Bad MuthaBlogger

Bunny has developed an unhealthy fascination with all things electronic.  He’s completely obsessed with my iPhone, ever since I let him play with those toddler apps I downloaded for the flight to England and back. He now thinks the iPhone is his personal everyday toy, and he wants it in his paws at all times.

The regular telephone has also become a highly coveted item. There are several receivers dotted around the house, and I tend to leave them lying all over the shop in true slummy mummy style. Bunny likes to make a beeline for the phone, pressing all the buttons, calling up various people for a chat, and leaving the phone off the hook for God only knows how long. Fortunately, I have an unlimited domestic call rate, but still… it’s a worrisome habit.

His electronic fetish includes anything that has lights or buttons or beeps. The elevator in the mall, the oven, the washing machine, the dishwasher, the stereo, the baby monitor, my camera, the Flip video recorder, light switches, the garage opener, remote controls, and the dashboard of the car. These all hold an insatiable allure for the bun-buns.

Bunny has a particular penchant for my car key fob. He can unlock and lock my car while sitting inside the house a thousand times in less than an hour. He never gets bored nor bothered that the incessant beeping might be causing a wee bit of noise pollution out on the street.

But all this electronic infatuation pales in comparison to the biggest obsession of all: my computer. He can’t take his eyes off it. I can see it on his face: my laptop is the God of electronica. The ultimate desire. The toy of all toys. He wants it more than anything. If I let him, he would stare at the screen forever, and press the keys to make images and sounds until the cows came home.

I’m not into happy about this state of affairs. I’ve tried really hard to keep electronic toys out of the house. There are a few things that go beep and flash, but in the main we have top quality, classical, wooden toys that promote learning through play. I even got rid of the television and DVD player. I don’t want my baby growing up with square eyes and attention deficit disorder. I want to shelter him as long as possible from the damaging effects of mainstream media.

The root of the trouble is, in a nutshell.. me. 

I spend an inordinate amount of time on my computer. It’s ridiculous. I admit it. I’m addicted. I can’t seem to function without being online every day. The computer is always on in the house. Throughout the day I check emails, look up stuff, do shopping and generally nerd on the net. Not for very long, but I do manage to squeeze in an awful lot of online time into the small  in-between spaces of my life while bunny plays nearby. And when bunny sees me on the computer, he wants to “play” with the computer too. He wants in on the action. He wants some of what mama’s got. He wants to know what this thing is that captivates my attention so completely.

I’ve only got myself to blame. Parenting is all about role modeling.

So now I’m going to try a new rule. The computer stays off and hidden as long as bunny is awake and in the room. When he goes to bed, I can log on. When he’s up and about, I log off. God knows it’s got to be good for me too.

I haven’t figured anything out yet. I’m still lost at sea with the F.O.B. My blogging has slid to the wayside, and I’m not sure it will ever recover.

I’m horrendously jet-lagged. Flying to England and back in one week with the bunny in tow, has taken it’s toll on this old mama. I hate flying at the best of times, but now flying has taken on a much deeper level of discomfort. No more kicking back in business class with a glass of bubbly, a good book and a couple of top notch flicks. Flying with a toddler is a whole different kettle of fish. It’s an effing nightmare, peeps.

But back to the F.O.B. We talked. We ate. I slept. (Not together. We had separate rooms). We played with bunny, and visited lots of London parks and fed lots of fat, happy quack-quacks. We went over-the-top shopping at Hamleys, London’s greatest toy shop. Bunny went absolutely beserk in the shop, running around in circles shrieking and pulling everything off shelves. If the F.O.B. hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have lasted five seconds with that kind of shenanigans going on. Shopping with bunny is a hair-raising experience. Enough said.

The weather was fabulous for a change. It almost made me want to move back, until the last day when it turned gray and dreary, bucketed down rain, and took over 2 hours to get from North London to Heathrow in the most insane traffic you’ve ever seen.  And then I remembered all the reasons I don’t want to move back to England. Dark. Depressing. Dirty. Overcrowded. Overpriced. Grumpy people. No thanks.

I was only there for a week, and I don’t think I got onto any kind of solid ground with the F.O.B. during that time. But we did (sort of) build a small bridge of trust between us. More importantly, a relationship budded between him and bunny. There was real love and joy between them. It made my heart sing to witness it.

