Bad MuthaBlogger

Wed 3 Dec 2008

The Tragedy of Love

Posted by badmuthablogger under Dating, Ex-boyfriends, Men
No Comments

I don’t feel any better after yesterday’s post. I’m not purged. I think I might even feel worse. Those exes are going to have to stay lurking in the dark corners of my past. I don’t care. Let them lurk. I don’t feel like washing any more of my dirty laundry in public. And I don’t want to drag out any more skeletons from my closet. I don’t think it helps to rake over the past. It just opens old wounds.

Best to let sleeping dogs lie.

But for completion’s sake, let me just get one last one off my chest, the one before the F.O.B.. The one that nearly was “The One”, but wasn’t.

His name was Sam. I met him on a wild and windy day, down in the remote, rugged lands of West Penwith, in the heart of Celtic Cornwall. A magical, mystical landscape unchanged for centuries, full of folklore, faith and faeries. I was walking on an ancient coastal footpath that cut right through Sam’s medieval family farm, and as I strolled through, he stepped out of the stone farmhouse to feed the chickens.

He was tall and handsome, with a lean body, the brightest, twinkliest, piercing blue eyes, and perfect white teeth. His skin glowed. He smelt like the earth. He looked like the healthiest, happiest man I had ever seen. I stopped in my tracks to stare. I couldn’t help myself. He smiled cheekily, “Hello there. What’s your name?”

We shook hands, and I noticed how strong and warm his grip was. I told him I had just moved into the local village. He welcomed me into the parish, and then we went our separate ways. If ever there was love at first sight, this was it. All the way home, my heart wouldn’t stop thudding for thinking about him.

He called me that very same night to ask me if I wanted to come over and watch the sunset over the sea, while he fed the cows, and then go out for dinner. I was over the moon. Elated. I could not believe my good fortune. At last, I thought, the Gods have answered my prayers and sent me the man of my dreams.

I rushed over in a daze, and spent the most charming, romantic evening of my entire life. We never made it out to dinner. Instead, after a radiant sunset, we sat in his house simply holding hands and talking by the fire. We didn’t want to break the spell by going out into the outside world and having to interact with other people. We were totally content to float in our little bubble of sparkly, warm, fuzzy happiness.

Everything seemed so utterly, ridiculously perfect. He was as enchanted with me as I was with him. We talked about everything under the sun, and then he walked me home across the moonlit meadows. We courted for 2 months, and kissed, talked, laughed and held hands. We were crazy for each other, we didn’t want to spend a moment apart. But we didn’t actually sleep together for weeks, until we were both sure of each other’s love. Some things are worth waiting for. It was terrribly old-fashioned, but I loved it. He was the quintessential country gentleman. A rare breed, and I had found him.

Our romance was like a fairytale. A storybook romance. Something you dream about, but never believe it can happen to you. But like all good stories, this one had a horrible ending. After all, what’s a good love story, without a little tragedy thrown in?

He told me from the very beginning that he didn’t want to have children. He was widowed, and had made a promise to his late wife that he would never want children. She coudn’t have children, see, so he thought he was doing the right thing by her.

Naively, I thought I would be the one to change his mind. After all, he loved me, didn’t he?

I wanted children more than anything, and a big happy family to grow old with. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t want this dream too. He was a farmer for godsake. They all have big broods. I moved in with him, and set up house, confident that in time he’d change his mind, and we’d go on to have lovely, rosy cheeked, strapping laddies and lassies. It was going to be my happily ever after. At long last.

Only he never did change his mind. He couldn’t break his promise, even though his wife was dead and gone. He was a man of his word. A man of honour. And that was that. The End of the Great Love Story. I strung it out for much longer than I should have, always hoping I’d wake up one day and he’d have changed his mind. Eventually I realised it wasn’t going to happen, no matter what I said or did. Heartbroken, I moved out and moved on.

I still can’t quite believe it. There must be a lesson in there somewhere, but I’m not sure what it is. One thing I learned is that when a man says he doesn’t want to have children, then he doesn’t want to have children. Most men are pretty simple, straightforward creatures. Best to take them on their word, and not stick around waiting for them to change. Or even worse, try to change them.

Eventually, after a period of mourning, I ended up in the arms of the F.O.B., another pear-shaped, love story scenario gone wrong. But at least I’ve got the bunny to show for it, and I wouldn’t change that for the world.

