Author Archives: mumonthenetheredge

Choosing patience.

04 Sunday Sep 2022

Posted by in Motherhood, Parenting

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There is a Small person stalking off ahead of me.

She is tossing her sun-bleached hair and there is anger in her rigid legs, held in her shoulders, and the chin I can’t see.

Probably, there is muttering.

It is the scenery, and the soundtrack, of my summer.

I can feel reciprocal – and cumulative – anger boiling in my own bones, straightening my own spine, lurching up in my own chest, to my own mouth.

It has seemed like someone has constantly been flouncing, whinging or whining for at least three of the last six weeks, due variously to it not being fair, perceived slights, injuries real and imaginary, getting the wrong sandwich, not wanting do do whatever we’re doing, being too hot, being too cold, being too bored despite the myriad of adventures laid at their feet, not feeling listened to, not being the centre of my attention, wasps, being told no, having the worst mother/sister/life in the world, or losing at Uno.

Rightly or wrongly, my main aim in parenting over recent weeks has mostly been to avoid being screamed at – something I have very much failed to achieve.

When not kicking off with random negativity, the Smalls have varied the screaming across the remaining three holiday weeks through the medium of kicking each other, or kicking up a ruckus being giddy and silly and thick as thieves – to the point where I’d really rather they went back to beating each other up.

For reasons I cannot understand we have not seemed to be able to be a successful three. Any two of us can get along at one time, but all three IS APPARENTLY IMPOSSIBLE.

I, like so many other parents – so many other mothers – am TIRED.

The effort of keeping everyone happy and stable and constantly managing big emotions – from all of us – has been exhausting. Especially out of routine. We talk about the mental load of motherhood, we don’t talk so much about the emotional load. And right now, it is a LOT.

It has always seemed to me to be a great gynacolgical injustice that women hit the menopause at precisely the time girls hit puberty, and if the hormones of the last few weeks are anything to go by, BOY are the next few years going to be super fun!!!! I can’t wait.

Because already there is far more rage in family life and far less joy than I was expecting. I often wonder if that is normal, if that is my fault, if I’m doing it wrong? If other people, other children, are happier? I often fall into that familiar gap between expectation, comparison and reality.

The hole is deep, with spikes at the bottom.

And it’s not the only hole…

The other one I tumble into, often, is created in the gap between how I was parented in the 80s, and how I want to parent now. I had a wonderful childhood, don’t get me wrong, but times have just… changed. Parenting has changed.

I KNOW I don’t want to give my kids a clip round the ear, or invalidate their feelings, or demand total unthinking obedience, or withhold love until they comply. But I don’t always know what ELSE to do. I don’t always get it right. I don’t always set the right boundaries and the right consequences.

I’m all at sea with just how much parenting has evolved in the last 30 years – and the gentle parenting textbooks and articles don’t always keep me afloat – especially in the heat of the moment. The fact is that trying to raise kids with empathy through empathy is a much longer and harder road to ‘easy’ kids. Or at least it is with my kids. And waiting for them to become healthy adults at the other end currently feels like an eternity.

So here I am again, about to fall into my own special parent traps, feeling my frustration build with each stomp the Small in front of me takes away from me.

And it’s here, right here, as I teeter on my own edge, that I’ve tried to set a failsafe switch. I’ve tried to recognise this, this moment when I’m about to go over, and stop. Because I know THIS is when I have to choose.

I can shout, I can yell, I can throw myself off an emotional cliff and add to the general screaming – about under-appreciation and entitlement and respect, about how hard I am trying and how hard I am working… Or I can choose patience. I can choose love. I can hope that I am able to keep choosing it, if I practise enough. I can hope that one day, it will prove to BE enough. I can hope that a long time from now, they will look back and remember and know, and choose patience and love, too.

So I reach really deep down inside myself, and I manage to choose.

I don’t always.

But this time I push down the red mist, just, and I jog after the small, angry figure in front of me. I marvel at the beauty of her, the strong muscles, the even stronger views.

I realise she has grown in the sun. Her squidge is gone. Her shape is changing. There is a glimpse of the teen and the woman she will be.

I offer her a piggyback, while she is still small enough to carry.

She accepts.

And what we really have is a cuddle.

With that connection, our anger disperses, and the last days of summer continue.

Later, there will be time to talk about our day, what happened, and how we both handled it. For now we keep walking. Together.

Roll on Monday.

You cannot come soon enough.

Summer Loving

04 Sunday Sep 2022

Posted by in mental health, Motherhood, Postnatal depression

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Sometimes, I worry that I don’t feel the right way about my children.

Or at least, not the way other people do.

That I love them too violently and too all-consumingly and too hard.

The thing is, I just don’t know how else to do it.

If I’m honest, it’s one of the things that probably cost me my marriage.

We tell our kids – and maybe we tell ourselves – that love is this huge, infinite thing, or that it grows and encompasses and enfolds anyone else that comes along – that it doesn’t run out, that loving one thing a whole lot makes it easier to love other things too, not harder.

But that’s not been my experience.

I think my love diverted, and funneled into those babies. And the bond was so strong, all others felt weak by comparison. I fell so hard for my children I couldn’t see straight – for YEARS. Still.

And I couldn’t understand why my ex didn’t feel the same way, or at least feel IN the same way I did.

I’ve always been like this.

There’s a famous family story about one Christmas where my Granny Betty had made my sister and I two matching stuffed cats. They were the first presents we opened. And I loved mine so much I refused to open any more presents, and my sister had a bumper year of opening everything. But more than that – I followed her around with her cat as she was playing with double the new toys trying to make her cuddle it and love it as much as I loved mine.

That’s how I felt about my children, and my ex.