The bottom line: I want bunny to have his father in his life, and that means somehow I have to find a way to make an amicable relationship between me and the F.O.B.

It’s early days. I feel like I’m only just starting to get to know the F.O.B. He has hidden depths. And truth told, I don’t want to know everything about him. I’m willing to let go of the past. Forgive and forget. Move on. I have to do this for bunny. For his sake, not mine.

What I want above all is to find the place of honesty and integrity between the F.O.B. and me, a place where we can make good and right decisions about bunny’s future, without letting our own baggage get in the way. Together. I’m willing to believe it’s possible. I’m willing to believe leopards can change their spots. Maybe he’s changed. I know I have.

Bunny and I are going to see the F.O.B. tomorrow. It’s been 4 months since we last saw him. Bunny has changed so much in that time. I’ve changed so much. Even though he’s called almost every day, in many ways I feel like we’re going to visit a stranger. Like we’re going to meet our long-lost arranged marriage partner from overseas. It’s weird. 

I don’t know how I feel about seeing him. Of course, I’m excited for Bunny to see him. Just not sure about my own feelings. He wants to have “important discussions” about our future. By which I assume he means he wants us to get married and live in Singapore. I can’t tell if I should go along with his plan because he’s kind and good, and he loves me and his son. I’m so unsure of myself these days. I don’t trust what I feel anymore.

I can’t remember why I was mad at him before. I can’t remember what he did wrong. There  was the little incident of him not telling me the truth about being married already. But he’s divorced now, so didn’t he make up for his mistake? Surely there must have been more water under the bridge than that? I know he’s a dark horse, and I’ll probably never know what really goes on in his head. I’ve called him a slippery eel on more than one occasion. But does it matter? Can I accept him and love him for who he is? Can I forgive and let go of the past, and move on to the future?

I wish that I could figure out this relationship and love stuff. You know, get a grip on what makes a partnership between a man and woman work in the long-term. Whether staying together for a child is the best thing, or the worst thing. Or is there something in between?

I didn’t plan for any of this. I thought I’d meet my soulmate one day, and we’d settle down in our hand built cob house, with some chickens and a couple of cows, and a field full of veggies and fruit trees. After a few years of blissful lovemaking , nest building and heartfelt communication, we’d co-create a couple of wonderful children and spend our days making crafts and cooking goodies together as a team. One big, happy family living in harmony with nature.

The life I’ve created is a long way from that pipe dream. It’s OK, I can let go and accept the different life that I have instead. But I wish that I knew what to do with the F.O.B. situation, one way or another. It’s so confusing, and there’s so much at stake. I want Bunny to have a father. I want us to be good role models for him. I want so badly to do the right thing. And yet I have no role models, no reference points and no guides to tell me what to do and how to do it. Somehow I have to navigate these rocky seas by myself, and hope to find land that is rich and fertile for new growth. And the trouble is, I don’t seem to have my sea legs about me.

I got my first hate comment yesterday. I dithered over whether to publish it or not, and then I thought fuck it. I’m gonna put it right here in the middle of this post and write about it instead. So here goes, Elise whatsername, you got front row seats and your name up in the limelight:

Oh good grief.  Wean your child.  Put him in daycare for a half day or day.  GET A JOB! Instead of living off someone and whining all the time, why don’t take a little responsibility.  Maybe instead of blowing money on vacations (your whole life is a vacation – do you want your son to grow up with your values?), hire someone to help clean your house so you can get your life in order.  Your “poor pitiful me” attitude is stifling – no wonder you are tired.  Go the doctor, get some help.  You have a beautiful little boy, get yourself together for both your sakes.

My whole life is a vacation?? Get a job?? WTF?! For the record, I HAVE a full-time job. It’s called being a single mother.

I know I shouldn’t take this personally, but when a complete stranger stumbles across your blog, reads some of it, and then totally slams you into the ground, without actually knowing your full story, well…. it makes me want to scream and pull my hair out and then crumple into a heap of frustrated, misunderstood tears. That and punch them in the nose.