Tue 2 Dec 2008

Purging the Exes

Posted by badmuthablogger under Dating, Ex-boyfriends, Sex
[3] Comments

I’ve got this crazy idea, that if I can purge all my ex-boyfriends out of my head and heart, that I can then start afresh, like a virgin. All squeaky clean, pure and innocent. No trace of cynicism. No taint of past pain. A clean slate for dating.

It could take a while, since God knows I’ve had a few men in my time. And it could also be a very bad idea, and make me feel much worse about my self, given how many fucked up relationships I’ve had, one after the other. But hey ho, I’m willing to give it a go. It might turn out trumps, you never know.

The first boy I fooled around with was Rob Saunders. I was WAY too young. And he was even younger. My cradle snatching started early. Rob was short, spotty, with greasy hair, stubby fingers, and only one testicle. They used to call him “womble” (one ball) at school. He also had the foul mouth and manners of a commoner. Not that I’m super posh or anything like that, but he was definitely beneath me. Low class. A bit of rough. A bovver boy.

I’m not sure what I was doing messing about with his sort, but clearly I was going through some kind of early teenage rebellion. My mother would have had a cow if she knew what I was up to back then.

I only went out with Rob for a few weeks. I didn’t even fancy him. He was an early, unpleasant experiment with the opposite sex. Rob was desperate to have sex with me, and somehow he managed to convince me that everyone else was doing it, and that I’d be the ridicule of the whole school if I didn’t get my knickers off with him. Sigh. Peer pressure. Ain’t it great?

At first I resisted, but everytime we snogged he tried it on, and after a few weeks of fending him off, I got fed up, and in the end I thought, so what? Let’s just get on with it, shall we? But we were too young to buy condoms. That was the end of that, I thought. Thank God. Then one day Rob had this really great idea that we could use a food bag. Yes, that’s right. A FOOD BAG. A little plastic baggy that you wrap your sandwiches in.

He tied that baggy around his tiny, underdeveloped penis and climbed on top of me and thrust away like a rabid dog on heat, slobbering all over my neck and face. He never did get it up. But I let him think that he did. I didn’t want to tell him the truth, or he’d have been messing around down there for ages, trying to get that plastic bag up my fanny. No thanks. The whole time I was thinking hurry up , for fucks sake, my mum’s gonna be back home in a minute. I felt such disgust and boredom, thinking if this is what sex is about, I want none of it.

I broke up with him the next day, and never spoke to him again. Apparently I broke his heart. I only wish I’d broken his last ball as well.

There, I’ve got one off my chest. Only another bucket load of blokes to go. Not sure if I feel better. Maybe some stones are best left unturned…

Mon 1 Dec 2008

9 Months Old Today!

Posted by badmuthablogger under Birthday, Family, Letters to Bunny
1 Comment

Happy Birthday Bunny!!!

You’re three quarters of a year old today! 9 months old! 277 days! Nearly 40 weeks! That’s as long as you were in the womb. 9 months in, 9 months out. Hasn’t the time flown by? It seems like only yesterday that you were a little, wiggly rabbit worm that nooked into the crook of my arm. Now you’re such a big bunny, and I can hardly pick you up without putting my back out.

I wish I could slow the clock down. It’s all going much to fast for my liking. Before you know it, you’ll be a year old, and I’ll be a year older, and then whoosh, a whole bunch more years will whizz by and I’ll be a little old lady, and you’ll be nooking me under the crook of your arm.

Anyway, enough of that. Here you are, gadding about over at grandma’s new place.

You haven’t started crawling properly yet, but you’ve certainly mastered the commando shuffle. You’ve got that down to a fine art, pulling yourself along the ground with your left elbow, dragging your legs behind you. Grandma says you’ll have withered legs if you don’t start using them soon, but don’t worry about that. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Look, here you are getting up on all fours, exercising your back legs, and getting ready to stand up.

You’ve got more teeth cutting through (6 now) turning you into a mad biting creature, especially at night. But you’re ever such a good natured bunny, you don’t cry or moan about the pain. You just bite. Hard. It hurts your mama, but never you mind sweet-pea. I understand, really I do. I’ll put up with the pain, if it helps you to feel better. Now you’ve got some teeth, it’s time to start looking after them.

You might not want to reach quite that far back, sweetums, since there’s only gums back there and you might make yourself chunder on the bath mat.

