There were the older boys who took me and my friend Becky aside into the library at school, and talked to us about our body parts. They showed theirs. Age 9.

There was the neighbour we all instinctively knew not to go near at community barbeques. And we knew not to leave anyone behind. Age 11.

There were the guys in Spain on Spanish exchange who would drive past repeatedly and shout at me out the window about my chest and blonde hair. I was 14.

There was the bloke on the bus to that club, who squeezed us into a seat, refused to move at our stop, and helped himself to a handful of our vulvas as we climbed past. We were 16.

There was the driving instructor, who took me for walks, put his shoulder on my head to ‘see the speed dial’, and took me home to meet his guinea pigs. I thought I could handle him. I was 17.

There was the friend who comforted me when I was upset and made a grab for my tits when he got the chance. 18.

There was the scary Big Issue guy, who approached me alone, and then followed me yelling about my privilege, when I wouldn’t stop to talk in a dark corner. 21.

There was the friend’s boyfriend who got drunk and told me how much he liked me, and wanted to check if my breasts were real. I couldn’t prove it unless he felt. 22.

There was the bloke on the busy train who sat next to me, and kept ‘accidentally’ brushing my breast with his arm, and pressing his leg against mine. It wasn’t that busy. 24.

There was all the blokes at the parties and clubs who came up behind me to rub themselves against me, or cop a feel. Who worked in teams to separate the target girl for their mate. 15-25.

There was the guy at work who just got a bit too friendly at the Christmas do, with hands where they shouldn’t be. I laughed it off. 26.

There was the airport security guy in Egypt who pulled me out of line and complimented my partner on my boobs and hair. Holding an AK47. Fun times. 27.

There are all the builders who have ever told me to smile, and all the blokes in cars who have beeped when I’ve been jogging, alone, at twilight. Ongoing. And I still smile back, even though I still don’t want to.

The Harvey Weinstein scandal has inspired a #MeToo revolution.

I wasn’t going to write #MeToo, because I have never actually been assaulted. I am not a survivor. And I thought this was about them.

But then my nearly 6 year old came home from school to tell me this week that the Year 2 boys are trying to smack her bum. And I was taken straight back to the empty school library with my friend Becky.

Part of me wanted to dismiss it – to tell her they’re just playing. To ignore them.

But then like the rest of my generation and the generation before, I realised I have been taught to minimise the ongoing, everyday sexism and breaches of personal space and consent that just happen to you if you just so happen to be female.

I have been taught that you suck it up, get on with it, keep your head down, deflect, don’t cause trouble, do what you have to do to stay safe.

Smile.

And that is not what I want my daughters to have to learn.

#MeToo isn’t just about assault. It’s about every woman’s everyday experience. And the really terrifying thing is that every woman I know has a list just like mine. Every. Single. One.

That’s not okay.

And we really need to start talking to our girls and our boys about it if we’re going to stop it in its tracks. We need to talk about consent, and respect, and bodies, and relationships, and feelings.

And as my own #MeToo list – and my own daughter – prove, we need to start talking a lot earlier than we think we do.

Harvey Weinstein might be a disgusting predator, but he’s also a great place for us to start.

 

Mumonthenetheredge

xx

There are too many victims lately. In the news. On television screens, flashing up on phones. And we are all deeply, deeply sorry for them – these people caught up in awful circumstances, to whom awful, awful things have happened.

Because we know that’s how to treat people who have been hurt.

Back in real life though, our day-to-day, we also meet, every now and again, Victims.

These are Victims with a capital letter – like it’s a job title.

We all know one.
They are dramatic.
They lurch from crisis to crisis.
They are over emotional in inappropriate places.
They over share.
They can talk about nothing but themselves, and what made them a victim.

They will also not do anything to help themselves escape the cycle. It becomes the sum and total of who they are – and when it comes down to it you suspect they’re enjoying the drama and attention just a LITTLE bit too much.

And it is annoying, exhausting and frustrating – especially when it impinges on you.

I have met several Victims in my time. People who thought their sh*t was always sh*ttier than everyone else’s. People always demanding sympathy and leeway. People dangerously crumbling – and liable to reach out and take you down with them if you let them latch on.

I have not had time for their shenanigans.

And I have not always been kind.

And then…

Then I became a ‘victim’.

I became a victim, I suppose, of motherhood. Because it started, really, when I first got pregnant. It was a complicated pregnancy for one reason and another, and I struggled with anxiety and dread. For perhaps the first time in my life things were happening to me that were out of my control, being done to me, my body letting me down and not doing what I wanted it to. And I didn’t know how to cope.

For the first time, I was passive, and helpless – a victim of circumstance – however much I’d wanted that circumstance in the first place.