If I didn’t have an inner critic the size of a mammoth, then this sort of petty shit would slide over me like water off a duck’s back. But you know, I am a sensitive, recovering addict with violent, narcissistic tendencies, and this woman’s comment got right up my nose and under my skin.

And hey, I think it’s OK for me to get shirty since this is my first ever hate comment an’ all. Future hate comments will be censored and deleted without any bad feelings on my part.

In the meantime, oi! Elise whatsername. Get a life. Oh, and do send me a link to your own blog so I can return the favour. An eye for an eye, an’ all that. I would LOVE to tell you how to live your life.

At the risk of sounding like a broken down record… effing hell I’m TIRED. I wasn’t going to bang on about lack of sleep any more, since I’ve flogged that horse to death. But being knackered is the biggest thing happening in my life right now. Complete and total exhaustion. I have nothing else to write about. The only thing running through my head is endless fatigue.

This is serious, peeps. I’m so shattered I can’t tell if I’m in reality or dreaming. I’ve got that trippy, toxic feeling like I’ve been up all night on acid. Or coke. Or speed. My eyes look like two pissholes in the snow. I’ve got deep cracks in my tongue. I yawn about 3 times a minute.

Last night I went to bed after midnight after faffing about trying to clear out yet another box from the bottomless stuffed cupboard. All part of my 6 week spring clean plan, which is bleeding into summer, and bleeding my energy dry, but the good news is I’m making progress, peeps. One box at a time.

Unfortunately, bunny decided to have one of his worst nights ever, waking up every hour writhing around and moaning like he’s on fire. It’s his teethies again. Or maybe its that Indian curry and chapati we ate. Whatever. All I know is I got about 4 hours of heavily interrupted sleep. Which I could probably handle if it was a one-off, but sadly this sort of milarkey has been going on for, oh, nearly 15 months now.

I’ve been thinking about this bloke I know back in the UK, who broke the world sleep deprivation record a couple of years ago. Tony went without sleep for 11 days. I checked him out after a week, to see how he was holding up and to see if he’d turned into a psychotic, slobbering monster. Unbelievably, he could still string a few words together. However, he’d more or less turned into a zombie. He didn’t look too spiffy, and he smelt like caca. I kept a safe distance in case he turned rabid. He had the presence of a dead man, but I had a feeling that he could turn psycho in a moment’s notice.

Tony’s theory is that sleep deprivation unlocks the potential of our brains, and improves our health, immune system and overall sense of wellbeing.

What a load of ol’ bollocks. My brain has never been so addled. My health is crumbling. My immune system is teetering on the edge of collapse. I feel like crapola.

Tony also claims that mystics have been practising sleep deprivation for thousands of years in order to access higher states of consciousness, and commune with the spirit world. Lack of sleep brings you closer to the gods. Hmmm.. now that I can sort of understand, since I do feel like a ghost. I’m not in the land of the living, that’s for sure.

I think this could be the solution to my fate (apart from getting more sleep, which doesn’t seem to be on the cards for the foreseeable future). Not to resist what is happening in my life, but instead to embrace my weariness, and build it into my spiritual parenting practice. Let go and surrender to sleeplessness. Might as well go with the flow, since I have a sinking feeling that this lack of sleep stuff is going to be around for a few years to come.

I went to my “Mother’s-Over-4o” playdate today. Out of all my mother support groups, this one is the most well attended. There are LOADS of first time mamas in their 40s around here.

Lisa (47) was there. The last time I saw her, she had a baby about the same age as bunny. Now she’s 5 months pregnant with twin buns in the oven. She looks fantastic. Slim and trim, radiant and glowing. Up close she definitely has more wrinkles than me, but she carries herself with such confidence and pizzaz, that she could be in her 20s.  Then there’s Wendy (43) who has a 1 year old, and is 4 months pregnant with her 2nd. She looks like she’s in her early 30s.

Renee (46), Deirdre (46), Karen (48) and Rachel (45) all have toddlers the same age as bunny. And there’s at least another 50 or so mamas that I haven’t officially met yet. All of them are older than me. In this group, I’m the spring chicken mama.

For whatever reason (late relationships, second marriages, careers) women are having their babies later on in life. Mamas are definitely getting older.

