month, which was partially due to a small proportion of texts and calls going to and from the UK. However in comparison I have been able to get a plan in the UK which gives me 3,000 minutes of talk time specifically to/from the US for an additional fee of £10 a month, with unlimited texts. As a result my mobile bill is less than half that I paid in the States, with far more International communication.<br />
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I also paid a huge premium for my cable TV, mainly because I became addicted to the quality programmes being shown on HBO and SHOwtime in particular, who aired Nurse Jackie, The Big C, Entourage, Episodes, The Wire, Weeds and United States of Tara to name but a few. I have no need to pay this premium in the UK because all of the aforementioned shows are aired on non-subscription channels and therefore don't cost me a penny (apart from the licence fee of course - but again, peanuts compared to what I was paying - my cable TV and broadband bill would average out at $175 a month, here I pay £50 a month which is equivalent to $80). <br />
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When my ex and I separated and I started to research life as a divorced single mum in the States, I was horrified to learn how my finances were going to be penalised if I stayed in Chicago.<br />
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Ex and I mediated a fair maintenance/child support sum. If I had stayed living in Chicago I would have been expected to pay taxes on that income. My ex, however, would have received a tax exemption. This would have increased his net income and decreased mine, by approximately 20%. In the UK, however, the maintenance I receive is completely tax free. Not only that but I also receive Child Benefit (although who knows for how much longer) plus Child Tax Credit from the government. So the UK is not taking any of my income away in taxes...but instead giving me more money for free. Bizarre.<br />
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In addition, both myself and the boys also qualify for NHS medical and dental treatment in the UK. This is HUGE. In Chicago, once divorced I would have had to pay medical insurance for my own coverage, which would have cost hundreds of dollars a month. This would not have entitled me to free medical care, however. I would still have had to pay between $20-$60 each time I visited a doctor (known as a co-pay) and then a percentage of the total medical bill itself. To give you an example, when I was diagnosed with melanoma I was still officially married and was therefore still eligible to use my husband's insurance. The total cost of my treatment over 6 months was $10,000 - and I was responsible for paying 10% of that cost, $1,000. In addition I also paid an additional $200 in co-pays each time I attended a consultative/surgery appointment. I really struggled to pay that $1,200 and am just relieved that I didn't need further treatment, which would have pushed my costs even higher. In the UK my follow up costs and any subsequent treatments will not incur any expenses, apart from bus fare, for which I am incredibly grateful.<br />
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There are so many more examples. Having a baby in America, for example, is another very expensive exercise. I don't know how most people afford to do it. A 'normal' pregnancy and birth typically costs $4,000 in ob/gyn fees, of which you are liable to pay at least 10%. I wasn't fortunate to have normal pregnancies or births and our medical costs were a lot, lot higher. Thankfully our medical insurance capped our out-of-pocket payments to $2,500 per family member a year. Which is just as well, because in the space of 12 months Captain Underpants and I wracked up a total of nearly $300,000 in medical costs. Paying the $5,000 that year was challenging. Paying $30,000 would have been catastrophic. As you can imagine, as well as stressing over the pregnancy and then our newborn baby's health, it was hard not to stress over all the bills we were incurring. Costs that simply would not have been demanded of us if we had been living in the UK.<br />
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There was also no such thing as a free weekly mother and baby clinic and in my area all the mother/infant activities were very expensive. Baby massage / Gymboree / sing and sign / baby swim typically cost between $18-$25 per session. It just wasn't affordable to participate and I ended up spending far too much time at home, alone with my baby, feeling absolutely miserable. It was winter in Chicago - going for a walk with the buggy wasn't really an option. I struggled to meet other new mums and became very isolated. Friends back in the UK were enjoying social events with their newborns for a lot, lot less. I was envious of how easy it seemed in comparison. <br />