Speaking of food, eating solids is still an uphill struggle. So far you like zucchini (or is it courgette?) and you’re absolutely mad for oatcakes. Sometimes you like a bit of sweet potato and the odd raisin. Not exactly a balanced meal. But you seem lively and healthy, so you must be getting all you need from mama’s milk.

I’m pleased to report that baby bath time is now a joyous event. Ever since I bought you that snuggly bath insert thing, and got you some bubbles, you’ve been having a right good time in the tub.

I’m not going to mention bedtime or naps. Other than to say that we’re starting on a sleep schedule this week, before I lose the plot completely and keel over from sleep deprivation. Here’s a taste of your sleeping pattern, from last night.

6.00pm Asleep.
6.20pm Awake - crying.
6.35pm Asleep.
8.40pm Awake - crying.
8.45pm Asleep.
9.45pm Awake - crying.
10pm Asleep.
12pm Awake - crying.
12.10am Asleep.
1.30am Awake - crying.
1.45am Asleep.
2.30am Awake - crying.
2.45am Asleep.
3.00am Awake - crying.
3.15am Asleep.
4.40am Awake - crying.
4.50am Asleep.
5.45am Awake for the day!!!

So you see, bunny, I wasn’t going to mention it, but now that I have let me just gently say that I could do with a few hours on the trot of uninterrupted sleep. A bit more of a lie in, in the morning, like until 7am, would be lovely. I’d be a much happier, bouncier mummy in the daytime if you could see your way to having a bit more shut eye through the night. Daytime naps longer than 30 minutes would be fab too.

Despite your lack of sleep, you really are the happiest little bunny on the block. Laughter and smiles for everyone, all the time. You absolutely love people, all shapes and sizes, and they seem to love you. I can’t tell you how many people come up to me, and tell me how cute, alert, bright-eyed and bushy tailed you are. Everywhere you go you desperately try to catch everyone’s, and anyone’s eye, so that you can smile and smile at them. You’re such a shameless flirt. I have no idea where you get that from…

You’re growing up fast into a delightful, charming, dear little boy. We’re going to have so much fun together in the coming months and years. I’m so glad you’re here with me on this journey through life. Sleep or no sleep, I love you to bits, bun-buns.

Lots of love and birthday kisses,

Mummy xxxxxxxx

Sat 29 Nov 2008

Ouch! Biting bedtime bun-buns

Posted by badmuthablogger under Breastfeeding, Parenting, Teething | Tags: Biting |
[7] Comments

Bunny has turned into a biting monster. He’s got 5 little teeth, razor sharp slithers of enamel, all chomping at the bit, to slice into whatever they can sink their shards into. More often than not, it’s me. And oh my God does it hurt. Not as much as childbirth, mind you. Nothing in my wildest dreams could ever hurt as much as that. But it’s still searing, shooting, hot pain. The kind that makes your eyes water and your eyes pop out of your head.

On more than one occasion the bunny’s actually drawn blood. He’s also ripped a few of my best threads by chomping on my shoulder, in an attempt to get through to the bone. It simply can’t go on. Enough is enough. I have my limits to how much pain I can take.

I know, I know. He’s teething. I can see a 6th little toothie trying to break through his bottom gums, and a couple more on the top deck are about to push through. Poor little mite. I can only begin to imagine how much it must hurt. The desire to chomp down must be insatiable.

I’ve given him various things to chew. Like Sophie the giraffe (or should I say la girafe?) possibly the best teething toy on the market. She’s green too, made from non toxic paint and sustainable rubber. Bunny likes to mash his teeth into Sophie’s long neck and legs, while she squeals her protests. If you have a teething baby, I highly recommend you go out and get yourself a Sophie right now. You won’t regret it.

But mostly, baby bun-buns likes to bite me. My fingers are a favourite, especially the knuckles. He’s also chomped down pretty hard on my nipples whilst breastfeeding, but I think he’s learning this is not such a good idea. No more milkies for biting bunnies. I usually freeze with shock, and then pull bunny away with a firm “no biting“. It seems to be doing the trick. I’ve also tried stuffing bunny into my breast when he bites, so he can’t breathe through his nose, and therefore has to let go of my nipple with his teeth. I know of more than one mother who has weaned their baby once they started biting, but not me. I’m no quitter. We’re going to work our way through this one.

Bedtime has turned into big-time bite-time. I have no idea why. Maybe his teeth hurt more at night? The last few nights he’s been going into a biting frenzy, mashing his gums and white sharpies into anything he comes into contact with - me, the blankie, sheets, pillow, his pyjamas. It’s like being in bed with a piranha.

