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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.

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…

1. 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.
2. 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.
3. My mother and sister, for moving out here with me to California, and helping to bring up the bunny.
4. My father for teaching me a passion for nature, and a love for all things wild and free.
5. 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.

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.

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.

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…

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.

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.

It’s happening again. Only this time, I’m not freaking out. By that I mean I haven’t called the doctor yet. I’m staying calm. Mostly. But OMG, it’s horrible! Heart-breaking! Bunny’s little bum is bleeding!! He has a nasty, bright red ring around his poop hole, and blood is oozing out of the pores through his skin. It’s almost like the skin has been taken off with the fine cheese grater. Or like someone took a bit of sandpaper and filed down inside his bum. Poor little nipper, it looks so painfully sore.

I thought about posting a photo here so you could get a visual on what I’m talking about, but then I thought hmmm… maybe not such a good idea. I don’t want to gross you out. Plus some weird sicko might be looking and get a hit out of it. So there’ll be no bloody baby bum shots on my blog, you’ll just have to use your imagination instead.

Until yesterday, bunny hadn’t taken a dump for about 5 days. I wasn’t sure if he was constipated because he didn’t seem to be straining at all, but after the 4th day I knew his poop pipes must be blocked up. I tried sneaking some linseed oil down his throat to get things moving, but he wised up to that trick and most of it ended up on the floor.

Then yesterday, bunny went into a poop frenzy. He must have pooped about 20 times throughout the day. Hard looking poop. Poop bullets. One after the other. He stopped at night, but then started again at 5am this morning. Each poop pellet seemed more and more painful to squeeze out. Bunny’s little face would screw up and turn red, while he grunted and moaned for a LONG time just to squeeze a measly bit of dried-up poo poo out.

Each time I’d have to wipe him down and change his nappies, and then this morning I suddenly saw all this blood welling up and dripping down bunny’s bum cheeks. Oh no! I thought. I’ve wiped all bunny’s skin away by being too rough. What a bad mama!

So here’s the real deal, more scoop on poop. Thanks to my previous experience, I have a handle on what is going on. Bunny is having an allergic reaction to something he’s eaten. He has all the classic signs of a food allergy (minus the rash) – runny nose with clear snot, and phlegmy breathing. It’s something he’s getting either through my breast milk or from the tiny scraps of food I’ve been giving him the last few days. I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t been doing the whole, “one food at a time for 4 days” like a good mama, instead I’ve been feeding bunny any old scraps that he seems interested in. His diet consists of anything that I’m eating, and anything that grandma feeds him when I’m not looking.

Hey, by the way, I saw you grandma, chucking raisins down on the floor yesterday, and watching while bunny scoffed them down like he was some kind of dog or something! Is that the kind of feeding you want to encourage in your grandson??? God only knows what else you do with bunny when I’m not there…

The upshot of all this, is that I haven’t got a clue what bunny might have eaten to cause a red, bleeding bum. Most likely culprits are wheat and yeast, since he’s taken a bit of a liking for bread and pasta. But it could be tomatoes or maybe I ate some dairy by mistake? Who knows? Could have been all kinds of things. I guess it’s back to the ol’ steamed veg and rice for me (yawn) and organic oatcakes for bunny. At least we know where we stand with these old favourites.

What’s interesting is that my own poop is all messed up, and I have a bleeding bum too.  We’re in sync, bunny and me. We got the same problems going on in our poop tubes. Must be herediturdy. It’s a shitty situation, but we’re gonna get to the bottom of it, and sort it out, one turd at a time.

I signed up for weekly Gymboree classes as part of my ongoing efforts to get an interesting, active and fun-filled schedule going for the bunny. We’ve been going over a month now, and I’m starting to think it’s a load of old bollocks. In other words, a complete waste of my money and time. It’s $25 for a 45 minute class. Yep, that is A LOT of dosh. Almost as much of a racket as baby swim class.

We’re in the Gymboree Play & Learn 6 – 10 month class. Maybe it gets better with the older kid sessions. But then again, maybe it doesn’t. And maybe we won’t be around to find out.

Bunny seems to enjoy his Gymboree class. But then again, he enjoys almost anything and everything. He’s a happy chappy. Give him a boob or a set of car keys, and he’s happy as a clam.

So apart from the cash, what’s my problem? Could it be that nauseating (and kinda creepy) Gymbo the Clown who pops up and down, singing songs with “it’s a Gymboree day!” and “time for Gymboree” and ‘Hurray for Gymbo” inserted left, right and centre into every sentence?

Or is it the fact that the teachers don’t seem to know their arse from their elbow? They’re nice enough, I suppose, but none of them seem to be well trained. Let’s face it, they’re kiddos themselves. Most of the activities are poorly put together, with little flow between them. We blow bubbles, sit under flapping parachutes, bounce our babies on our knees, and chase after balls on big mats. But a lot of time is spent twiddling our thumbs waiting for the teacher to “set up” the next “activity”.