That’s how I tried to make him love them in my way, not his way…

I still have a great deal of this huge, hard, fierce, overwhelming love to give. But sometimes it bubbles over. Sometimes it burns through rationality. Sometimes it lacks perspective.

When my children first started spending time with their dad, one night a fortnight at first – I felt like my heart had been cut out. I was bereft. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t function. I couldn’t do anything but feel empty – literally hollow on the inside while on the outside my arms ached for the imprint of their little bodies, my nose caught ghosts of their scents and my ears strained to hear them in their empty beds.

I wrote about it once, and someone on this blog told me I should stop acting like they’d died.

She was right.

But that’s still what it FELT like. It was still real to me, even if it wasn’t rational.

Since then, lots of people have said to me that I’m living the dream. Getting time off from the kids! A whole weekend to yourself every other weekend! A kid-free summer holiday! Whoop!

Well my dream was to be part of a functioning, happy family… So, it’s not so much a dream, really, as a reality I have had to learn how to appreciate.

And I have.

Mostly.

I mean, intellectually I KNOW they need to be with their dad – and I KNOW I need time to be the me that isn’t only their mother.

Sometimes I crave it. There ARE Friday nights when they’ve pushed every button there is and I’m almost – ALMOST – glad to see the back of them. When I know we need the distance from each other to be healthy. When I am glad to go out, and see friends, and drink, and lie in, and read and write and play at being care-free and child-free with Boynotquiteonthenetehredge – and be the me that’s there when they are not.

I KNOW this.

And I know it does me, and them, so much good.

I know a lot of stuff in my head.

But my heart… my heart knows stuff, too. And it knows it louder; wrenchingly, gutterely, roaringly.

And despite how far I’ve come and all the perspective I’ve gained, it is still hard, sometimes, for my head to wrestle it into submission.

This last week has been one of those times.

It has been one of those times because it has been the week they have been away abroad with their dad and their ‘other’ family.

The step-mum who I’m sure is lovely but I still want to scream at for having her hands on my babies and playing the role that means the very most to me, however part-time; the grandparents-by-marriage they see more than they see my own parents; the family unit I wanted so badly; the experience I can’t give them – won’t know anything about, and can’t control.

It is the longest and the furthest I have ever been away from them.

And it has been HARD.

Don’t get me wrong, it has also been wonderful to be with the Boy, pretending not to be parents, putting that bit into a box. But the lid has kept cracking open under the pressure of what’s been locked inside…

Like those first nights without them all over again – I have been grappling with all this anxiety, and all this love that suddenly has nowhere to go, and won’t be contained.

If I’m honest, I am a bit afraid of it.

When they call, they are like other people’s children.

They are browner and blonder in the sun. They don’t speak to me normally, can’t relate to me on the phone because we’re never apart enough to call – and it is all stilted and wrong. They are wearing clothes I don’t recognise, and have done activities and have family stories and jokes I’m not part of.

They are less mine.

I am less me.

And that tiny slice above my eyebrows knows this is the way, this is right, this is proper, this is growing up – but the rest of me… Oh God the rest of me is WILD with longing for them.

I get off the phone, and I weep.

I don’t know if anyone else feels this way about their children, or about co-parenting their kids.

I don’t know if the way I love is the wrong way.

But if this is you, too, I want you to know that I KNOW how hard the summer holidays are when you’re a single parent without your kids.

Much harder than they look.

And I hope yours are back in your arms soon, too.

xxx

Professional Wingwoman

04 Sunday Sep 2022

Posted by in Motherhood, Returning to work

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Side-kick Extraordinaire.

Back-up Babe.

These are the things that should really be on my CV, forget the official job titles and all of this I LEAD X, MANAGED Y, GENERATED Z BILLION POUNDS stuff.

I didn’t. But I helped other people do so, because THAT’S actually what I do best.

The fact is that I don’t have the personality, mental health, energy, logic, planning skills or capacity to deal with difficult problems/people that it takes to be a Head Of or Director (in my case of Communications).

I can be easily distracted from any goal by my pathological need to be liked, keep the peace and make everyone feel comfortable. I baulk at even slightly difficult conversations; become instantly overwhelmed by big pictures and even moderate responsibilities – and crumble under any sort of pressure or negativity.

But if you need someone to rely on, champion, support, commit, brainstorm creative ideas with and go above and beyond to deliver them with aplomb, mild irreverence and a bit of a twinkle – I’M YOUR WOMAN.

And it’s taken me a really, really long time to come to terms with that.

I have spent a long time berating myself – and being berated – for my lack of ambition.

Like so many women of my generation I was convinced I needed to earn my age, move up the ladder, manage bigger and bigger teams, develop my leadership skills, aim for the c-suite – SMASH THE GLASS CEILINGS.

(Whilst at the same time – obviously – still keeping on top of the washing, the cleaning, the gardening, the school admin, being an engaged and present parent, arranging the playdates/clubs/parties/doctorsandvetsappointments, keeping up successful friendships, maintaining grooming standards and shagging my partner like a porn star).

I know we THINK we’ve busted the ‘women can have it all’ myth already – but the thing is, we’ve really only just acknowledged it as an impossibility. We haven’t actually DEALT with it in any meaningful, relieving, way.

And I for one have still been internalising it. Maybe you have, too.

1980s/1990s feminism told me I should want The Career. It told me I should want to be Day to Night Business Barbie (the pink one pictured here who’s reversible skirt flips round to reveal a tutu overskirt and who had a spangly boob tube under her suit jacket).

I believed it.

And I believed the workplaces that wanted me to keep giving me promotions out of my comfort zone and do management courses and set professional goals and have a five year plan for advancement/world domination.

And I somehow didn’t process the memo/fax that 21st Century feminism evolved – and empowered me to be whatever damn kind of Barbie I wanted, on any given day, depending on my mood, and very much NOT depending on what other people expected of me. (Including slob-about-in-black-leggings-feeling-guilty-about-not-having-changed-the-beds-for-six-weeks-Barbie).