It’s doing my head in, and I don’t know what to do. So I did an internet search on “biting babies”, and found out (once again) that I am not alone. There are oodles of biting babies out there. The advice seems to be mainly along the lines of weaning your baby, dosing him up with some baby painkillers, giving him a frozen washcloth to chew on, or rubbing ice cubes into his gums.

A surprising large number of people seem to advise biting your baby back. WTF. Can you believe that? What kind of a world is this? What kind of message does that send to your baby? An eye for eye, a tooth for a tooth? I thought we’d moved on from that sort of thing.

Anyway, I’m hoping this baby biting stuff is just a phase. That once those teeth break through (how many teeth does a baby have anyway?) the bunny won’t have any reason to bite his mama, and we can have cuddles and kisses at bedtime instead.

Thu 27 Nov 2008

Reasons to be thankful

Posted by badmuthablogger under Family, Father of the Baby, Gratitude, Single Parenting
[2] Comments

Happy Thanksgiving! Lest you think I’m a thoughtless, thankless bitch (after yesterday’s rant, I wouldn’t blame you) I’m going to write down 5 things that I’m thankful for. After all, today is Thanksgiving and that’s what it’s all about. This post is inspired by Modern Single Mama and the forum at iheartsingleparents.com.

So here goes…I’m thankful for…

Above all, for baby bunny. He is by far the brightest spark in my life, and everytime I look into his big blue-green eyes, my heart melts and I thank the heavens for giving me such a wonderful gift.
The F.O.B. for giving me this child. He might be an S.O.B. at times, but he’s also one half of the bunny.
My mother and sister, for moving out here with me to California, and helping to bring up the bunny.
My father for teaching me a passion for nature, and a love for all things wild and free.
The fabulous food I get to eat every day, like vegan banana blueberry muffins and raw chocolate almond milkshake.

I’m on a roll, now. I could keep going on and on…there are so many things to be grateful for in life. Health. A roof over my head. Fresh, clean, running water. Friendly neighbours. My new teeth. Those fleas that finally buggered off. I might even feel some rays of gratitude shining into the darker and more depressing corners of my life. After all, most clouds do have a silver lining.

Perhaps I’m having a glass is half full day. That would be a turn up for the books. Or maybe I’m somewhere in between, half full and half empty.

I’ll leave you with this quote from Sam Lefkowitz: “When asked if my cup is half-full or half-empty my only response is that I am thankful I have a cup.”

Well said, Sam. My sentiments exactly.

Wed 26 Nov 2008

Thanksgiving’s gone to the dogs

Posted by badmuthablogger under Rant, Thanksgiving
[3] Comments

I’m the kind of person whose glass is half empty. I try to be positive, and look on the bright side of life, but it doesn’t come easy for me. I have to work on it every day, looking for that silver lining and practising my inner smile.

It’s easier now the bunny is here (plus my new teeth help A LOT) but as a rule I don’t feel that thankful for the way the world is, nor for the way that things have panned out in my life.

I think I was given the short straw. It ain’t fair. This world sucks.

Because of my dark demeanour, I find Thanksgiving challenging. First of all, I’m English and I don’t do Thanksgiving. Plus, I don’t eat turkeys. Secondly, I don’t have any friends or family to celebrate with over here. I’m Nora no-mates, me. Thirdly, America has a way of bastardising holidays and turning them into mega-big-bucks, consumerism festivals that frankly, make me sick. If I get another flippin’ holiday catalog in the post, chock full of useless, tacky crap (santa claus napkin rings, for example) my head is going to explode.

Finally, I think Thanksgiving has dubious (if not downright) dodgy roots in the colonial takeover of America and the decimation of the Native Americans, otherwise known as the First Peoples. I doubt whether you’d find many of them celebrating Thanksgiving tomorrow. Here’s a quote from a Native website I found:

For many Indian people, “Thanksgiving” is a time of mourning, of remembering how a gift of generosity was rewarded by theft of land and seed corn, extermination of many from disease and gun, and near total destruction of many more from forced assimilation. As currently celebrated in this country, “Thanksgiving” is a bitter reminder of 500 years of betrayal returned for friendship.