It didn’t end.

I was a victim of a bad birth experience, again way out of my control and experience. And then the rest came. Postnatal depression, miscarriage, problems at work, relationship issues, infertility struggles, blah blah blah.

And gradually, without really noticing, I became a Victim.

Yes, my nice, ordered, controlled life had collapsed around my ears. But I think the thing that really changed – that took the v from lower to upper case – was the lack of emotional support I received.

When I really truly needed understanding, needed an outlet, I didn’t get it. And in that void I went into a tailspin. I started reaching for it in other places – sometimes the wrong ones. Seeking support. Looking for validation. Over sharing.

Essentially I started blogging as the one active thing I felt I could achieve against the barrage of stuff happening to me. I started blogging out of loneliness – the sort of solitude you can only experience inside your own head, when there is no one else to talk to about what goes on there. I started blogging because I needed to get my thoughts out, somewhere people could choose to actually listen and engage. I started blogging because I was desperate for someone to hear me, to find someone who could empathise. To find someone who could say, ‘me too’. To feel less alone.

I have been deeply touched by some of the support I have received from strangers, particularly from women and mothers who also love their children to distraction, but are lonely, and kind of traumatised by the sheer impact it has had on their bodies and minds and relationships and lives. Other victims of motherhood.

And gradually, I have become less of a victim.

It has taken me some time to look back and see how battered I have felt, how helpless. Because I have been doing the only thing I have known to do – gritted my teeth, battened down the hatches and got through each day as best I can.

But today I have decided I will no longer be trapped, ruled and assailed by external forces. I am no longer going to curl up in a corner of my life and take what’s dished out to me. I am no longer going to plead for help from passers by. I will no longer let things just happen to me or around me. I’m going to help myself. I’m going to stand up, and say ‘enough’. I am going to deal with the things I’ve been cowering from. I am going to heal.

And I am also sorrier than I can say for my past attitude to Victims.

Because having been there, I can see the other way of looking at a Victim, is to see someone who is struggling with their mental health.

Someone who has been hurt.
Someone who is adrift.
Someone struggling to cope.
Someone reaching out.
Someone who for whatever reason doesn’t doesn’t have anchor.
Someone who doesn’t have a safety net.

No – it doesn’t need to be your job to catch them as they fall.

You may not be close enough to do so, and you are certainly not obliged to sacrifice yourself by throwing yourself underneath every stranger, acquaintance or colleague. But neither do you have to help them on their way. Maybe you could just reach out and touch them, briefly, with kindness. And maybe, just maybe, that could slow their descent. Maybe – hopefully – that could mean they don’t shatter when they reach rock bottom.

Maybe, just maybe, you will save someone through a moment of fleeting kindness that will actually cost you very little.

So the next time you meet a Victim, a drama queen, someone who seems to think they’re special and that the world owes them something, look again.

Pain is not a competition.
There is no sliding scale of acceptable reactions to life events.
There is no statute of limitations on trauma, or on sympathy.
Emotion is not a failing.
Mental ill health is not a weakness, and it is most certainly not an attack on you.
And the smallest bit of empathy could go further than you would believe possible.

I am no longer going to be a victim. Of whatever case. Of whatever circumstance. Things are no longer going to just happen to me and knock me flat. In fact I am going to start happening to things.

And those things should watch out…

But not because I plan to come out fighting.

The opposite of passive is not aggressive – it’s active.

While I’m not going to let myself be bombarded and diminished by LIFE any more, neither am I going to cause any damage of my own. The things I’m going to happen to are going to be better for me happening to them.

I am going to be better.

And I want you to know that you can be better too.

 

Mumonthenetheredge

xx

Are you a superhero to your kids? Or do you just feel like you need superhuman powers to get through a day with them?

The other day my Big Small person told me in a argument that I was a ‘villain’. In this Marvel-lous age where everything and everyone is a hero – from turtles to bored millionaires – this was high criticism indeed.

My dastardly crimes included the unjust appropriation of life-critical computronic systems (the iPad), which was achieved through the indiscriminate deployment of noise warfare (shouting).

My bad (or villain).

We all want to be heroes to our kids. But sometimes it’s hard when they are experimenting with their own evil genius, and you are weakened by lack of sleep – parent Kryptonite.

So here’s a reminder to all the other tired Mums out there that you actually have more in common with superheroes than you might think…

The Beast

Okay, so you may or may not be bright blue, but the fact is that pregnancy does weird things to you from the get go. Like the delightful extra hairy bits, and the incredible sense of smell. You will also need beast strength to expel a whole person from your nether regions. And then parent them.

