Bad MuthaBlogger

New Year’s Eve. Wayhay! Out with the old, in with the new! Time to celebrate! Party! Rock on!

As you can see, I’m not going out anywhere special. Nowhere to go, and no one to go with. Nora no mates, me. I’d love to dress up and gad about the city, sipping champers in my sparkly Gina’s. But at the same time, there’s no place I’d rather be than here with my little baby bun-buns, all tucked up in bed with my new bamboo pyjamas that mum bought me for Christmas.

It’s the end of the year, and time to reflect over the past 12 months. Time to mull over what went well, and what went wrong. And time to think about all the good things I’d like to bring into my life for 2009.  I don’t usually do New Years Resolutions, but this year I’m going to try a couple for good measure.

2008 was a momentous year. I survived the most horrendous birth story I could possibly imagine, and gave life to an incredible, beautiful, smiling, strong and fabulously healthy baby boy. It has been by far the single most important, life-shattering, mind-altering, spiritually enlightening experiences I have ever been through. Birth and motherhood. The greatest transition of all.

Other highlights of the year…

I started this blog. Finally. After years of procrastinating.

We moved house (again). A total nightmare, trying to pack and move boxes, and then unpack and move more boxes, while tending to an 8 week old baby in a sling. The landlord swindled us out of a HUGE chunk of our deposit, for no good reason other than he’s a money-grabbing bastard, and I was a vulnerable new mama (all I can say is, may 2009 bring him much bad karma and misfortune). We moved into another rental, which is much nicer than the previous one, but unfortunately the landlord is turning into yet another psycho which means we’ll be moving out again in 2009.

My mother had a stroke. My sister had a breakdown. They both moved in with me. And then mum moved out into her own place down the road.

Some bastard killed our family cat, ran her over in cold blood outside our house and left her to die alone on the road. I’m still too upset to write about it.

We went to visit my dad in Las Cruces, New Mexico (bunny’s first flight) to introduce bunny to his one and only grandpa. They found a large, unidentified, fluid-filled hole in dad’s brain. No one knows what to do, so they’ve left it there. Some idiot doctor fucked up dad’s routine eye surgery to remove a cataract, and now he can’t see for shit.

We went back home to England for a month, to stay with the F.O.B. and made the mistake of introducing bunny to his half-brothers and half-sister. Then we drove all the way down to Cornwall to visit our old life where bunny was conceived. It was weird.

I got some new teeth.

The F.O.B. and I started, and ended, mediation. We lasted all of 2 sessions. We got absolutely nowhere in reaching an agreement on child support. He refused to sign the birth certificate, and demanded a paternity test. We had lots of earth-shattering arguments that had no conclusions. We also went shopping a lot, and I’m pleased to say, spent a great deal of his money.  

I got sick. A LOT. Bunny got sick too, but not nearly as much as me.

I ate WAY too much chocolate, and other sugar-filled nasties.

Which brings me to my resolutions, one of which is to stop eating sugar. Or at least cut way down. And exercise more, at least 4 times a week. Drink more water. Try to remember to eat fruits, vegetables, grains and proteins on a daily basis, and not just ryvitas and popcorn. Slow down, breathe and take time to smell the roses. Smile. Laugh. Cry. Write in my journal. Play with bunny every day. Get outside, and appreciate Nature. Go to bed earlier. That’s the gist of it. Quite simple really. I just want to be the best mum I can be to my little bunny. If I look after me, then I can look after him.

What I’d like to bring in for 2009 more or less overlaps with my Christmas list, which sadly Santa didn’t bring me this year…

• My very own house, where I can bang nails in the wall, paint bunny’s room with rainbows and rabbits, scratch the floor moving furniture about, and dig up the garden any way I like without worrying about the landlord pocketing my deposit.
• Another baby, a sibling for bunny to share his life with.
• A good man with all the trimmings, to share my life with.
• Child support agreement (for fuck’s sake, please don’t leave it another year)
• A healthy and honest friendship with the F.O.B.

Most of all, health, happiness and prosperity for me and the bunny, and all those people in my life that I love (all 3 of them) and all of you who read this blog. Happy New Year! See you in 2009!

P.S. Keep that party noise down, and tone down those fireworks so me and bunny can get some sleep.