I have always been so proud of the women I’ve known moving up around me – but at the same time I have been angry with myself that I wasn’t doing the same – that I didn’t seem to have what it takes to go the route I thought I was supposed to WANT to go – even though I secretly knew – deep down – I didn’t.

But I think I’ve finally let that go.

It took a while. But now I’m here:

I like my job. I’m even good at it (some days).

I like doing the coalface work – doing the actual DOING. I don’t want to manage other people to do it in my stead.

I like the fact that if I do something wrong the buck ultimately stops with somebody else.

I like the fact that the very worst that can happen is that an article is a bit late or a press release doesn’t go out. No one dies! (That might actually be my favourite bit).

I like the fact I can put my work down and forget about it.

I like the fact I can take a lunch break, listen to the birds, do the school run, manage my household, read my book, write for myself.

I like the fact I have been the quiet supportive force behind some truly amazing women, delivering some very cool projects, on their way to some truly amazing places.

I like the fact my worth is no longer tied to my productivity.

I like the fact that I measure my success against my own happiness and not other people. (Or at least I try to).

I like the fact that I don’t feel like a failure anymore – like I’ve not achieved my potential. My potential was NEVER about being in a Boardroom, or running any sort of show. And that’s really, really, really okay.

Perhaps most of all, though, I like the fact I don’t have to wear a pink power suit and high heels and turn them round after work to do – shudder – NETWORKING.

A few weeks ago I wrote that I officially set us all free from having to achieve anything with our creativity. Well now I set us free from having to achieve Business Barbie-shaped success at work, too.

It’s bollocks.

You are enough.

You’re doing enough.

In fact, you’re doing GREAT.

xxxx

Abortion.

23 Saturday Jul 2022

Posted by in Abortion, Infertility, mental health, Miscarriage, Motherhood, Politics

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I’ve spent a long time wondering what, and if, to say anything about abortion.

It’s a divisive issue.

And it’s a gift for for keyboard sancti-warriors everywhere, and I’m not really one to put my head on the chopping block for no good reason.

But I’m going to. Because this IS a good reason.

I’ve chosen to post in particular because I’ve not only been following what’s been happening over in America, but some of what’s been happening here as Britain’s pro-lifers have been galvanised by the ‘victory’.

[I’m going to say now that I’m really happy to discuss this issue in comments, but I reserve the right to stop talking to you if I feel it is unproductive, and I will immediately block you if you are disrespectful. This is my page, and I can choose what I share, how I spend my time and energy on it, and who I let in].

I’m sorry I’m late to the Roe v Wade response-party. But I’ve been watching, and listening, and processing.

And I’ve found some of the coverage and comments very disturbing, in many different ways, but in particular for the stunning lack of empathy and imagination I’ve witnessed – for other people’s pain, and for other people’s pleasure.

Because fundamentally when I’ve boiled it down to it’s roots, abortion opposition seems to stem largely from a belief that women SHOULD NOT BE ENJOYING SEX.

This is actually the crux of the matter. If you don’t want a baby, and if you’re not prepared to take whatever risks that involves for you, you shouldn’t be having sex at any time, FOR ANY REASON. Particularly not because it feels nice. That’s not a ‘good’ reason. That’s dirty. And wrong. And if you do it you deserve everything that’s coming to you.

But remember, also don’t do anything ELSE fun (and more expensive) to feel good, like drinking, or taking drugs, or dancing, or dressing up – because that’s also BAD, and you deserve what’s coming to you. Again.

Look, you should basically just stay at home and be safe and small and miserable, as God intended.

(I’d be interested to see, incidentally, what this would all look like if the religious masses were coming after MALE sexual pleasure, because I suspect if would look very different).

It has been made very clear from the pro-life camp that women should not be having sex if they don’t want the baby-consequences. But even if they are ‘virtuous’ and abstain, but someone has sex with them anyway against their will, they should STILL have the babies. (See the miserable clause).

It’s here I’ve seen beleaguered pro-choicers try to appeal to the common sense of the pro-life-at-all-costers, citing cases of rape or incest or extreme youth – followed by cases of fetal abnormalities and risk to the mother’s life.

But this is a mistake. Not only because they seemingly can’t listen to reason or nuance – but because IT’S NOT ABOUT THE EXTREME CASES.

You don’t need a ‘good reason’ (as defined by a branch of Christianity, or anyone else at all).

The only reason a woman should need to have an abortion is that she doesn’t want to be pregnant.

And while the cells involved are at the organising stage where there is no sentience, no viability and NO DAMN LIFE – that should be it. Period. (Which you might not even have missed until you’re already 6 weeks along).

If you’re really pro-life you should be pro the life that actually real-life exists already – the mother – and what she wants and feels as a person. Not a vessel. Not a publicly-owned incubator.

You should of course also be PRO child-lives when they exist in the world outside the womb – and ready to support them through the simple expedient of paying more taxes for public and social services, and doing practical things to help families in your community. Because if birthing and raising kids was safer and less expensive, having babies would be more a viable option – and you say that’s what you want.

But pro-lifers never seem to want that, do they? The people picketing outside the clinics typically aren’t doing anything to actually help mothers. And mothers who DO choose babies outside of the very strict parameters vast swathes of pro-lifers prefer – including heterosexual marriage, being between 20 to 30 years of age and sticking to 2.4 by the same father – are also vilified by them as irresponsible, promiscuous, selfish, or tainted.

Sigh. Look, I’ve seen a lot of coverage about pro-lifers only being pro-fetus, and there is so much that has been said and is still to say about institutionalised sexism and deep societal problems and the problematic role of religion in politics – but that’s not actually I want to talk about right now.

I want to talk about my own experiences.