(Warning: you may lack the agility bit, and far from being a super-scientist your brains are more likely to turn to mush. Otherwise the resemblance is uncanny).

The Hulk

Yip, the old emotions can go a bit haywire too. Mine never re-wired, to be honest. I blame the sleep deprivation/hormones.

The fact is that there is no rage quite like a Mum-rage! See any Mum offered unsolicited advice, for instance: ‘Are you sure you’re holding her right?’, ‘She’ll never sleep on her own if you don’t put her down,’ or ‘Have you tried feeding her?’

Be afraid citizens. You. Do. Not. Want. To. Make. Mums. Angry. (Er).

Batmum

Like Batman, Batmum doesn’t actually have any superpowers, but what she does have is gadgets. ALL THE GADGETS. The minbie, tinbie, Dr Brownside, newby, teet-tastic bottles. The super-microwave-steam-clean sterilizer. The baby swing, rocking basket, vibrator-pad. The hyper-allergenic memory-foam breastfeeding pillow. The 4-in-1 breast pump/bottle warmer/auto-milk-maker. The video monitor, breathing alarm pad, electronic surveillance system. The £900 travel system you need a freaking engineering degree to fold up and down.

Downside is that the batmobile is now a boring Volkswagen estate. Bummer. Upside is that she wears black leggings – a Mum-wardrobe staple – so you won’t have to go clothes shopping!

Supermum

All Mums develop classic Supermum powers in the first weeks of Mumming, including super-hearing – which can never be turned off and sadly means you’re always the one up in the middle of the night with the kids. For the next 18 years.

X-ray vision comes in useful spotting potential hazards and full nappies, and of course you need to be faster than a speeding bullet to get everything (work/life/friends/partner/kids) done.

Depending on your Mum-bod, the lycra may or may not be a good look, but luckily capes are very forgiving.

Spidermum

Mums have the inbuilt spidey-sense that something is wrong, usually triggered by periods of alarming and suspicious quiet.

The ability to ninja-stick to walls and ceilings is also crucial when attempting to leave a finally-sleeping child’s room.

Wonderwomum

Not only is Wonderwoman an omni-linguist speaking multiple languages, but she can also communicate with animals. These skills are unequivocally called into use when interpreting the increasingly enraged gibberish of borderline tantruming toddlers.

She also has the lasso of truth, and can compel anyone to ‘fess up to stuff they’ve done wrong. (I haven’t yet honed this skill, but my own Mother wielded it to devastating effect when I was a teenager. I’m hoping it’s hereditary).

Also, a Wondermum gets to wear a tiara everyday! Win! (Go full Mum Hulk on anyone questioning this fashion choice).

The Invisible Womum

Yes, sometimes Mums are the invisible woman, because they’re Mums first and women second, third or even fourth. You get so caught up in the whole parenting thing, that the ‘you’ which existed before gets a bit lost… and you can’t see her clearly anymore.

It turns out being invisible, especially to yourself, isn’t as much fun as it looks.

Ironmum

The good news is that all Mum’s have a bit of Ironmum in them, too. Yes, some days you might feel like you’re wading through life in a ridiculously heavy metal suit dragging down your every step.

But more importantly, you are able to do so because your heart has literally been removed from your body, supercharged, and inserted back inside. Its light is blindingly powerful.

That pulsing beam of love – which sometimes hurts your chest to contain – will illuminate your way through the very darkest days of parenthood. And some days – some days it will shine so bright and fill you so full, your soul will soar. It’s as close to flying as makes no odds.

Hang on in there, supermums.

Remember, with great responsibility comes your greatest power.

 

Mumonthenetheredge

Read more from mumonthenetheredge at facebook.com/mumonthenetheredge or at http://www.mumonthenetheredge.wordpress.com

A long time ago, a group of people were not considered to be as competent, clever or as important as other people.

They could not be trusted to do big jobs, own property, manage finances or make big decisions.

Their bodies were shameful and they were prone to wickedness and disordered thoughts.

Anyone else feel like this about literacy?

Nearly a year down at school and the reading is not getting any better, or any easier. We are still decoding c-a-t. And c-a-b. And fucking N-a-n. #literacywoes #readingsucks #thisiswhyimnotateacher #fuckoffNan#andtakeyourcabwithyou

About every three weeks or so, I decide that it’s high time to sort my life out.

This is almost always a mistake.

This time though, I decided it was going to be different.

This time, I was going to start with my boobs.

Yep, this week it suddenly became clear to me that it is in fact my underwear holding me back from undefined but probably GREAT THINGS. (Not, you know, my chronic exhaustion, crushing sense of inadequacy, borderline personality disorder or general incompetence. No no).