The average age of 1st time mothers in my town is 40 years old. Last year it was 39 years old. This isn’t a Northern California thing. This is a trend that is emerging across America and the UK. In the last 20 years the number of mothers giving birth over 40 has doubled. No longer an oddity, we are fast becoming the norm. We are in the midst of a mid-life baby boom.

I grew up thinking that 35 was WAY too old to have a baby.  I was expecting to be a grandmother myself by the time I got into my 40s. Yet here I am on the other side of 40 with a 1 year old, and seriously considering having another one. Who knows, maybe I’ll have 2 more, or even 3. According to the statistics, I’ve got plenty of time.

Are you ever too old to have a baby? Will your children grow up ashamed that you look more like their grandparents? Will their needs be unmet, because you’re too arthritic to run around after them? Will they end up having to take care of you instead?

Maybe. But what I know for sure, is that if I’d had a baby in my 20s or early 30s, they would be SERIOUSLY fucked up by now. I couldn’t take care of myself, much less look after a bairn. For me, the decision to have a family later in life, although mostly an unconscious one, is the best decision I ever made. Finally in my 40s I have the ability to raise my child consciously with the care and compassion he deserves. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

My blogging has been falling to the wayside. I’m too knackered to stay up past 8pm and write anything worth a damn on my computer.

I’ve got bloggers block. I was hoping that if I didn’t write anything for a couple of days, I’d feel refreshed and bursting to the brim with fascinating tidbits to blog about. Instead I’m burned out with blotto brain. I could write about the weather, which is a very English thing to do. It’s a lovely day, isn’t it? Mind you, it’s a bit too hot and dry. Still, mustn’t grumble. There. Done that. Now what?

I could blog about the bunny not sleeping, but I think I’ve rammed that one into the ground. It’s an old story that’s done it’s rounds, time to put it to bed once and for all.

Tell you what, I’ll let you know when he DOES sleep. If that day ever comes, it will be an effing miracle.

But back to my block. Did you know there’s zillions of blogs about unblocking bloggers block? I’ve perused as many as my noodle brain can handle at this hour, and it all seems to boil down to the following nugget of wisdom:

Just Start Blogging.

So that’s what I’m going to do. Tomorrow. Blog through the block and come out the other side a better blogger.

I went out tonight to a book talk: Single Woman of a Certain Age. Unmarried females in the prime of their life.

It was a big event for me, going out and doing something for myself. Being out of the house after 8pm without the bunny. No date to impress, but I made a special effort to look nice, as much as I could in the minutes between baby din-dins, bath-time and beddy-byes. You never know who you might bump into.

I slapped on some lipstick, put a short skirt on, and dug out a handbag and wiped the dust off. But then I could only find one of my brown boots at the door, and I ended up having to wear sandals that didn’t match with bare legs. It was only when I arrived and sat down that I noticed I had razor rash on my legs. I looked like a plucked chicken.

Fortunately, women of a certain age don’t give a fuck what they look like, so I crossed my knees, clutched a glass of water and waited anxiously for the talk to begin. It wasn’t a good turn out, only a smattering of middle aged women, and (surprisingly) a few older men who leered at me when I caught their eye.

A striking blond strutted in and sat down in front of me with the confidence of a woman in charge. Obviously a speaker. She turned round and smiled: So what brings you here?

Um… well, I’m a woman of a certain age. I felt clumsy and socially inept. I don’t know who I am anymore without the bun-buns hanging from my hip. I’ve become used to the attention being on him. I’ve lost the art of conversation. I know how to sling together soundbites about baby related stuff,  and I’m really good at cooing and ga-ga-ing. But that’s about it. When it comes to meaningful or interesting dialogue, I’m well out of the loop. Let’s face it, after 7pm my brain is totally creamed. Mashed potatoes.

She smiled, and introduced herself as Wendy Merrill, author of Falling into Manholes: the Memoir of a Bad / Good Girl.

Of course I hadn’t read it. Neither have I read Single Woman of a Certain Age. My latest reads have been ”The Very Hungry Caterpillar” and “Good Night Moon”.

Once Wendy started talking, I realized this was a woman after my own heart. I resonated with every word. She was talking my story. Turns out the reason I felt such an affinity, was that not only was she a woman of a certain age, she was in recovery from everything.