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Once the boys were older it was depressing to realise that there were no subsidies for nursery care. Both boys went to a Montessori nursery 3 days a week, while I was working, which cost $1,600 a month (aka pretty much my net income). Once school started there was the obligatory extra-curricular activities and then summer camp to factor in. I did keep the boys out of summer camp one year. This turned out to be a Bad Decision, because I hadn't accounted for the fact that every single one of their friends <i>were </i>attending camp, so in effect they had no-one to play with. Except me. Joy. I saved myself approximately $800 a week that summer in camp fees (the summer holiday was 9 weeks long)...but would rather go into serious debt than repeat that exercise a second time.<br />
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I could go on and on with other examples relating to my particular circumstances of life in the US vs. the UK. And these are the financial examples only. Factor in personal examples - being able to access your family and friend support network for example - and the standard of living argument, for me, starts to flounder even more. <br />
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That's not to say that living in America doesn't have its plus points and advantages. It does. I am very grateful that I had the experience of living there and wouldn't change that for anything. But if we are comparing apples to apples, and you are asking me my opinion based solely on my experience, then it's not necessarily a superior quality of life after all.Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-15000894282104305932011-05-25T12:49:00.000-05:002011-05-25T12:49:12.069-05:00I Wouldn't Swap Our School Run With Anyone...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYvfLKudNv7_iMIV3KoU2hTOlvORP6Z1wxqQ5EvCd3wz1oc69SlVGv-1-Y8mjpsey_2-uf6QF_H-b7rQdvOJSZ-KX6FMbH-DpX5yIBv7ZqAKqpm2F0o5Bjgugc8_oDFk4ihMo0PwDFSeit/s1600/IMG_0506.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYvfLKudNv7_iMIV3KoU2hTOlvORP6Z1wxqQ5EvCd3wz1oc69SlVGv-1-Y8mjpsey_2-uf6QF_H-b7rQdvOJSZ-KX6FMbH-DpX5yIBv7ZqAKqpm2F0o5Bjgugc8_oDFk4ihMo0PwDFSeit/s320/IMG_0506.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8DnLKgoUmjgbn8XuZ9rD7AJEaAjlgzLpIzXJe7tfRLj81A12NLaN_QV6wrcNBayUeWjw4ym-P8jhNVxFZ8whmF_Hh1mwW6hm0edMooor8F5RAIEkXn3ifGtNGkK77Is_RDc-QJ_WIJUjX/s1600/IMG_0521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8DnLKgoUmjgbn8XuZ9rD7AJEaAjlgzLpIzXJe7tfRLj81A12NLaN_QV6wrcNBayUeWjw4ym-P8jhNVxFZ8whmF_Hh1mwW6hm0edMooor8F5RAIEkXn3ifGtNGkK77Is_RDc-QJ_WIJUjX/s320/IMG_0521.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-86321595534076712822011-05-24T12:37:00.000-05:002011-05-24T12:37:11.123-05:00Petit MenagerieThe boys are a chip off the old block where animals are concerned. If they had their way we would live in a slightly smaller version of Whipsnade Zoo. <br />
<br />
Johnny Drama is particularly intent on having a pet(s) that he can call his own.<br />
<br />
So last week, in an act of apparent desperation when his pleas were falling on deaf ears, he adopted a dragon fly. <br />
<br />
A dead dragon fly. <br />
<br />
Which he has called Colin. <br />
<br />
Colin 'lives' in a Tupperware container next to JD's bed. Colin is a huge fan of the bedtime story (apparently). In my view, Colin is the only fan of the bedtime story, given that he is the only participant not interrupting every 2 seconds.<br />
<br />
However. Colin is lonely.<br />
<br />
He desperately needs a companion. A friend that he can play (dead?) with. More specifically he needs to be best friends with a bee. <br />
<br />
A dead bee of course. <br />
<br />
Which will be called Phillip. <br />
<br />
The bee must have died of natural causes (unlike Colin, who I think was inadvertently stepped on - but please don't say anything in JD's presence, because talk of his murder will not be tolerated in this house without the accompaniment of loud wailing and the beating of chests).<br />
<br />
Luckily for us I think we have a bee hive in the depths of the run down shed in the garden. Why they have decided to set up home in the only garden without a single petal/flower/plant is a little bewildering.<br />
<br />
Obviously not the smartest of bees.<br />
<br />
Here's hoping one of them commits hari kari on the patio someday soon. <br />
<br />
Purely for Colin's sake, obviously.Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-22496173825943093832011-05-23T04:34:00.000-05:002011-05-23T04:34:04.210-05:00Sometimes I Can't See the Woods for the TreesI feel as if I have reached a pinnacle in this single parenting experience where it surely can't get any harder than this. Please dear Universe, don't prove me wrong. It's just too hard. Please don't make it any harder. It's tough enough to get through some of the days as it is.<br />
<br />
Yesterday was one of those days. I would prefer not to have a repetition of one of those days for a while. A day where I just felt so tired, so drained, so lonely, so lacking in optimism and hope and gratitude that the thought of enduring another day like it just couldn't be borne.<br />
<br />