Yep, that’s worth considering as you’re tucking into your gentically modified, factory-farmed turkey tomorrow. Hey, why not say a little prayer of gratitude for the 40 million Thanksgiving turkeys that are killed each year under hideous conditions? And while you’re stuffing your face, why not spare a little thought of thanks for the millions of people who are starving to death around the world?

On that happy note (now that I’ve put a downer on the festivities) I think I’ll blog off.

Tue 25 Nov 2008

No country for sickos

Posted by badmuthablogger under Health
[2] Comments

One of the things I hate about America is the dysfunctional health care system. Health insurance. What a scam. They’ve got you over a barrel in this country. You have to pay through the nose for insurance, or run the risk of being completely scuppered when any kind of medical problem rears its ugly head. It’s all about making huge profits, not saving lives.

It might sound crazy, but I’ve been living here for over a year without any health insurance. And I’d probably carry on for another year, except I know I need to protect myself so I can look after the bunny. And the bunny also needs health insurance. I think I learned a lesson with our birth story, a very good example of just how bad things can get if you don’t have health insurance. But when I first moved here, I couldn’t get medical insurance anyway, because I had the ”pre-existing condition” of being pregnant. Can you believe that bullshit?

Anyway, we ran up a medical bill at the hospital for over $65,000, if you can get your head round that. Fortunately the F.O.B. paid up. Without him, I would be well and truly up shit creek without a paddle. It was struggle to get him to pay (even though it’s shrapnel for the likes of him) but he did the right thing in the end, and bunny and I are very grateful.

About 2 months after I gave birth, I started to panic about health insurance for me and baby, and so I got an independent rep to come over to the house and explain all the options for us. She laid a stack of paperwork on the table, and proceeded to show me a bunch of acronyms, numbers and grids. She blabbered away about HMOs and PPOs and plans and deductibles, and frankly I couldn’t understand a word. My brain was like a bowl of mushy noodles. She was speaking gobbledy gook. It went way over my head, whoooshh! and out the door. She left a pile of paperwork, and I told her we’d get back to her in the next few days.

I stuffed it in a cupboard, and then 6 months later, I finally got around to digging it out in a desperate attempt to make head or tail out of it all. Is it just me, or do they deliberately make it impossible for normal people to understand this stuff? I’m sure it’s a strategy for keeping a bunch of reps in business. Keep the punters in the dark, so they can squeeze even more money out of us mugs. Fortunately the rep had circled her recommendations, so I went with her choice of Blue Shield, and then dutifully went online and filled in the forms.

But OMG, was it painful. Those forms are ridiculous. I got stumped in a couple of places, like on the question: ”is there a person between the age of 20 and 45 in the household menstruating”. Is that some kind of trick question? Since I’m nursing, I said “No” which apparently was the wrong answer and raised a red flag. Two days later Blue Shield call me up, and ask ten tons of questions about my menstruation, like it was some kind of illness.

And then they wanted to know ALL about my birth, and if I’d seen any medical practitioners in the last 8 months. Of course, I lied. What else could I do? If I told them about the slew of people I’d seen in the quest to heal from severe sciatica, not to mention the numerous sessions with the post-natal depression therapist, they’d never give me insurance.

Then Blue Shield called me about the bunny’s application. Apparently I’d filled some of that in wrong too, and then they got suspicious about everything else. I had to bluff my way through the hospital birth fiasco. Left out the fact that he was in intensive care for 5 days, had 2 fractures in his skull, intra-cranial hemorrhaging, with the possibility of brain damage and seizures. Didn’t let them know we’d spent a small fortune on follow up care with a cranio-sacral osteopath. Best to keep some things under your hat.

The upshot of all this hard work, is that the bunny has health insurance but I don’t. I’ve got this sneaking suspicion that they’re checking out my background, to try and catch me out. I saw that film Sicko, I know the score. There are people this very minute sitting in Blue Shield offices, looking through vast medical databases for pre-existing conditions, just so they can turn me down on my insurance app, and rack up the fees. It’s almost enough to make me move back to Blighty.

Mon 24 Nov 2008

Dating Procrastination

Posted by badmuthablogger under Dating, Find a Husband
[9] Comments

I’ve got it bad. An insurmountable mental block. In theory, I really want to get out there and start dating again. I want to find me a decent man to share good and bad times with. A loving, supportive, fun and sexy partner. A daddy for my little boy. The chance to have another baby. To live happily ever after. That’s the theory, anyway.