What’s more, it could well be my undergarments jinxing the whole of 2016.

I mean, who really knows? My lingerie rut may have been responsible for numerous untimely celebrity deaths, and the unerring descent of the world into postmodern fascism. (Frankly it seems as likely an explanation as anything else I’ve read, usually involving the socio-economic disenfranchisement of the middle/working/lower classes, climate change, or the second coming).

If you’ve not heard of it before it’s called the butterfly effect. The idea is that the smallest of flutters can cause catastrophic ripples in, er, the space time continuum. Or something. And believe me, we’re not talking about delicate fluttering here. We’re talking pendulous swinging. Those are some pretty big ripples. (With an ‘r,’ with an ‘r’).

Anyhoo, all I really know is that I’ve been stuck for some time now in the nork-limbo of not wanting to buy more nursing bras because nursing was pretty much over, and clinging to the comfort of both my breastfeeding days and my buttery soft, flexible cups.

Those soft cups are now so old and so soft they’ve lost any questionable buoyancy or support they might once have had. To be honest, mere material was always fighting a losing battle against gravity, but the sag has been so gradual that I only really noticed it when I had to hoik my tits out of the way to button up my trousers. (I really, really wish that was an exaggeration. Dadonthenetheredge is a lucky man indeed).

The epiphany hit.

And I knew I had let both my standards and my chest slip too far.

So for the good of my boobs, my life in general and very probably the world at large, I hit M&S in my lunch hour on Monday. I tried on a million REAL bras, with actual structure and bone fide UNDERWIRING.

All of which looked shit.

Basically I have no idea what size I am, or what style now suits my post-baby bosoms, and I am far too old, tired and unshaven to face the social awkwardness of having another grown woman lose and then attempt to retrieve her tape measure from the uncharted depths of my considerable overhang.

I used to be a balconette woman, because I like(d) things up front and central. For some reason the tops of my boobs are now kind of empty, so this style now looks like I’m smuggling two collapsing souffles. Everything else was variously puffy, bulgy, wonky, inexplicably empty, gave me torpedo tits, or dangerously unstable mashed potato cleavage – the lumpy kind.  

Undeterred, and buoyed by the novel sight of my midsection, I picked the least hideous of my options, and congratulated myself on my success – and the inevitable personal and global successes that would follow in due course.  

Obviously, I avoided actually WEARING the new bra for a few days, and I therefore blame myself for the massive tit that is Nigel Farage ingratiating himself further with the White House. My bad.

(In my defence, I’m afraid neglecting the bra was too easy to do when my morning routine involves throwing a questionably clean top on over bobbly leggings, dragging my hair into a mum-bun and shouting at my children to get dressed, eat breakfast, find their fucking shoes and stop trying to wind each other up).

Anyway, later in the week I had a big meeting. So I decided, in my wisdom, to man up – or at least mammary up – venture into real underwear, and power dress my boobs for the occasion.

By about 10am this decision had sparked many, many questions. Amongst them, the following:

• Why why why IN GOD’S NAME would women do this to themselves?

• Who invented this device? Take me to them.

• Are my organs going to be permanently damaged, a la Victorian corset wearers?

• Are there actually crescent shaped cuts in the top roll of my stomach?

• Who arbitrarily decided what level/location was socially and aesthetically acceptable for breasts in the first place? Take me to them too, and bring me a large stick.

• How the cock-wombling, sky-blue fucking hell did I used to do this very day?

and

• Can anyone actually see me whimper with every deep breath?

Fortunately I had, at the last moment, baulked at leaving my beloved (and conveniently collapsible) soft cup nursing bra at home, and stuffed it into the bottom of my handbag.

By 11am I had caved.

Four minutes later I returned from the toilets to my desk in blissful, hip level, unfettered glory – and with a bulging handbag. I literally cannot describe the magnitude of my relief to you. It was like the best, longest, most satisfying orgasm of my entire life. Or possibly one of those melty middle chocolate puddings. 

So the thing is, 2016 might actually get even shitter before it is mercifully over in five short weeks, for which I can only apologise. But I simply cannot take one for the team by subjecting myself to personal tit torture for the greater good. I’m no martyr. And neither are my breasts. 

And anyway, it occurs to me now that Trump probably WANTS my boobs to be nice and high and on display, given his proclivities. In fact, now I think about it, it’s probably on his list of planned legislation – right after banning abortions and limiting the procreation of brown people. Official heights and angles will likely be based on Meliana’s vital statistics, and policed personally by slimy elderly white men with shiny eyes and wet lips. Or Trump himself.
So frankly I’m not going to give him the bloody satisfaction.