Single parenting is a tough road to take. I had no real idea until I ventured down it. It is not a path I would ever recommend unless in the most extreme of circumstances. I am not a village. I am doing most of this alone and I am finding it really bloody hard. And I look at my performance with the boys (or the sheer lack of it at times) and I feel as if I am doing them the greatest injustice. They deserve so much better. They deserve the mum that I am in my head - the mum that I fully intend to be when I am not with them, but which doesn't bear much relation to the mum that I actually am in their presence.<br />
<br />
I don't want to be a single parent any more. I really don't. I am done. I want this job to be shared....but more than that, I want to share this job <i>with</i> someone. I want another adult in this family to love, to balance the equilibrium a little. Not to share the workload with, but purely to share the experience with. Oh My God, the potential luxury of having someone to hold and be held. Someone to care for and to be cared for in return. This most simplest and human of situations now seems like a panacea to me. I can't imagine my current state of being, this terminal loneliness, is ever going to change. Is it possible that I am going to be single-handedly raising these children, forever? <br />
<br />
I went through the motions yesterday, took the boys out, coordinated meeting up with other parents so the boys could run off some steam with friends, made cheery conversation.<br />
<br />
I felt numb, as if I was dying inside.<br />
<br />
I couldn't muster up a single molecule of joy as I watched my beautiful children gambol about, shrieking and laughing and karate chopping each other. <br />
<br />
I was hollow. Empty. Devoid of any form of emotion except for the never-ending longing to cry and to never stop. <br />
<br />
I got through the day, put the boys to bed early, then read them an extra long story as a penance for being on the outside looking in all day. They deserve better. They deserve so much better. And so, for the love of God, do I. <br />
<br />
I watched Long Lost Family, a weekly excuse to shed the tears I am harbouring inside and, instead of feeling better, lighter, feel even more depleted. How is this possible? When you are running on empty - how is it possible to be even more empty? I berated myself internally for feeling this way. I have so much to be incredibly, ecstatically grateful for! I am such a lucky, lucky woman! Jesus Christ, to be this miserable when I have so much love in my life - when I have the privilege of raising these wonderful children in relative luxury, compared to many parts of the world, is so incredibly self-centred and indulgent and, quite frankly, disgusting. My feelings of self pity and loneliness disgust me. Which obviously cheers me up no bloody end.<br />
<br />
I go to bed early and stand stroking the boys gently on their backs as they sleep, huge sobs wracking my body. My eyes smart with the saltiness of my tears. I feel too exhausted to sleep, the thought of having to face another day fills me with a sense of foreboding. I can't do this for another second, another minute, another hour, another day. <br />
<br />
I wake this morning and the cloud has lifted. I hear the boys chatting to each other downstairs, being kind to one another, playing well together and I smile. I feel rested. I feel capable. It will all be okay. This too will pass.Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-23893323236766441302011-05-18T16:03:00.000-05:002011-05-18T16:03:20.509-05:00Lost in TransitionNow this is more like it. Grey skies. Nondescript weather. For a good few weeks there I thought I had moved home to the wrong country. Most disconcerting. Roll on June and the rain, that's what I say. You can't beat the first month of summer being completely rained out, can you...? After all, I have just purchased some new patio furniture, so the change in the weather couldn't be more perfectly orchestrated.<br />
<br />
For the most part I am loving being back in the UK and have transitioned easily, even after 10 years of absence. I chose to move to an area that is relatively new to me - I have never lived in North London before but I fancied a fresh start and, truth be told, I do love the challenge of starting over where everything is new and just waiting to be discovered. I have one dear friend in the neighborhood and my sister is still staying in the spare bedroom (God bless her, she is being a total lifeline even though her prediction of us living together - which she predicted <a href="http://somemothersdoaveem.blogspot.com/2010/05/its-quite-scary-how-well-she-knows-me.html">here</a> - is accurate in every way). <br />
<br />