I’ve come to believe we should all be talking about this more often. We don’t talk about our fertility journeys, our losses, our choices or lack of them, our menstrual and gynaecological health and traumas – or our struggles with motherhood. And our collective reproductive privacy, secrecy, shame and fear have been used against us to get to this point. At the end of the day, when it came to Roe v Wade, we simply weren’t the ones shouting loudest.

I have two children.

But I have been pregnant four times.

I have been pregnant when I really, really wanted a baby.

And I have been pregnant when I really, really, didn’t.

And the difference was complete and utter, and undoing.

I am not going to go into the minutiae of the circumstances that have resulted in me not having four children, but I DO want to talk about how it FELT. Because I feel like it’s a bit of the picture that’s been missing.

I’ve read the extreme examples, and how it feels to desperately want a baby and for something to go wrong to make abortion a neccissity – but I’ve not read anything about how it feels just to plain NOT WANT TO BE PREGNANT.

So. Here’s what I want to add to all of this.

I have been pregnant when I wanted the baby so much it was all I could really think about, to the exclusion of all else, and I floated through the rest of my life willing it to stay, to be, to just make it all the way through to my arms. When I felt that baby in my heart from BEFORE I saw two blue lines. When I loved it with the sort of subwoofer love that you feel in your chest, that rings in your ears, curls your fingers, buckles your knees, clenches your womb and eventually drips from your breasts in milk. A violent love with the whole of your body, the whole of your mind, and a little bit more of you that wasn’t even there before it.

And then I have been pregnant, and not pregnant, and grieved for a baby when it wasn’t even there – when it wasn’t even real. When it was an empty egg sack. But it felt real to me – I wanted it. I loved it already, truely and wholly and desperately. And when I lost something I never really had in the first place, it felt like I had lost a slice of myself. I HOWLED at the empty. And there is still a space inside me where it was. Or wasn’t. Still.

I have also been pregnant when it wasn’t my choice. When it wasn’t fair. When I had done everything right. When I had been good. When I didn’t want it, and didn’t want it and didn’t want it in every single fibre of myself, every single second, profoundly, profusely. When I felt like my body had betrayed me and I wanted to punish it, to hurt myself, to claw this alien thing out of me before it robbed me of everything I knew, and dreamt, and planned, and WAS – until I was a scream inside out of myself, vibrating and keening and helpless and IMPOTENT. It was so other, so foreign, so invading. It was raw rage and resentment, flat, bone-deep repulsion and souring, soul-deep refusal.

So here’s what I know, and what I’d like you to think about.

I know that up to a certain point, a baby is a baby because you BELIEVE in it. It is an idea as well as a bunch of cells.

But if you don’t believe in it, if it wasn’t your idea, it’s not. It can be a violation.

I don’t think any pro-lifer is going to read this and suddenly have an empathy revelation by understanding something of what it’s like to lose control over your own body. But people who are on the fence might just read this and think that maybe, just maybe, not wanting a baby desperately and viscerally…. IS a good reason. Maybe people who have been in this situation might feel seen. Maybe people who will inevitably be in it someday sooner or later might remember this, and feel validated.

Whatever your views on abortion, I really, really hope you or someone you know never has to experience what it’s like to be pregnant – and not WANT to be pregnant.

And if they do, I hope they get some sympathy – and some mercy.

I hope they get to have some control over what happens next.

And I hope there are still good, safe options available to them.

Because – believe me – they WILL take the bad ones otherwise.

And if you felt like this – if circumstances you are lucky enough to currently be unable to imagine put you HERE, in this head space, in this body that is no longer your own – you might too.

UNPRECEDENTED

23 Saturday Jul 2022

Posted by in Humour, Poetry, Politics

≈ Leave a comment 






In the year of 2020, 
there came a secondary plague,
A word that entered lexicon
and made us all afraid -

It was on the lips of politicians, 
commentators and news readers
Influencers, Auntie Sue - 
and other minor global leaders.

You know it, Oh of course you do! 
It’s in your mind cemented 
A word you hardly said before - 
the word UNPRECEDENTED!

When a bat-shyt crazy virus, 
swept round the world in weeks
It was UNPRECEDENTED, 
said entomologic geeks.

When millions died and life collapsed 
and we all stayed at home,
When loo roll was our currency 
as we apocolypsed alone

When vaccines rolled out super-fast 
and we were all injected
When we clapped an NHS 
we now suddenly respected -

“We’ve never seen this, blow me down” 
is the way it was presented
The conclusion (and the get-out-clause) 
“This is UNPRECEDENTED!”

As time went on the word became 
a new part of our lives
As things ‘UNPRECEDENTED’ 
snowballed before our eyes…

When floods and fires were at their worst
since records had begun
When women’s rights unravelled
as they’d only just been won

When rules were made about our wombs
and rich men went to space,
When violence and extreme right views
were gathering apace

When the climate threw a wobbly, 
that we could not ignore
When war broke out and holocaust 
came closer than before

When a coup was perpetrated - 
by an actual President -
They looked around for ages, 
but could find NO PRECEDENT!

When an artful haystack Twonk was caught 
red-handed in his lies
When his resignation triggered 
a new Lord of the Flies,

When trains did strike, and petrol price 
was now an arm and leg -
When drugs and lettuce were now scarce 
in our new-made Brexit bed

When cost of living soared up high, 
to a point of heat or eat
(A dilemma the poor were told 
they should budget well to beat)

You guessed it - there it is again - 
though you might start to resent it -
The whole thing is reported as
EVENTS UNPRECEDENTED!

With so much going wrong right now, 
from here to Timbuktu
It might seem like vocabulary 
is not the fight to choose…

But it’s time to take a stand somewhere, 
and look for real solutions
Escape the tyranny of language 
in a lingui-revolution!