It’s the parenting tips and sharing that gets right up my nose. Last week the topic was “childcare, daycare and babysitting for your baby”. There was a Mexican mother in the group, and when it came to her turn, she mumbled something about being Mexican and being with her baby all the time. The Gymboree facilitator looked surprised: “you’re with your baby all the time?” Like, what a novel idea!

I mean, c’mon, get with the program. It’s only us dysfunctional white folks living in our isolated nuclear families that need to get childcare. The Rest Of the World have extended families. Community. I doubt if there’s even a word for daycare in most hispanic cultures. Oh, wait, of course there is. How could I forget? The daycare industry is run by hispanic people in this part of the world. They don’t use daycare facilities, they can’t afford them. They just run them. And for peanut pay, too. God, I love America.

This week, the Gymbo topic was “other children in your life, from family and friends”. Again, there was a Mexican mother in the group (a different one) and she said all her family were in Mexico and she had no friends here. I told her she should come down the local community centre on Mondays and Fridays where there were tons of spanish-speaking mothers (well, technically nannies who had left their children back home so they could come to the States and make enough money to support them. But still, she’d be bound to find a few friends there).

Anyways, the Gymboree teacher shot me a look to kill, like “how dare you mention another facility in this room” and then started singing out the praises of their open play Gymboree, and what a great place it is to meet other mother’s, and blah, blah, blah. An irritating bunch of shameless, self-promotional bullshit, if ever I heard it. We’re only in there for 45 minutes, and there’s nowhere to hang out, have coffee or chat. Not exactly conducive to building community amongst mothers. I’ve made more friends in line at Grilly’s burritos.

Which brings me to my final point. Gymboree sucks because it reeks of commercialism. It’s one big colourful, corporate playroom designed to manipulate your mind to buy into the Gymboree lifestyle. All the toys they use in class are branded and are for sale in the lobby. They sell CDs too, well known tunes that have been bastardised with Gymboree lyrics. They keep giving you Gymbucks to spend in the Gymboree clothes store, and sending you email coupons for their online store, but in order to get the Gymbucks discount you have to spend out even more big bucks. It’s a marketing scam.

Gymboree is all about the money. It’s one big, branding business. Sure, kids have fun but let’s not forget the kids are the consumers. It won’t be long before bunny is clamouring for a Gymbo Clown of his very own, and roping me into Gymboree music and art classes to boot. I’m not feeling the love for Gymboree right now. We’re going to stick to the community centre and the park. It’s more real down there.

I can’t stop worrying about the F.O.B. situation. Maybe because he’s called twice today, plus he sent an email. I didn’t pick up the phone, and I haven’t written back. I don’t know what to say to him. My tongue is tied and my mind a muddle. He always did have that effect on me. I lose who I am when I’m with him.

I know he misses us. I know he wants us back. He wrote this morning: “I am missing you both horribly. I  feel a real physical emptiness inside, miss our boy so very much, I guess I must have bonded with him as Pa. There has to be a solution somewhere. “

He was only here for 4 days. But yeah, I guess I feel some compassion for the guy. It’s hard not to. If he loves bunny even a fraction as much as I do, then it must be breaking his heart to leave him behind. I know I couldn’t leave the bunny for a second. It would kill me.

I like it better when I don’t feel sorry for the F.O.B. I feel more calm and focused when he’s being an untrustworthy, sly and shifty bastard. When he’s being all sweet and needy, then I get clouded inside and twisted with doubts.

So yeah, sure, a solution…but what kind of solution? I don’t have any idea how to navigate the seas of shared single parenting. I don’t know where to begin. Or where to end. Who draws the lines? The boundaries? The roles? What part does he get to play in my son’s life? What decisions does he get to make?

I guess that’s why we’re going to mediation (whenever he next flies back into town) to try and sort some of these ground rules out. It’s not just about the money side of things, although that’s a good start. But there are a whole bucket load of other things that we have to negotiate and agree on, like visitation and custody. I want sole custody, but he wants joint custody. I don’t even really know what these things mean. How the hell are we going to figure it out and come to a friendly agreement?

What if the F.O.B. wants to come over here every month and take bunny away for a few days? What if he wants to take him back to London? Or to anywhere else in the world? Can I stop him? Do his rights count as much as my rights? Who has more say when it comes to bunny’s upbringing?

Is there some kind of instruction “How To” manual for dealing with this shit out there? The Guide to Shared Single Parenting, perhaps?

I can’t help but think that I bolloxed my life up. Dealt myself a few shoddy hands on the relationship front, and now I’ve got myself a right old mess to try and sort out. It’s all so ugly, muddy and complicated. All I want is for my life with bunny to be clean and clear-cut. But I guess I forfeited those rights to that kind of life, when I got involved with the F.O.B.

Now I have to be a good mama and try to make amends with this life, turn my luck around, and make it all come good for the bunny. Or else he’ll grow up as fucked up as me, and make a pig’s ear out of his own life. I can’t live with that.