When I was doing my 12 step recovery work back in my 20s, I’d stand up and say: My name is ____ and I’m an addict. It covered all angles. Food, relationships, sex, alcohol, drugs, gambling, shopping. Lock, stock and barrel. You name it, I was addicted to it. Anything to get me high. Anything and everything to fill the void.

Those days are behind me, thank God. I did my recovery work. I am not going to fall down any more manholes.

It reminds me of that poem from the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, Autobiography in Five Chapters:

I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in.
I am lost… I am hopeless.
It isn’t my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I’m in the same place.
But it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in… it’s a habit
My eyes are open
I know where I am
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

I walk down another street.

I’m in Chapter Five. I’m walking down another street where there aren’t any manholes. Yet here I am, a woman of a certain age, still single and in the prime of my life. I can’t help but wonder if this is it. My lot in life. To be left on the shelf, past my expiration date, getting wrinkled and growing old, solo.

Maybe it doesn’t matter. As Edna Ferber wrote in the 1900s: “Being an old maid is like death by drowning, a really delightful sensation after you cease to struggle.” So all I need to do is stop struggling. Let go, and let God as they say in 12 Step speak.

Just when I think the bedtime routine can’t get any worse, bunny goes and adds a new manoeuvre to the mix. I’ve been calling it the Breast Fest Feast Frenzy. It goes something like this.

Bunny grabs a boob, and stuffs the nipple in his mouth. He’s adept with his fingers these days, and can pull out a breast in seconds flat and shove it in his chompers. Meanwhile, as he noshes frantically on one side, his spare hand snakes over to the other boob and quick as a flash he’s inside whatever clothing I might be wearing, and pulling out the other breast, he starts tugging as hard as he can on its nipple.

He stretches, he kneads, he twiddles and he twirls that other boob like there’s no tomorrow. Right when I reach my limits of endurance, he stretches the nipple as far over to his mouth as possible, releases his clamp on the one boob, and BAM! Quick as a flash he’s on the other boob, frantically noshing away, while his other hand, now free, snakes over to the other nipple, and starts up the whole pulling, stretching and twiddling thing again.

He bounces back and forth between breasts for up to an hour at a time. He really goes to town on my tits. It’s a feeding frenzy. My knockers are getting seriously knocked about. My pillows are getting punched. My baps are getting a bashing. I don’t know how much more they can take. They’re changing into unrecognizable shapes. I’m going to have to get a nip and a tuck to restore them to their former glory.

More importantly, will my mammary glands ever fulfill their erotic function again? Or have they had every last bit of sexuality sucked out of them by the bunny-beast?

I really didwant to carry on breast feeding for at least another year, but at this rate, I may have to close the breastraunt down. First of all, breastfeeding in public has become rather a challenge. I don’t really like flashing my boobs when I’m out and about. I prefer to keep them under cover, in the house. But most of all, the pain is unbelievable. Every time an untrimmed fingernail cuts into the edge of my nipple, I want to scream: That’s it! The milky-bar is CLOSED!! Go home bunny, there ain’t nothing for you here!

I haven’t mentioned these antics to anyone. I’m too embarrassed. It’s not the sort of thing you can bring up over a cup of tea, is it? It might not be normal. On the other hand, maybe there’s a load of  mamas out there with breastfeeding toddlers who are having the exact same party on their milk-makers. If so, please let me know, and for godsake if you have a solution give it over before my nipples fall off.

Bunny’s been learning a new trick or two down at the park. In the last few days, he’s learned how to go down the slide by himself. No holding mama’s hand. He’s a big bunny now. Check him out.

Unfortunately, the second time, things didn’t go quite according to plan. He got off to a dodgy start and came a cropper halfway down. I’m sorry to say that I caught the whole thing on film. I keep watching it over and over again, making myself feel wretched. Kind of like the way I always poke my owies instead of letting them heal, if you know what I mean. Bad mummy.

Not quite as bad as the day I dropped the bunny, but the wounds look much worse with several different bloody grazes on the top and side of his head, and face. There was sand on the slide, which grazed him up a good ‘un.

I think this is the start of my worries. He hasn’t even started walking yet. Before you know it, he’ll be falling out of trees and things.