So let us unite and rail against 
this icksome, irksome word -
So under-sensed and over-used 
it’s really quite absurd.

Like Inigo Montoya in revenge 
we must be heard and seen:
We do not think that word you use 
means what you think it means…

Leaders! MPs! Journalists! 
And warriors of keyboard!
It’s time to drop the epithet
of which we’re bored and re-bored -

The bloody thing is meaningless
and driving us demented
Give it a rest we’re not impressed
Don’t say ___________ !

Stop hiding safe behind it, 
like it’s some sort of defence
We demand that you begin to set
a brand new PRECEDENCE -

One where you take real action, 
and responsibility -
And meet our global challenges 
with some basic empathy.

The world is changing fast, it’s true - 
at a speed that’s unrelenting -
But we can’t respond in ways that work 
if we’re still UNPRECEDENTING.

					


	





	

								
Summer Term Newsletter
										

			23
			Saturday
			Jul 2022
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in Humour, School		

		

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Dear Parents/Carers/Other





Welcome back for our final half term of 2021/2022! It’s been a rollercoaster of a year, the first full in-person year for many of our pupils for some time, and we couldn’t be prouder of what they’ve achieved. We’re looking forward to keeping up that momentum over the next six weeks!





– Sunflower Trust Day





Our Charity Teams have chosen the Sunflower Trust Guinea Pig Retirement Home as their local charity this year, and this is the first time we’re telling you that TOMORROW the children will be taking part in a Guinea Pig parade. They can wear yellow or dress up as a guinea pig. £1 to the class teacher. Please note that Year 2 will be going on their wilderness walk and will also need their school jumper, unless they’re in Mr Peterson’s class, in which case they need purple hats.





– Climate Kids





The brilliant team at Climate Kids will be coming in to do a creative dance workshop with us on Thursday 16 June! Children should wear green and bring their own ballet slippers. £6 to be paid on our intermittently working payment app, the password for which you can’t remember and we certainly won’t be able to tell you.





– Indigenous People of Alaska Day





Brrrrrrr! July 21 is Indiginious People of Alaska Day, and Y4 can come to school in furs, ski-suits, or polar bear costumes! £1 to the class teacher. Which you don’t have, as in a post-Covid world you no longer have easy access to physical cash.





– Seeing Red on non-Recycling





Monday 20 June is Seeing Red on non-Recycling Day, but only for Y1 and Y5. To raise awareness about this important issue children can wear red diagonal stripes, pointing to the left. They will also need 10 plastic milk bottles, 9 aluminium cans and 32 loo rolls for a fun junk-modelling activity in the afternoon! £1 to the class teacher.





– Acts of Kindness Day





We’re having a special Acts of Kindness day on Wednesday 6 July to celebrate one of our core school values! We’re lucky to have such wonderful kindness ambassadors here at XXXXX school, and we’re looking forward to a day of Acts of Kindness – including our Kind Cake sale! Please bake from scratch and leave your kindness buns at the front office before 9 o’clock. Your child will need £1 to buy a bun for someone. Any leftovers will be sold in the main playground after school for £2.





Children can come to school wearing blue for kindness, but not the blue of their actual school uniform, obvs. £1 to the class teacher.





– Bucaneer Bonanza!





Ah Hoy There, Foundation-ers! Tuesday 21 June is our Buccaneer Bonanza. Children can come in fancy dress for the day, and we’ll be having pirate games on the field. Don’t forget suncream, hats (or headscarves!) sunglasses (or eyepatches!) £1 to the class teacher.





– Les Mis-I-need-the-toilet





Tickets for the Year 6 play will be going on sale next week, £5 per ticket, which will be allocated on a first come first serve basis. Please remember your child will need a black school blazer with the ‘Les-Mis’ school logo painstakingly hand sewn on the right hand side, available from the office for £3.





We will be having three performances, July 13 at 14.00, July 14 at 14.30, and July 15 at 18.00, when your child will need picking up at 15.30 and returning at 16.30 after tea for dress rehearsal. This will be a particularly logistical nightmare for those of you foolish enough to have jobs and/or multiple children. Lols.





– Sports Day!





We’re delighted to announced that Sports Day is back, and parents are invited! For Y1 and Y3 it will take place on June 22, and parents can watch between 11.00-14.00. Please bring a picnic rug and picnic for your participating child/ren. Don’t forget wet weather gear because you never know! Sports Day for Y2 and Y6 will be on June 23, Y2 parents can spectate between 9.00-11.00, Y6 parents 13.00-15.00. Foundation and Y5 Sports Day will be on June 24, 10.00 to 12.00. Y3 Sports Day will be on July 18 13.00-15.11. Except for Ms Singh’s class, who will join the Y3 day at 12.15.





The main entrance will be open for parents just before the start time, for 30 seconds only.





We apologise that following the unfortunate events at our last Sports Day we will no longer be doing a parents race.





– Wear the Rainbow Day!





We felt like some of the other colours were missing their own dress-up days, and that there might be a week when your child is at risk of wearing its actual uniform you actually paid for FOR FIVE DAYS IN A ROW. Plus we wanted to create a real challenge for parents of boys. £7 to the class teacher (one for each colour). Date tbc the night before.





– Summer Fayre





Our Summer Fayre is back on Saturday 16 July and it’s going to bigger and better than ever! The Parents Association are looking for volunteers who can give just 300 hours and a tiny slice of their soul towards preparing and manning a stall.





Very Strongly Suggested entry donation fee will be £3 per adult and £1 per child. If your child wishes to take part in the prize draw please bring in £4 in a sealed envelope with their name and class on it by yesterday.





We’re also looking for tombola prizes! So if you’ve got a spare tin of peaches or a small fiesta in good condition, contact Mrs Robinson at the school office.