Today, I don’t want to be me. I’ve been watching myself on this new digital camcorder I got for Christmas. And I don’t like what I see. It’s too painful to watch. I’m cringing with embarassment just thinking about it. Is that really me? God, I hope not. Please let it be someone else.

For a start I’ve got no chin, no jawline to separate my neck from my face. And my lips are practically non-existent.  I want luscious, bee-stung, fat, pouting lips like Angelina’s, not these thin strips of lips that barely cover my teeth. My eyes are much too big and intense, and they look freaky.

I look like a freak. I act like a freak. I think like a freak. Cogito, ergo sum. I must be a freak.

Watching oneself on video is not good for one’s health. Especially if you suffer from low self-esteem, and are bordering on borderline personality disorder, which I think I am.

It’s not just my physical appearance which is freaking me out, it’s the way I behave. My personality. My mannerisms. I look uptight. Like a highly strung, neurotic freak. I can feel my anxiety emanating through the camera. My movements are jerky, my eyes dart around. I’m on super alert, hypervigilant. I laugh WAY too much to be normal. I’m a twittery bird flapping frantically about her nest, trying to escape the prowling cat. I’m a simmering volcano on the edge of eruption. There’s so much pent up energy oozing out of my pores, you could wire me up to the grid, and power up the town.

Let’s face facts: I look like a fucking tweaker, and I haven’t touched speed in almost 20 years.  I need to find a way to SLOW the FUCK down. Some kind of natural, non-addictive, herbal tranquilizer would be a godsend. Something safe for breastfeeding. Or maybe I just need to BREATHE. I swear I can go for hours without breathing. I need to meditate, but I don’t know how to do that with a baby. Last time I tried to meditate, it was a total fucking disaster.

It’s not just the F.O.B. stressing me out, nor the lack of sleep, although those things don’t help. This is me. My natural state of being. I’m a freak. I have to work really hard to be normal. I just hope that bunny doesn’t inherit this stuff from his mama. I think it’s best if I keep that camcorder fixed on him in the future, and stay out of the picture. All this introspective obsessiveness is making me feel quite ill.

It’s 4 days after Christmas, and we’re still ploughing our way through the backlog of pressies. There’s piles of them collecting in the corners of the house, one of them still unopened in its box. All bunny stuff of course. He’s a spoiled little bunny. I’m thinking of hiding a stack of them for his first birthday next March. He won’t know the difference, and I can save a bob or two. Besides, some of these pressies are too grown up for him.   

The bath toys are out of control. We won’t be able to fit any water in the tub with all these plastic floating, squirting, animal shapes and things. We’ll have to get a bigger tub. Luckily we’ve got all these wooden building blocks that came in his super size stocking, so we can build a new house and a new tub to put all these pressie in.

The Radio Flyer cart that Auntie got him is a big hit.  Well done, top present that (except for the self-assembly part, which was a big pain in the backside).

Here’s something we looked at, fell in love with, and didn’t get.

It was $800. I asked the sales assistant “how much for the lion?” and when she told me, I was stunned into silence for a whole minute. Once I got my voice back, I squeaked “do you actually sell any of those?” And sure enough, she looked sharply at me, as if I had suddenly crawled out of a dumpster, and snapped: “Yes. Plenty.”

Celebrities must be buying that shit. That and super-rich Mill Valley Moms, with more money than sense.

I got a Video Recorder for Xmas (along with the F.O.B. diamonds) which I’ve taken a bunch of footage on, but I can’t for the life of me figure out how to edit the clips, nor how to upload movie snippets of the bunny in action.  But hey, just think, I could sell those diamonds and get maybe 3 or 4 of those lions for the nursery. Now that would be worth filming. If only I could figure this camera out…

The F.O.B. has telephoned every day since he left here. Every single day. That’s only 12 days, but still…  it’s driving me bonkers. I don’t want to speak to him every single day. I have nothing to say.

Bunny’s too young to speak with his papa, so that I means I have to speak to him. I don’t want to be rude and tell him to fuck off, because we are oh-so-near to getting a child support agreement (I think). I need to keep an even keel, not lose my rag and blow everything into World War III. There’s too much at stake.

But can someone please tell me, why, oh fucking why, does he keep calling me? It feels weird. Oppressive. Like we’re in a relationship or something, only we’re not. What does he think is going on between us? Here’s a text he sent me on Christmas day: “missing you both horribly, darling, I really don’t want to spend another Christmas apart.”  Er, right. Okaaay. Does he think we’re going to spend the rest of our Christmas days together, as one happy family? Can he really be that delusional? Is he a few sandwiches short of a picnic, or what?