I am more than a little infatuated with the area. Seeing London again and its surrounding area, with fresh eyes, sometimes stuns me to tears. The greenery is so vivid. Nearly every building seems to be imbued with heritage and ancestry. There is an energy and verve about it - like a vital organ - which invigorates me. And the hills! Oh, don't get me started on the hills! I have spent 10 years in reconfigured prairie land without a natural hill within hundreds of miles. The fact that I can now walk down my local high street and peer <i>down</i> avenues of Edwardian houses, which overlook the whole of London, takes my breath away. I am constantly stopping the boys in their tracks and forcing them to 'enjoy the view' and simply soak up the natural beauty of our surroundings. I know, I know. I'm on the outskirts of London and I am raving about the beauty of the landscape. Obviously, the sun over the past few weeks has gone to my head a little.<br />
<br />
Other things I am loving about being back in the UK? Aside from the pretty money? I am still a little obsessed with Sainsbury's, Tesco's and the M&S food hall. I can get lost, browsing the aisles for hours. Every single time, without fail, I am suckered into the 2for1 special offers or 3 for £10 and buy enough food to feed half the street. Oh, the damage I could do if I owned an American sized fridge...best not to think about it.<br />
<br />
I have been <s>freaked</s> surprised at how genuinely friendly people are and the overall informality and pleasantness of customer service. We hardly have the reputation of being leaders in this arena...however, given my comparative experience, I would beg to differ. I have had quite the chin wag with representatives from Thames Water, British Gas, Virgin Media and even the local Council Tax people, to name but a few. And don't even get me started on the cashiers in my local Post Office. Never once did I feel they were talking from a well-worn script. In fact, everyone has bent over backwards to be helpful, understanding and personable. I think this does reflect the fact that the Brits, in general, do love a good chat and for the most part are down to earth (verging on fucking hysterical, but again, this is just my humble opinion). <br />
<br />
It has taken me a little while to adjust to the fashion sense. I had always been a bit of (okay, a lot of) a snob about the superiority of British fashion while in America. And then I arrived home to find everyone is dressed so incredibly casually - skinny jeans, canvas converse all star trainers for heaven's sake, army green parka jackets. Where is the glamour people? The effortless flair for accessorising that I have been spouting on about for years while over the pond? I feel out of place in this excessively urban clothing landscape. I'm not quite scruffy enough to be cool. I am, despite not even owning a twin set, feeling distinctly middle aged. I would usually feel quite gleeful about any excuse to buy a whole new wardrobe of clothes...but been there, done that where the grunge look is concerned. Never thought I would say this Chicago...but really, you are quite a natty dressed little town in comparison so please forgive my aspersions to the contrary over the past few years. I am beginning to think they may have been a tad misguided.<br />
<br />
The one thing that has taken me back about being back in this country, I have to be honest, is the whinging. If there is a situation to view through a glass half empty, most Brits seem quite happy to do so. I have been astounded at the extent of cynicism and derision with which most people seem to view this country, the government, our monarchy, the economy, the NHS, education...you can name it and you can bet your bottom <s>dollar</s> pound that it can and will be vilified. <br />
<br />
Now, I have nothing against a good debate and I love the fact that this country demonstrates an interest in International affairs, as well as being up to speed on the state of our own nation. But the incessant complaining about anything and everything is not what I would call constructive behaviour. I have been shocked at how, even the sunniest of people with the most positive of natural outlooks, likes nothing better than a good bitch at the state of the UK today. It riles me a little, but more than anything it makes me sad. If only more people could spend time living in another country, because it might increase their appreciation level of life in Britain. Is it perfect? Not at all. But, compared to many countries, in my experience, it looks after its citizens really well.<br />
<br />
Still. It doesn't stop most people having a sense of humour. I love the comedic asides that I witness on a daily basis, the willingness to take the piss at the drop of a hat. The inability to take anything too seriously or earnestly for long. Love it, love it, love it. I haven't seen one instance of sincerity on steroids since arriving home and, personally, that is just how I like it.<br />
<br />
Other quick observations...I have missed standing out from the crowd. There are many Brits who go to live in America and very quickly tire of the constant compliments on their verbal diction. I was not one of them. Right to the bitter end I loved the fact that, pretty much everywhere I went, strangers would comment on my lovely accent and a conversation would ensue. Without any effort whatsoever on my part, people would automatically attribute yours truly with an incredibly intelligent and educated personality. It was great. I have never understood other people in my position who have tired of this superficial adoration. Really, what's not to love?<br />