Let’s make the 2021/2022 school year go out with a bang!





Best wishes,





Mrs T Cher





Head





XXXX Primary School

					


	





	

								
What would I do?
										

			23
			Saturday
			Jul 2022
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in Poetry		

		

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What would I do, if that were you,
learning about death, in a classroom?
If I had to hope and pray and wait and see if our wonted goodbye, at the gate, was our
last.

What would I do, if that were you
emptied like the shells scattered under tiny chairs -
passed - 
alone and scared, wanting me, wondering why I’m not there to take away your pain. 

What would I do, if that were you, 
running from men, with evil intent? 
If I had to keep you quiet, pleading, needing, lying that it's a game, that I can keep you - 
safe.

What would I do, if that were you, 
listening in the dark for footsteps, waiting for violence, 
your face -
staring back in final bloody silence, holding my gaze in betrayal. 

What would I do, if that were you -
trapped in a tower, devoured by fire?
If my choices were to pick your death - to choke on smoke or drop - and hope you land,
whole. 

What would I do, if that were you, 
and I had to let go of your hand? 
Your soul - 
leaving mine with a lurch, searching wildly for your anchor. 

What would I do, if that were you, 
with drips and drains stuck in your veins?
If I had to watch your body dim you, eat you alive, while I had to survive?
Continue. 

What would I do, if that were you, 
and I could never, 
bring you, 
back? Your lack a black hole in my heart consuming everything that ever was. 

What would I do, if that were you, 
in the coach, on the ride, caught by the tide?
If I lost you to your life, on a trip, and you slip from my grasp and you’re -
gone. 

What would I do, if that were you, 
if it were me getting the call, screaming 
they're wrong? 
Not you. Because I would have felt you leave me, heard your farewell.

What would I do, if that were you,
in a place ripped by war, gore, and more your eyes shouldn't see?
If I had to pick between a bomb, 
or boat. 

What would I do, if that were you,
at the mercy of waves and greed and cold and fate - 
afloat
face down and drifting out of reach, to an indifferent beach where I will never find you. 

What would I do, if that were me, 
living between breaths, at the top of my lungs 
scared to breath deep, to sleep, to wake, to make a mistake, to choose, to lose you -
living in the freezing seizing no-man’s-land of ‘what if’ 
a looping gif I can't escape, that shapes my days and nights - 
and yours.

The open jaws of doom loom over me and block your light -
and in the dark I walk a tight-rope of sinew from my heart,
stretching round my neck like a noose.
Terror runs loose, ruling supreme - its soundtrack,
a scream in waiting. 

What would I do, if that were me, 
and I could not see
an end, 
to every, gritty, grating end ringing true, behind my eyes? 

What would I do?

					


	





	

								
The perfect victim
										

			23
			Saturday
			Jul 2022
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in Domestic abuse		

		

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How to be a perfect victim of sexual violence or domestic abuse: A Begginer’s Guide in 10 easy steps





1. Try and be white





If you’re not, it’s probably all gang/drugs related, Sharia law, or an honour thing.





2. Be young, and pretty-ish





Remember having ‘your whole life ahead of you’ is key to public empathy, and it’s only really a terrible shame/waste if you’re attractive. But don’t be too attractive. Because then you could have been asking for it… Look, just make sure that if you are careless enough to die there’s a good pic for the news, k?





3. Have a job – in a caring profession





Avoid being poor, unemployed or homeless because then no one cares about you.





It’s best to have a job doing some sort of good public work for not enough money. Don’t do anything dull, controversial, or earning a lot of money – because people don’t relate to that if you’re a girl.





4. Be heterosexual, monogomous, and chaste/sexually conservative





Remember that any sort of ‘alternative’ lifestyle, any promiscuity, history of promiscuity or overt enjoyment of your sexuality is unacceptable – and you were probably asking for it (again)/trying to make them jealous/just regretting it afterwards.





5. Don’t have mental health problems





If you’ve experienced depression, anxiety, a personality disorder or other mental illness – or if you’re on your period – you’re clearly a psycho/unstable/cray cray. So there’s probably more to it than we know, and there’s two sides to every story, no smoke without fire, etc.





6. Don’t be drunk or on drugs





If you’re going to get off your face things happen, things get out of control – that’s life. You should know better and have some respect for yourself. And God.





7. Show the exact right amount of emotion





It’s really important to emote in the right way, at the right time, in the right amount.





Some top tips:





* If you’re not screaming NO NO NO you were really saying yes, weren’t you? I mean how is an attacker/abuser to know the difference? Frozen with fear? Checked out? Trying to appease your attacker to avoid getting hurt/killed? Pfffft. No one’s going to buy it, love.





* If you’re asked about it afterwards you MUST try to weep and sob on cue. You can’t expect people to believe you if you’re not visibly traumatised, ALL of the time. That means no moments of reprieve laughing with friends or family – ever – because if you can do that you’re clearly lying.





* But you don’t want to come across as hysterical, no one likes that. Histrionics are just going to prove you’re the unhinged one. See point no 5. Or you’re hamming it up.





* Try and be pretty when you cry, but not beautiful, obvs. Look, it’s not that hard, see point no 2.





8. Fight back if you’re being sexually assualted, but never fight back if you’re a victim of domestic abuse





Fighting back an attacker is necessary to prove you weren’t really enjoying it. Fighting back an abuser means you’re both as bad as each other, it’s a ‘toxic’ relationship or ‘domestic dispute’, and actually you’re probably the REAL abuser here, anyway. There’s also no such thing as a pre-emptive strike, small acts of rebellion, or provocation in order to control what happens and when. It’s six of one and half a dozen of another, at the very least. And unladylike/undignified.