I am utterly fed up with bursting this guy’s balloon. I must have told him a hundred times it’s O.V.E.R. It really is getting very, very tedious.  

I feel like I’m living in the Twilight Zone. Trapped in one of those recurring nightmares, where you keep waking up right back at the beginning of the story again and again and again. Somebody pinch me, for fuck’s sake.

He gave me a diamond necklace for Christmas. He left it under the tree, in a big expensive jewelry bag. Hmm… clearly the proper thing to do would be to return the gift, with a polite thanks, but no thanks, I’m not for sale. On the other hand, in the words of Zsa Zsa Gabor,  I never hated a man enough to give him his diamonds back. And besides, until we get some child support in place, I may need to sell those rocks to pay the rent and put some food on the table.

Christmas Eve…

Look! Look! See! These are all my pressies under this tree!

I know, impressive, huh? It’s just so exciting! I can hardly stand it! Looks like this year, I’ve made out like a bandit! Better go to sleep, so I can get an early start on this heap. Night, night ma, promise I won’t make a peep.

Christmas Day….

 Oh thank god, it’s all still here! Hey, don’t I look cute in my stripey Christmas gear?

 WOW! Look at this doggy that Nana bought me! He’s a truffly, snuffly, soft as fluffy, puppy. My very first own, real puppy doggy woggy.

It’s all a bit much, all this pressie stuff, I’m getting worn out, and I’ve almost had enough. But these little silver spoons, that Grandpa Jack and Karen gave me, are the bees knees of gifts and have made me very happy.

Now it’s off to the beach for a bit of Christmas Cheer, but blimey mum it’s cold! I’m freezing my butt off out here!

It’s the end of the day, and we’ve chomped down a great big feast. I’m not sure about this cracker though, it’s a tough, tasteless beast.

I’ve really had a blast, it’s the best Christmas ever. Thanks mum, I love you, and I’ll remember it forever.

Yesterday I got sick. Again. 

I spent the afternoon and night thrashing about on the bathroom floor with a raging temperature, puking my guts up whilst negotiating simultaneous bouts of explosive diarrhea. All the while with bunny crying and clinging to my feet. A couple of times I actually missed the toilet, but luckily bunny wasn’t in the line of fire.

I kept getting flashbacks to the time when I went back to England a few months ago, and then before that to the incessant vomiting I suffered during labour. In between, my mind would plague me with images of nauseating food, in an attempt to get me to feel even more sick than I already did.

Thankfully, bunny doesn’t seem to be sick. But I’m starting to realise that he is a conduit for viruses. He picks them up from strangers and from sucking everyone else’s toys at playgroup, and then passes the the little blighters straight on to me. Kind of like he did with those fleas.

Yep, those viruses start cheering, and waving their little sub-microscopic, infectious hands in the air when they see me coming, “Yippee! Grubs up guys! Let’s go to town on this one!” I’m the perfect victim, you see. Weak with suffering from F.O.B.-related stress and bunny-related sleep exhaustion. My immune system is worn down to a nub. I’m a prime target for viruses to move in and take over.

In a nutshell, I’m sickmuthablogger. Signing off now to try and get some healing sleep.

I was checking out singlemomseeking’s blog the other day, and saw that Facebook has been pulling photos of mamas breastfeeding their babies, on the grounds that they are “obscene”. Can you believe that? For fuck’s sake.  

It turns out that here in America, a woman breastfeeding her baby is not the most natural thing in the world.  Best keep those milk jugs and babes covered under nursing blankies, ladies or you might offend the general public, or worse still, get a citation for indecent exposure.

You can join the petition against Facebook here.

It’s ridiculous. Really.

——
Update from NY Times January 2nd 2009: Facebook won’t budge on breastfeeding photos

I haven’t heard from the mediator yet, but I did eat A LOT of chocolate, plus I saw my lawyer, so now I feel a bit better, even though nothing’s changed and I’m still stuck in the same shit I was in yesterday.