<br />
Meanwhile I open my gob to talk here and nobody gives a monkeys. I sound just like everyone else and the shock of this sudden anonanimity was quite depressing. <br />
<br />
Here's another thing - in Chicago my name also stood out from the crowd. Most people had simply never heard it before. Isn't that strange? Who would have thought the name Nicola would be so unusual, anywhere in the world? It was always commented upon. It was a fantastic means of making yet another positive and memorable impression, which is totally lost on <s>the gits</s> people in the UK of course. <br />
<br />
Mind you, my name would be complimented mere seconds before it was ritually butchered. Apparently the name Nicola is in the Advanced Pronunciation Category for many of the people I met. I would frequently have to dig my nails into my own palms when being called "Ni-Coal-EEERRRR". Making an effort to correct people..."no, no, no - it's Nicola, as in rhymes with Ricola" was typically a fruitless exercise. <br />
<br />
So it is quite nice to be back in the land where 'everyone knows your name'. Now all I have to do, to satisfy my own inner celebrity, is find another means to be noticed (as the accent/name combo have gone by the wayside). Jeez, does this mean I may have to develop an actual <i>talent</i>? Looks like I am going to have to get used to a life of relative invisibility I guess...Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-76157094233472379972011-05-16T07:46:00.000-05:002011-05-16T07:46:23.492-05:00Did I Mention He is Obsessed with His Genitals?<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>I couldn't resist posting this....I drafted it some time ago and it is purely going on record to contribute to the material I am going to use to embarrass Johnny Drama with his girlfriend(s) in future years...</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">It's nearing bedtime and tonight there is more than the usual pandemonium, due to the fact that the boys are on a promise to watch Total Wipeout if they get showered and into their pajamas before the show starts at 6pm.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I am darting around upstairs, supposedly assisting the boys but actually distracted by case packing.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Johnny Drama stands in the middle of his bedroom, naked but for a pair of socks. His penis, as usual, is safely enclosed in his left hand. He glances over to the wall, then without hesitation strides over and pushes his penis against the radiator.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"OUCH!" he shouts and immediately springs back. "Hot! Hot-Hot-Hot!" He plonks his luscious bottom onto the carpet and stretches and waves his penis around, I am assuming to cool it a little. I continue to hang back in the doorway long enough to hear him say, under his breath,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"Ooh - that's the first time I have burnt my penis." There is a note of incredulity and awe in his voice.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">He looks over his shoulder at the radiator.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"Hmm - I bet that feels better with a sock." He wiggles over and places his socked foot gently onto the ribbed heater.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"Aaah. Much better. Next time, I just need a sock."</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Problem solved. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"MUM! Mummy! I've got an ouchee. Can I have an ice pack? I have REALLY burnt my penis here..."</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Of all the injuries I had anticipated as a mother, I have to say that this has never been one of them. And no...of course I didn't kiss it better.</div><div><br />
</div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-29113710117820027022011-05-15T09:59:00.000-05:002011-05-15T09:59:36.570-05:00The End of An EraIsn't it funny how you can re-read posts from <i>your own life </i>and yet not identify with them at all? I think that's how I feel about the last two posts certainly. Can that possibly have been me? Did I really feel that angry? <br />
<br />
Life has moved on. And about bloody time.<br />
<br />
The past three months have been eventful. The half term visit seems like a life time ago. I like to think that I carried myself with my usual dignity...whilst inside I was simply seething at rage over the matching Mr and Mrs luggage that was parked unceremoniously in my kitchen. Funny how it's the silliest things, the most banal evidence of his relationship with another woman, that hits me the hardest. <br />
<br />