9. Be more popular/powerful than your attacker/abuser





Don’t forget to only be attacked or abused by people who are less popular, well known or connected than you are. If your fanbase/group of friends/instagram following is larger and more vocal, you’ve basically won he said-she said straight off the bat!





10. Be likeable





Don’t have any character flaws, any bad days, or ever have lost your temper with anyone since primary school – because they will come out of the woodwork and assassinate your personality on the basis of any single interaction, and it just goes to show what you’re really like, what goes around comes around, you reap what you sew, and that’s karma for you.





I don’t want to get too deep into the whole Amber Heard v Johnny Depp thing, not least because I don’t want to be jumped on by the rabid TEAM JOHNNY vigilantes who seem to have taken over an alarming amount of my news feed.





But.





I am increasingly frustrated by the vitriolic posts I’m seeing that dissect Amber’s every action, word, and expression – and find in them all evidence of her villany. Amber has quite clearly NOT followed all of my 10 rules above… She may be white but she’s may be a bit TOO pretty, and she then continues to fail on every other trait of being a ‘perfect’ victim.





That doesn’t mean she isn’t one.





The fact of the matter is that it’s not up to me to say whether she is or not; it’s up to a court. Which is why having it all streamed out on the internet and made into TikToks, polls and memes is so completely awful – and so damaging. The court of public opinion has condemned her, without all the facts or any of the nuance. And abusive relationships ARE nuanced. They can be incredibly complicated. The real key in unpicking them is to look for the imbalance of power – physical, financial and social. And wherever it was before, I’d say Johnny fans have tipped the balance firmly towards him…





One of my biggest fears about this case is about what other victims are now seeing. What they are seeing about what happens when you speak out, what happens when you try and take some of the power back – and what happens when you know you can’t follow this ‘perfect victim’ guide.





I’m also very afraid this case and its coverage is actively setting us back by reframing domestic abuse as an equal-opportunities issue. Because it isn’t. Men can absolutely be victims of domestic abuse, and they need specialist support and interventions. Women can absolutely be perpetrators, and need to be stopped, punished, and rehabilitated.





But this is overwhelmingly an issue that affects WOMEN.





It is overwhelmingly something that is perpetrated by MEN.





I don’t want one high profile case, and one imperfect victim, to muddy those waters.





Amber isn’t the greatest domestic abuse advocate/cover girl – but then the whole point is that she shouldn’t have to be.

					


	





	

								
The family songbook
										

			23
			Saturday
			Jul 2022
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in Humour, Parenting		

		

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I find myself spending a lot of time right now focussing on small joys, because the big stuff is SO RELENTLESSLY AWFUL.





I’m trying to keep looking at the big stuff properly, because I don’t want to ignore it or be lulled into going numb to it – which I know is all too easy to do. But to combat its effects I find myself searching out pockets of happy and normality, and stock-piling them while I can.





A bit like loo roll.





I am planning stuff, and doing stuff that makes me happy.





And one of the things that is both a catalyst and symptom of happiness for me is singing.





I think in general there has been much less bursting into spontaneous song than I was hoping for in my life.





But luckily, it turned out singing was a weird sort of side-effect of having babies – one of the many I never saw coming.





Small people are in fact a GREAT excuse to catapult yourself into your own personal musical!





I don’t think I realised quite how much I loved to sing it until I was belting out Tony Chestnut, Old MacDonald and The Wheels on the Bus at various baby groups.





What’s more, the Smalls LOVED my voice, especially at bedtime.





This was a new experience for me!





Because my singing is, objectively, absolutely terrible.





I have spent much of my life being begged by people I live with to please, for the love of all that is Holy, STOP. YOU’RE DOING IT AGAIN. I CAN STILL HEAR YOU.





My singing is terrible for several reasons.





These include (but are not limited to) not being able to hold a tune, not caring about this, not having any idea about either notes or keys, a startling inability to harmonise with others, fatal susceptibility to an earworm, and chronic lyric amnesia.





The only song words I can remember are the greatest hits from my parents’ favourite band Dr Hook, Alanis Morrisette’s Jagged Little Pill album – or the ones I make up myself as part of Mumonthenetheredge: The Musical, now in its tenth tuneless year.





There are MANY of these.





They are all terrible, too.





As an example, everybody in the house (apart from me) has their own theme tune, sometimes several.





We sing a song called ‘Bath Kitty’ at bathtime, because Catonthenetheredge always turns up hoping to be dripped on, as used water filtered off human being is her favourite drink/washing aid. (We have no idea why this is or how it came about, but find it equal parts endearing and gross).





We also sing a song called ‘Kitty, Kitty, Pussy Cat’ at bedtime, to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and we’ve now managed to train her to come and get on the Small Small’s bed and have a cuddle while being serenaded every evening. It goes like this:





Kitty, kitty, pussy cat





How we wonder where you’re at





You’re so pretty, you’re so sweet





From your kitty nose to your little kitty feet





Kitty, kitty, pussy cat





We don’t have to wonder where you’re at.





The hamster, who basks in the name Mr Lewis Tulip (Chewy for short) also has two theme tunes.





Chewy Lewy





Even though you’re pooey





Chewy Lewy





Yeah we love you so!





And to the tune of Abba’s Money, Money Money…





Chewy Lewy Chewy





You’re so pooey





In a hamster’s wheel.





Everyone has their own version of Maybe Baby which goes like this:





Hello baby





Are you a baby?





Yes I’m a baby – I don’t mean maybe!





I’ve been a baby, for XX years





I’m a baby maybe baby maybe baby.





There are also personalised lyrics for the children to Michael Rows the Boat Ashore, Oh Sinner Man, Puff the Magic Dragon, and MORE! (All gleaned from my own, looking back, possibly musically-abusive childhood).





Sometimes I sing when I WANT to be in a good mood.





Or instead of shouting.