The reality is I’m scared shitless. I don’t know how to date. I’ve never done that before. I’ve just hooked up with guys and slept with them. Sometimes drifted into living together, sometimes drifted into marrying them, but never got to actually know them. And I never let them in enough to actually get to know me. I don’t know how to do that. I wasn’t given those skills.

I used to know how to pick guys up. I was a shameless, flirtatious hussy. More often than not, guys picked me up. Even if they were creepy, it was still flattering. But since having the baby, no guy even looks at me twice. Or if they do, they’re married and only interested in checking out my son, because he’s such a cutie.

I don’t think I can remember how to flirt. Or how to dress up so I look like a sexy, attractive woman and not just a tired, worn out mama. All my bras are stretched thin and covered in milk stains. I haven’t got the energy to go out and buy sexy lingerie, and anyway, it’s not practical. And neither are heels. If and when I go out on a date, I’m gonna have to be in flats with my old, comfy full-size knickers on. Otherwise I’m not going to feel comfortable. I’ll be too busy trying to balance whilst pulling my knickers out of my bum crack.

There’s so much more to think of before I can start dating, and I don’t know if I can be bothered. Shaving my legs, sorting out the bush below, getting rid of my gray hairs, plucking my eyebrows and other unsightly hairs, keeping my nails trim and polished, and generally making sure my clothes are pressed and clean, and my face made up naturally, so I look fresh and young, and not at all like mutton dressed as lamb.

And what’s it all for, anyway? What’s the point? Who in their right mind would want to fall in love with someone like me? I’m too messed up. Too complicated. Damaged goods. High maintenance. One of my more recent ex-boyfriends actually broke up with me because he said my eyes were too intense. That says it all. The eyes being the window to the soul. Clearly, no man in his right mind would want to date me. I’ve got demon eyes. I’m too much of a handful. And what man is going to take the bunny on aswell, cuz he has intense eyes too. We’re dating doomed, before we even started.

See? This is what happens when I get scared. My inner critic has a field day. He comes out in full force and smashes me into the ground. He can think of a zillion reasons not to put myself out into the dating pool.

Somehow I have to find a way to crush that critic back into his box. He’s like a wild animal that senses my fear and springs his attack. What I need to do is pull myself up to my full height, look him straight in the eye, and force him to slink back into the shadows where he belongs. Face the fear, and make myself step out into the dating game. It’s like Eleanor Roosevelt once said:

You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. The danger lies in refusing to face the fear, in not daring to come to grips with it. You must do the thing you think you cannot do.

So next week, I’m going to try and do it. Go out on a date. Or at least try to put myself out there a bit. Take a few more steps in the right direction. Honestly. I am. I will. You watch me. After Thanksgiving is all over. No point starting anything before the holidays…

Sun 23 Nov 2008

Mitten Strings for God

Posted by badmuthablogger under Book Review, Parenting, Spirituality
1 Comment

Before Baby I used to read like a demon. I devoured books daily. Gobbled them up and scoured the bookstores and libraries for more. I’ve been a book slut most of my life. I have more books than clothes, and that’s saying something.

But all that’s changed now. Since having the bun-buns, I have no time to read at all. I just about manage to read my bills, and sometimes I get to read a couple of blogs.

Yet (God knows how) I’ve somehow managed to find time in the late evening to read an actual printed book. It’s called ”Mitten Strings for God”, and it is a fantastic book. A bit of an odd title, I know, but stick with it and you will find out that this book is a diamond. A real jewel of a find.

It comes highly recommended by my pre-natal therapist, who is an amazing, Goddess and font of all wisdom. Without her support I would have stumbled into the bottomless pit of post-natal depression, for a VERY long time. I may never have come out alive. Thanks to her, I have some tools in my toolkit for staying sane as a parent, and one of those tools is this book.

The subtitle is “Reflections for Mothers in a Hurry”. Not only does the author, Katrina Kenison, write in beautiful poetic prose, but what she writes is even more beautiful. Honest to God, it is one of the most inspiring and uplifting books I have ever read. She writes straight from her heart and soul, and the truth of her words send tingles through my entire being. Here’s what it says on the back cover:

In MITTEN STRINGS FOR GOD, Katrina Kenison shares her own search for a more satisfying balance in her life. The result is a lyrical and tender series of reflections, interwoven with gentle suggestions and advice, that remind us what happens when we slow down and are fully present in our lives. Suddenly there is room for joy and play and intimacy, space for wonder and reverie, and time to awaken to the beauty of the world and discover the sacred in the ordinary. Tranquil in our own hearts and minds, we can offer our children the one thing they need more than anything else: us.