But here's the thing that really annoyed me the most...AG arrived in my house, after an 8 hour transatlantic flight, at 8am in the morning and looked...as fresh as a daisy. Her make up was perfect, her skin flawless, her teeth shiny. How did she do that? Is that purely an advantage of youth, which I never fully appreciated at the time? Not fair. I had merely to step out of bed and walk 15 steps down the stairs to the kitchen and I looked more exhausted than she did. <br />
<br />
The boys scampered around AG, holding her hand and dragging her to each room of the house. I smiled wanly through gritted teeth and tried to avoid an inane conversation with Ex as we waited at the foot of the stairs. I finally managed to drag my own suitcase out of the house and decamp to my friend's, before swanning off to Stockholm to visit a friend for a few days. The change of scenery did me the world of good - it started to dawn on me that I need to seize these opportunities to grab life by the scruff of the neck and do my own thing, so I can stop being so fixated on the comparative lives of others.<br />
<br />
Once home again I impulsively joined a gym, signed up for 3 months of eHarmony, started Ceroc dancing lessons twice a week, satisfied my inner Torvil and Dean by learning to ice skate, joined a local Rock Choir and also began to officially volunteer at the boys school two days a week. I also coordinated daily play dates for the boys and harangued mums that I particularly liked the look of to meet me for a coffee, so I could force my friendship upon them.<br />
<br />
It was all a bit mad. It was all a bit much. After a couple of months the Rock Choir fell by the wayside and, as the weather has been so glorious, so has the ice skating. But it succeeded in kick starting my life again, with an optimism and energy that I haven't felt for a long time. I no longer felt in limbo - simply waiting to be in a position so my life could start again. This was it. I was galvanised into action and it felt fantastic.<br />
<br />
At Easter I agreed to take the boys to Chicago, to visit their dad for a couple of weeks so that he could spend more time with them. I was dreading the trip. I had no compulsion whatsoever to revisit Chicago and return to the city where my life had taken such unexpected twists and turns. I coordinated a hectic social calendar, arranging to see my friends as a distraction from being in the one place on earth that I really did not want to be.<br />
<br />
Yet in the end, it was a much needed trip that laid many ghosts to rest. <br />
<br />
I woke up the first few days, staying at my friend's beautiful loft apartment, gazing out at the sun coming up over the concrete jungle that is Chicago in the Spring, and my heart reflexively palpitated to a point where I felt constantly nauseous. It was as though I had never left. I felt a sense of panic that I hadn't felt for a long time in London. I spoke to the boys daily and their tales were of people that I didn't even know - some of them AG's family - and I felt berefit that my children have a life that doesn't involve me <i>at all</i>. It's an unnatural feeling. I felt simply lost without them and my whole body ached to be around them again. The fact that they were gaily going about their lives and I wasn't a part of it whatsoever, felt like a physical wound. <br />
<br />
I felt more than a little bit lost and confused by the feelings of familiarity with my surroundings - I just wanted to pick holes in the city that had been my home for half my adult life, to re-convince myself I had done the right thing in moving away.<br />
<br />
But I couldn't ignore how fantastic it was to see my friends. These women who have meant the world to me over the past 2 years. The trip highlighted how much I missed them and how big the hole is in my life without them in it on a regular basis. Women friends do that to you, don't they? Family is critical, but friends? They're the best.<br />
<br />
On the last day of the trip two very unexpected things happened. First, I got officially divorced. Ex and I had been wrangling over one aspect of the agreement, which finally got resolved when I was in Chicago. So on my final day in town I turned up at court with my lawyer, and Ex turned up with his, to get the divorce done and dusted by the judge. I didn't want to go. I can't tell you how much I really didn't want to go. Feelings of panic re-emerged and the thought of having to face up to the reality of the divorce - with Ex by my side - made my skin feel as though it was on the verge of breaking out in pustulous hives. <br />
<br />
Ultimately, like many things that I have dreaded and don't feel capable of facing head on, I was so grateful that we faced that rite of passage together. That we both acknowledged the end of an era as a couple - almost our one last show of solidarity. It was emotional. It was poignant. It was therapeutic. It was closure. After 2 hours of waiting in a court room, making small talk and both slightly on edge, we finally stood before the judge, with our lawyers between us, and listened as the end of our marriage was read aloud in legalese. It felt quite momentous. It felt tremendously sad. It was incredibly official. <br />