I do an awesome line of tooth brushing and getting dressed Opera, and my back and forth tenner and soprano of ‘Put Your Bloody Shoes On’ is, if I say so myself, truly something to behold. Or behear.





But as the Smalls grow, I find there is less and less singing. (And also that they’re starting to tell me to be quiet, too. Sniff).





And somehow I find it is a core part of the sadness of them growing up.





Even worse, I find I am now forgetting the lyrics to these songs, too, as time passes.





So many of our memories, these days, are captured in photographs, or maybe videos. Stylised, shareable, snapshots of our lives – which live mostly on our phones.





But what those don’t really capture is the DETAIL. The detail of ordinary life, routines, their repetition, the everyday family traditions that emerge at different family stages. The stories behind the images. The small stuff that’s not photo-worthy – but somehow bigger and more important, anyway.





The stuff that comes alive again in a smell, in a tune, more than in an image.





When I scroll back to baby photos now, I don’t feel connected to those moments in time – it’s like looking through someone else’s pictures. They are flat. And I can’t quite remember the me I was then, or the they THEY were then, what it was like to hold them when they were so tiny, what the imprint of their bodies on mine felt like – what we were doing or saying to each other. I can’t remember the small/big important bits I promised myself I would keep safe inside me, that would be burned on my soul forever. They’ve slipped away.





My amnesia, it seems, extends far beyond song lyrics. (And passwords).





With Big Small now 10 and Small Small now 7 – with the world going to hell on a handcart – finding ways to record and preserve memories seems somehow more urgent.





I feel like I need to do more to capture the detail, store it up properly so I can one day feel the feelings again – and be properly connected to the past from the future. Properly connected to past mes, and past thems.





For me, I think that has to mean writing more of it down. The small stuff. The silly stuff. A diary of thoughts, feelings and moments that are MORE than a picture. That bring it back more strongly to live over again, when I need to.





So as a start, our next family project is to create a Family Song Book. Something solid to refer to, that is in itself part of creating and triggering memory, and tradition, and HOME.





Something that will be a route to coming back and finding it and each other when we lose it and us – because we will – because as the cliche goes the days are slow but the years are fast.





Something to help us not just remember the small joys but remember to notice them in the first place.





Something to sing along to.





(Even if when at least one of us will still sound like a tortured weasel with laryngitis when doing so).





xxx

					


	





	

								
Parenting the child in front of you, and inside you
										

			23
			Saturday
			Jul 2022
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in mental health, Motherhood, Parenting		

		

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There are many, many, MANY hard things about being a parent, many of which I don’t get right. But the two very hardest lessons I find I still have to learn over and over nearly every single day, are these.





You have to parent the child that is in front of you.





And you have to parent the child that is inside you first.





I was lucky enough to have be on an Easter break by the seaside, and was sitting on a bench at a park when I saw a young couple with a toddler, doing A Trip To The Park.™.





This toddler had a baby doll, and all she wanted to do was to push the doll on a baby swing. The parents, however, were desperate to persuade HER to go in the swing, because that’s what you go on A Trip To The Park ™ , and they kept trying to make her go on the equipment, and threatening to leave if she didn’t because there wasn’t any point in A Trip To The Park ™ otherwise.





And I remembered being there, SO CLEARLY, with a really Small Small, wanting it to join in at a baby group, or try a slide, or stroke an animal – or take part in whatever the experience I wanted it to experience was – exactly as I had imagined it.





It took me so long to let go of the expectations I had about what my child would be like, what it would like and not like, what I’d be like as a mother, and what parenting and family life would look like and feel like and taste like – and just let my baby do what it wanted to and be there to support and enjoy it as it did so.





And as I sat there thinking ‘just let the damn kid push her baby she’s perfectly happy’ – I realised that I still haven’t actually learnt this lesson for myself. I’m STILL doing the same thing – just with slightly older children.





Because too often I find myself parenting the child of my expectations, and the not the child in front of me.





For a start, I didn’t expect the child in front of me to be so anxious. Or for her anxiety to make her so angry, for it to make her not want to go anywhere or do anything – including to the park. For it to stop her eating, and playing, and enjoying, and joining in.





And I was on the bench because I was ANGRY the day wasn’t going as I wanted it to, and the Big Small wasn’t behaving how I wanted her to.





But you have to parent the child that is in front of you.





And the very biggest challenge you have in doing that is having to parent the child inside you first, and harder.





The one that gets cross when it is thwarted.





The one that remembers what it loved as a child and tries to recreate it.





The one that remembers what it hated as a child and tries to resolve it.





The one that feels rejected.





The one that craves approval.





The one that wants to be understood.





The one that wants to be seen.





The one that feels injustice.





The one that feels despair.





The one that feels afraid.





Managing myself, my baggage, and my emotions remains the very, very hardest part of being a parent. And the most unexpected.





Like all of us, I thought I was going into this whole shabang as a whole and rounded person. But having children made me realise how little I knew about myself, about children, and about my own parents – particularly my mum. And I realise it again and again at all the different stages of my motherhood and their childhood – and the echoing stages of MY childhood, overlaid.





The only way not to be crippled by the confusion, guilt and shame of it all is to recognise the child inside you, acknowledge the feelings you’re feeling, accept them, think about why you’re feeling them – and then offer yourself the same kindness and grace you’d like to be offering your own children in their own peaks and troughs.





Because it’s the only way you’ll be free to properly give it to them.





So I forgave myself for feeling angry. And I forgave the Big Small for feeling angry, too. And I got off the bench, smiled my biggest smile at the couple with the toddler, and went to see what the Big Small was doing, what she wanted to do, what she was feeling now, and what she wanted to feel next.





And we walked along the seafront and performed poems on the benches in front of the sea instead.





And for a moment, a perfect moment, all four of us were in front of each other with no expectations between us, and all four of us were happy.