BUT more importantly, and unbelievably, when I jumped on the scales this morning, I saw to my horror that I’ve gained a whopping 8 lbs in less than 24 hours! How can that be?? Surely I didn’t eat that much choccie? Maybe it’s poop, blocked up in my pipes? Maybe my shit is backed up because I’m in a shit situation. Or maybe, just maybe, this is my “normal” weight, now that the F.O.B.’s gone, and I don’t have any more irritable bowel. I went to the loo a lot while the F.O.B. was here. Stress. It always gets me in the bowels. Nothing like a bit of diarrhea to peel the pounds off.

Okay, that’s enough about shit. I’ve got to eat some supper here soon. Change of subject.

Guess what? The introduction agency I joined a couple of weeks ago telephoned TONIGHT with a MAN I might be interested in! That’s right, a MAN!!! As in a potential DATE!!! OMG it’s so terrifying exciting I can hardly breathe. Here’s what I know about him so far, straight from the agency’s mouth:

His name’s P. and he’s 46, lives about 5 miles away. He has a big, warm smile, brown eyes and brown hair. He’s from Southern California, lived in New York and overseas, has an MBA from Stanford, and in 2001 retired from his CEO position at an equity firm (hmmm…sounds like another fat cat like the F.O.B.) He was married 5 years, divorced in 2004, no children (uh-oh). He’s open to having more children (Oh, that’s OK then). He’s an outdoor guy, likes sports, does yoga, loves music, plays guitar, likes healthy food, fine wine, and enjoys having friends over for dinner. He appreciates the finer things in life, but is not materialistic. He’s politically independent, is a non-practising Catholic (uh-oh, that might be a problem, unless he’s a recovering catholic, and then he might be alright), and he’s interested in developing countries (eh? Not sure what that means - interested in developing them or exploiting them?)

Well, ummm… he sounds alright, I think. I gave the agency the green light, so the next step is for them to give P. my profile, and if he’s interested he calls me up, and hey presto! We have a date!

So now everytime the phone rings, my heart starts hammering, and I can think of as many reasons as you like not to go out with him. He sounds like a ponce. He’s not my type. I’m not his type. He won’t like me. I don’t have any toenails. I’m too dumb. I’m too knackered. I’m too old. The bunny’s too young. I’m too messed up. The F.O.B. won’t like it. I’ve got nothing to wear. Blah, blah, blah.

It’s exhausting having all this shit going round in my head. I need to poop some of it out. Perhaps all this dating stress will bring on a bowel attack to shift those 8 lbs. After all, I can’t go out on a first date looking like a porker, can I?

He’s gone. Thank God. I feel like a tornado just ripped through my life for 2 days, and now I’m left standing stunned amongst the rubble, wondering what the fuck I’m gonna do to clear up. I don’t feel much like blogging tonight. Too tired and drained. The F.O.B. really takes it out of me. All I want to do is eat a LOT of chocolate and go to bed with the bunny snuggled beside me.

I need to toughen up for tomorrow. The F.O.B. called me from the airport to say that the mediator is going to contact me in the morning with some sort of offer. He said that once I agreed to the offer, that we could move forward very fast, and have a legal agreement ratified by the courts within a matter of a few weeks, covering everything from child support to custody. And then he’d sign the birth certificate. After we did the paternity test. I asked him what exactly was in the offer, to which he replied that he’d rather I discussed that with the mediator tomorrow (i.e. he’s a coward).

Since I’ve identified the mediator as the enemy (did I mention that the F.O.B.’s lawyer hired her?) and witnessed the F.O.B.’s fake forensic accounts, I have no hopes of this being a reasonable offer. I need to speak to my lawyer. Bastard that he is, I’d rather deal with him then that spineless mediator.

I got a sinking feeling that I’m about to enter World War III….

This is how today went. Driving over to the mediation session, I ask the F.O.B. if he’s nervous. I’m sweating like a pig, and can hardly swallow, my guts have turned to jelly and I’ve already been to the loo several times.

“No, darling, not at all. We’re going to get all of this sorted out today, and put all this business behind us. Get on with our lives, providing for the bunny in the best possible way” he beams with confidence.

“Really? You think we’ll come away with a child support agreement today?” I’m shocked that he could be so naive, but at the same time I feel a little spark of hope.

“Absolutely! Get the whole thing done and dusted in a jiffy”.

“Fine, just so long as you don’t pull that stunt about not having any income again” I joke, thinking there’s no way he’s going to try that one again. At this point the F.O.B. falls silent, and then a few minutes later he says that he’s suddenly feeling anxious. Stupidly I think it’s because we’re nearing the office, not because of what I just said.