#Freetheboobs! #Vivelesaggytits! #Downwiththissortofpersonalscaffolding.

That’ll show him.

In another three weeks maybe I’ll try and save/distract myself/the world through some other medium. Possibly feng shui. Or a new skin care regime. Ora new pair of winter ankle boots.

Oooo ankle boots….

Mumonthenetheredge

At the end of a day, I’m often sorry for not being a better mum or a better person. Today, I am sorrier than usual.

So to my two daughters, I’d like to say it. I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that you appear to be growing up in a world that is growing – faster than you can keep up – in hate.

I’m sorry that there are people in the world who think they’re better than you. Or worse, that you are better than others.

I’m sorry that I can’t tell you anymore that the good guys always win.

I’m sorry the stories you love don’t reflect real life. It’s too soon for you to know.

I’m sorry the lessons of morality I’m trying to teach you are not being played out on a global scale.

I’m sorry that the stupid, thoughtless, senseless, selfish and bigoted are in charge of such large swathes of the world.

I’m sorry that it’s now apparently okay for those people to talk about you, tiny women in waiting, as mere possessions. As objects for gratification. Bodies that need controlling and legislating. As pussies to grab at will.

I’m sorry that you’ll have to learn about differences you don’t currently see or understand. About why skin, and accent, and origin seem to matter. And I’m sorry that you will have to fight new challenges and barriers to make, keep and protect the friends who don’t happen to look or sound like you.

I’m sorry that catch phrases and vitriol have trumped – quite literally –  rhetoric and reason.

I’m sorry that lies, conviction, repetition and fear have won out over wisdom, balance and moderation. That black and white – sorry just white – won out over grey. Over brown.

I am sorry that you will see and know, so much sooner than I’d like, injustice that goes way beyond your toast being cut in the wrong shape, or being sent to the naughty step.

I’m sorry that you may not become an adult who has universal, automatic access to high quality education, healthcare or housing.

I’m sorry that you will have limited options – for travel, for work, for living, for friendship – instead of the boundless possibilities you deserve. I’m sorry that you will be ring-fenced in by small mindedness and ugliness.

I am sorry that society is wilfully unraveling the progress, knowledge and burgeoning equity of the last 50 years to return us to a world of segregation, inequality, suspicion and supremacy.

I’m sorry I couldn’t do more to make this a safer, better, kinder place for you.

I’m sorry that it will fall to you to clear up the bloody mess of whatever is left over when this generation finishes it’s self-destruct sequence.

I’m sorry that when you open your eyes tomorrow on your Frozen bedsheets and offensively pink wall, everything might look the same to you. But in reality you are waking up somewhere less tolerant and more dangerous than when you went to sleep.

I’m sorry that while I was guilting over my daily failures of you, I didn’t do more to halt this massive failure, this tidal wave. This betrayal.

I’m sorry I thought it would never ACTUALLY happen.

I’m sorry about my own impotence and lethargy, and that of other middle-of-the road, middle class, I’m okay and I’m a bit busy, ordinary, everyday, okay people. We’ve let you down.

I’m sorry my love for you can’t light up more of the world you’ll have to live in.

I am only NOT sorry that you’re too young for me to have to make this apology in person. Because I need better words, and better ways to help you grow up strong enough to stand up for yourselves, and the others that will need you.

Oh, and I’m sorry that I’ve eaten the last of the chocolate fingers. It’s been that kind of day.

xx

 

Mumonthenetheredge

This week it’s been episode 3 of Season 7 of The Walking Dead. Oh, and Trump is now the leader of the free world and in charge of the big red DO NOT PRESS button. So it seemed like a good time to share my own personal Zombie Plan with you. When the apocalypse comes, be ready.

It’s this weekend, folks! This used to be the ‘good’ clock change, where you got an extra hour in bed. Now it’s the bad, BAAAD clock change, where you get an extra ungodly hour of your children. ;(

And it’s not just the farmers I’ve got a bone to pick with. You. You electronics companies with your fancy-pants auto-updating devices. Stop it. Because unless you also plan to come round and do my microwave, oven and car clocks, not only will I be woken up at 4.30-5am by my offspring for at least a bloody month, but for that same month I will also HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE ACTUAL F*CKING TIME IS.

Oh, and Ceebeebies. DO NOT choose this as the time to f*ck about with your breakfast shows, K? Your programming is already the main means by which I manage the passage of time in a morning, and if this bedrock of our schedule is also messed around with I CANNOT BE HELD RESPONSIBLE FOR MY ACTIONS.

I think that’s everyone on my List for today. Cheers.

#why? #no #hellno #clockchange #parentsvfarmers

 

Mumonthenetheredge