<br />
With my own blurry, tear filled vision, I watched Ex's eyes also well up with tears. We looked at each other with sympathy and understanding. And ultimately, although our lawyers tried to usher us out of the room separately, we drew together and walked out of the courtroom with our arms around each other, as we have comforted each other over the years, many times before. Outside the courtroom Ex held me tight and refused to let go. I could tell he was quietly crying. I was quietly crying. It was a mutual acknowledgement of our combined disappointment that the marriage, which we had set out on so optimistically over 12 years ago, had come to an end. <br />
<br />
But not a bitter end actually, inspite of the past few months of angst and envy that I have felt. Not a bitter end at all.<br />
<br />
In fact I felt almost an instant release - a sense of calm and closure, mixed with pure exhaustion and an element of elation that I wouldn't have to wake up to stressful messages from my lawyer anytime soon. A weight had been miraculously lifted. The monkey on my back had ceased trying to strangle me with it's strange, strong feet-like hands. I felt free. I felt relieved. I felt proud that, for the most part, I have conducted myself like the person I would most like to be, rather than following my primal instincts of destruction, retaliation and revenge. <br />
<br />
And then I went out to get shit-faced.<br />
<br />
Well, you know me - forever the dignified, sophisticated woman of the world.<br />
<br />
Actually, the last thing that I felt like doing was going out that night. My bags were packed and I had nothing to wear. After such an unexpectedly eventful day, all I wanted to do was sleep. But it was my last night in town and my amazing friends from Book Club were going out, so it seemed a little churlish not to join them.<br />
<br />
Fast forward a couple of hours and we are bar hopping. I am struggling to keep up with the alcohol consumption - my third drink is making my head spin and my stomach lurch. This could get ugly...I think to myself, as I set my drink down. The last thing I need is a hangover for the flight home with the boys and the subsequent jet lag we are going to be subjected to.<br />
<br />
My friends are in fine form - raucous and slightly outrageous. I feel so sad to be leaving. I miss these opportunities to let my hair down - Chicago is such an easy town to socialise in (although on reflection I had been bored to tears by the bar scene in the 6 months previous). My attention is focused on my girlfriends and our ongoing banter. We are joking about some of the young men around us, as some of my friends are getting hit on. There's no point in me engaging in flirtation at this point, so I watch my friends and soak up the energy around me. <br />
<br />
As I am reviewing the people filling up this trendy bar on a Wednesday night, I spot a man across the room. Well, in all fairness, it's hard not to spot him. He has to be at least 6ft5" tall, so is easily head and shoulders above everyone else there. I nudge the friend next to me. "Now THAT is the sort of man I totally like," I tell her, before we seamlessly return to our conversation. It's getting late. I feel drunk and tired and want to leave. I am persuaded to stay for another half an hour at least, but know I will reap the consequences of this the next day. Ugh. The flight home. I can't stand the thought of it. <br />
<br />
Just as I am about to make my apologies and leave I get jostled from behind and turn to find the attractive tall man behind me. We talk and he is funny and smart and, in a heartbeat, I am seriously regretting the fact that I am leaving the next day. I instantly feel drawn to this stranger and completely at ease. I haven't felt this for a very long time. My whole body surges with energy and suddenly I don't want to go home at all. <br />
<br />
Great timing Universe. What on earth's the point of that, then?<br />
<br />
Oh God, being smitten with an American....my friends are going to KILL me.Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5778330150286788997.post-57215735006798918252011-02-17T11:41:00.000-06:002011-02-17T11:41:58.592-06:00Sucking LemonsI have days when I am so consumed with bitterness towards my Ex that I can barely function.<br />
<br />
I never thought I would feel like this. Particularly after being separated for two years. Especially because we are so amicable for the most part.<br />
<br />
Maybe that's the problem. <br />
<br />
I'm so busy putting on a brave face and 'doing the right thing' for our children - that I have effectively swallowed all the hurt and anger that I genuinely feel and yet have never expressed. To him at least. It is all so unsatisfying.<br />
<br />
I focus on my adorable children. I focus on the wonderful life I have (honest to God, I have so many things to be grateful for and KNOW that compared to many others I live the life of bloody riley). I am grateful that this whole separation and divorce has not been a traumatic shitstorm. It could have all been so much worse.<br />