The book is broken down into 29 chapters. It’s a short book and they are short chapters. The perfect size to read at night, just before I fall asleep. Each chapter has a one-word title such as: Surrender, Listening, Grace, Truth, Spirit and Choices. They are full of simple yet profound snippets of advice, and philosophies on being a parent in an increasingly troubled and hectic world. Each page provokes quiet contemplation.

I’ve been reading this book for about 5 months now. I haven’t quite finished it yet. Maybe another month and I’ll be done. And then I’m going to go right back to the beginning and read it all over again.

Fri 21 Nov 2008

Flea festival in my home

Posted by badmuthablogger under Uncategorized
[6] Comments

There’s no easy way to say this. I don’t want to admit it, not even to myself. But I can’t ignore it anymore. The evidence is overwhelming. Peeps, it’s official. HELP!! I HAVE FLEAS!!! HERE! IN MY HOUSE!!! LIVING ON MY BODY AND SUCKING MY BLOOD!!! FEASTING ON MY BUNNY!!! BITING, BLOOD SUCKING, BLIGHTERS!!!

They’re horrible, nasty little buggers. I hate them. I’m a big nature lover, but I gotta draw the line at fleas. The devil’s creatures. Satan’s little helpers. Someone needs to smite them off the face of the earth.

It’s all the fault of that wretched cat breeder we went to visit a few days ago, to try and get my mum a companion cat to keep her company. That cat breeder was a freak. She lived in the middle of nowhere in a tin shack held together with tape and rusty old nails. I’m serious. When we stepped into the dark interior, the whole building rattled, and cats ran in all directions. The stench of cat piss almost bowled us over. We should have left right there and then. It was a very, very bad sign.

There were cats EVERYWHERE. There were NINE cats locked in the bathroom, which was about the size of a matchbox. You couldn’t swing a cat in there. Two of the cats were the spitting image of Bagpuss ”old, saggy cloth cat, baggy, and a bit loose at the seams”. Except they weren’t pink. If you didn’t grow up in England in the 70s you’ll have no idea what I’m on about. You missed out. Bagpuss was top quality, not like the rubbish you get on telly nowadays.

The living room and kitchen had stacks more cats darting about in the shadows, all looking shifty and nervous. Dominating the room was a whacking great big cage full of mewling kittens. It was a mess. Cat hair everywhere, and dark and dank to boot. The sort of place you feel compelled to report to the animal rights protection groups.

Stupidly, I put bunny down on the filthy floor of that flea-infested rat hole, so he could crawl around. What was I thinking? Obviously not thinking at all. I’ve still got new mama’s brain going on. I was too busy looking at tiny, malnourished burmerse kittens for sale. But hey, don’t be fooled by those cute little faces, them there kittens are infested nesting grounds for fleas.

We didn’t buy any kittens. Mum had a bad feeling (spot on, mum, as always) and so we left. And that was that. Until I got home later and tried to put the bunny to bed, only he wouldn’t stay asleep for more than 5 minutes. He kept twitching and jerking about like a jumping bean in the bed. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him. Then I noticed that I was getting these pin pricks in different places on my body, followed by a horrible, persistent itching. It suddenly hit me - we were being attacked by biting bugs in the bed!

I flipped. I freaked. I jumped out of bed, tore off all of my clothes, the bunny’s clothes, the sheets, the mattress cover, anything lying around and bunged it all in the washing machine on a long, hot cycle. Then I jumped in the shower and scrubbed my body down, and finally made a fresh bed on the sofa downstairs and tried to make bunny and me get some sleep.

The next day I hoovered the carpets (eggs, eggs, EGGS!!) and threw a whole other bunch of stuff in the washing machine for good measure. I wasn’t taking any chances with those fleas. I was going to wipe them out. Fleas are the number one enemy.

But guess what? Those fleas are tenacious little fuckers. That was three days ago, and we’re still getting bitten. Me and bunny have red bites all over our bodies. Me worse than him. I think they’re living in my short and curlies. I’m gonna have to shave that pussy. Get a full Brazilian. Break out the lavendar and citronella oil and smother myself in it. I just hope to God I don’t have to shave my head aswell.

I’m not going to get any hot dates at this rate. Bleeding bums and fleas. What a winning combination. Sure to have the men coming back for more.