We enter the mediator’s office whereupon the F.O.B. whips out a 3 page summary statement that details his income available for child support. The mediator makes a copy for me, and I don’t even get past the first page. There it is in black and white, signed by a certified Forensic Accountant (whatever the fuck that means). The F.O.B. officially has peanuts for income. I can’t fucking believe my eyes.

I turn to the F.O.B. and seething with rage manage to hiss: “What the fuck is this?! You expect me to believe this bullshit?!”

I don’t even remember what he said after that. It’s all a blur of rage. The mediator was fucking useless. I NEVER want to see her again. We had some kind of heated banter, where I lost my rag, and stomped out of the room, yelling at the F.O.B. that he doesn’t have any paternal rights, that he doesn’t even HAVE a son, and that he can speak to my lawyer.

And then I went out into the lobby and burst into floods of tears, and started typing frantically into my iPhone notepad (couldn’t get on my blog or I would have posted it straight up here)

This is serious bullshit. I’m sitting outside sobbing, and slipping into survivor mode. Gotta keep breathing and I’ll get through this shit. Same way I always have. Just stay calm and stay focused. Breathe. I can do this. I can take care of me and bunny, alone. It will all be OK. My heart is hammering, and I want to scream the house down, but I stay calm. I can do this. I’ll survive. He can’t take bunny away from me. He hasn’t signed the birth certificate. He has no rights. He expects me to sit here and swallow his bullshit, well I won’t do it. He hasn’t changed. Leopards don’t change their spots. I wish I could run away and escape, but I’m stuck. No car. No money. FUCK. I’ve left my wallet and coat in the F.O.B.s car. I’ll have to wait for him here. He’s forcing me into survival strategy. He’s going to dig his own grave. He’ll be the one who suffers, you wait and see. I’ll show him. I’m a survivor, me. I’m made of stronger stuff than he knows, and I’ll win this war. I love bunny and he lives with me, and he can’t take him away from me. I’ll run away somewhere, where he can’t find me, and we’ll make ends meet. We will. I can look after us, without him. We don’t need his bullshit and lies.

I call my sister to come and pick me up, and then the mediator asks me back into the room alone, while the F.O.B. waits outside. As soon as I walk back in I can see that he’s pulled the wool over her eyes. She’s on his side. He’s a master of manipulation, make no mistake. He probably cried while I was out of the room, and pulled his sob story stunt. He’s done that before with my mother, and he even tried it once with me, but I don’t fall for that bullshit. I see straight through his “poor me” strategy. I don’t feel sorry for him at all.

The mediator tells me that if I take this process through the courts I’ll be lucky to get a thing. She tells me my expenses are totally unrealistic, and would not be taken seriously by anyone in their right mind, and then she encourages me to accept his declaration of income, and start negotiating for his “generous” offer to provide support over the next couple of years, while I look for a job. At this point I hate her. She’s the co-conspirator. The enemy. I can’t even make eye contact with her. I mentally shoot bullets at her, purse my lips and glare at the ground, counting the threads on the carpet, feeling like I’m 10 years old again. Powerless and mad as hell.

I stomp out, and my sister picks me up, and I manage to look at the other 2 pages of the F.O.B.s income statement. He has some income reported, but only a fraction of his worth. His alimony payments to his ex-wife are listed at $100K a year. He only lists 2 houses (he actually has 5) both well under-valued at a pittance price. None of his assets are listed. His income from “other” assets, including his Trust Fund is listed as “0″. Hahahahahaha…..it’s all so ridiculous that I’m almost fucking hysterical…

And now it’s nearly 12 hours later, and I feel like I’ve been run over by a high-speed train, my heart and stomach spilled out on the tracks. It’s worse than that, because I’m still alive. My body is a ball of tightly sprung grief and rage, all jagged wires sticking in and out, piercing pain through the deepest parts of my being. I could cry and cry and cry and still not get it all out of my system. It’s a bottomless pit of despair. I can’t do this. Really. I can’t. I don’t know how. I don’t have the strength or the courage or the will to go up against the F.O.B. I can’t challenge him. I can’t face dragging this whole process through the courts. Which means I have to accept his terms, or find a way to survive without him in our lives. Take the bunny away from him. And I don’t know if I can do that either. What a fucking mess.