<br />
Still. It doesn't stop me from wanting to smash his bloody head in sometimes. Like a couple of weeks ago when we Skyped daddy at the weekend and I discovered he was on a weekend getaway in Miami with AG. From out of nowhere a tidal wave of acid erupted from my abdomen and crashed through my chest. This surge of resentment and envy - and downright hate - coursed through my body with such intensity that I had to walk out into the garden and physically cover my mouth to stop myself from screaming in bitterness and anger. My whole body was shaking - and yet all this pent up energy had nowhere to go. It seethed and writhed within me, while my head swam with vicious, venomous thoughts.<br />
<br />
You see, sometimes when Ex is nice to me...I forget. I forget that he has moved on. I forget that when he says in an email '<b>I never stopped loving you</b>' that he doesn't mean '<b>I never stopped </b><i><b>being in love </b></i><b>with you</b>' (world of difference, isn't there?) and that actually, he has totally moved on and is IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE ELSE. And if we are talking Life of Riley...well, sometimes his lifestyle makes me want to chew my own socks with frustration.<br />
<br />
IT WAS NEVER MEANT TO BE THIS WAY.<br />
<br />
How on earth did it turn out this way?<br />
<br />
Yet the biggest, most urgent question is, why am I still unable to come to terms with all this over 2 years later?<br />
<br />
Why do I let this bitterness consume me at times? Why can't I just Let. It. Go? Please, dear God, I really do want to be free of it. I am so sick of being side-swiped by destructive emotions, that knock me out for days on end. And I know I am the only one who can <i>choose</i> not to allow his life to impact me emotionally. Which just makes it worse. It's not him, per se, it's me. Bleugh. <br />
<br />
Despite my best efforts to be a spiritual, enlightened human being, it turns out that deep down, I am still like a sulking, self-absorbed child... <br />
<br />
"But you told me you would ALWAYS love me...I trusted YOU! And I don't want you to be nice to me any more. I don't want <u>anything</u> to do with you any more. You lied to me. You spent years lying to me. And I can't forgive you for it. In fact, I hate you for it. Truly hate you for it. Because I trusted you more than I have ever trusted anyone in my life. And, whatever you might believe, you are not my friend - because friends don't betray each other like that. Ever. So I will smile at you and be nice in front of the children. I will pass on daily titbits about their day and ensure you feel constantly involved and updated on their lives. But really? Deep down? I would just prefer it if you would just Fuck Off and I never, ever had to see or talk to you, ever again."<br />
<br />
Oh my. So much still to deal with. Thank God I don't feel like this every day. If it was constant, how on earth would you live with yourself? The random days here and there are bad enough as it is.<br />
<br />
Of course, I would love to express all this to Ex - to dump it out there and just walk away. But I know it would just sit there in the middle of us...and it would definitely impact our boys. And once the words are said - well, they can never be retracted. And they would always be remembered, of that I am sure. So instead I will just say them here - and feel all the better for it. And I will push thoughts of him to the back of my mind and replace them with thoughts of my brave and beautiful boys. <br />
<br />
Because really, they are two of the most incredible brave and beautiful boys that you would ever have the good fortune to come across.<br />
<br />
I am astounded at how well they have settled in the UK. They are loving their new school and have made so many friends. Many of the parents have remarked what happy children they are, and how quickly they have adapted. I am so very proud of them. They really don't seem to hanker or yearn for their old life in Chicago at all - they are so immersed in the present moment and enjoying the freedom of their new life. <br />
<br />
Things are working out really well with Johnny Drama - the consistent application of rules is working bloody wonders and his behaviour has improved beyond measure. I have also found that getting him to take on extra responsibility and tasks around the house serves to make him even better behaved, which is a bit of a result. And the more that I resist bringing Mummy Shouty Knickers into the equation, the less resistance and retaliation I encounter. <br />
<br />
Honestly, the boys are a complete joy right now and I am, more or less, loving every minute that I spend with them. <br />
<br />
As I said, I truly am very lucky. I have a lot to be grateful for. The Ex bitch slap will have to be consigned to my parallel world, where I have it on good authority that I am a total bitch and couldn't give two hoots about being nice...Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07017352687163694581noreply@blogger.com28