Hello world!

The huge laptop gently hummed on the double bed, I hunched over it, tapping my fingers on the side thinking of exactly how I will launch myself into the world of word press. Making a blog was easy, I already had one, a blogger google one, but word press seems a lot more professional.

I am a writer, the scribe of our times, the person who sits on by while the world spins along recording ever tweet of a bird ever shift of a shadow. I am the recorder of history, it is me who will tell the future people how we lived, what we ate, what wars we started. I will introduce new ideas, question the status quo, support the free thinkers and rebels that society has shunned.

I am the future. Word press is my medium. You, reader on the other side of the screen, you are my subject matter.

I give permission…

As 2020 trickles to an end. I can’t believe what I have survived.

An international plague, lockdown with 4 children, and a personality shift (growth is what they call it I believe).

It took 4 months of being trapped in the house I had built into a home; for me to realise that it wasn’t enough. I worked so hard on the shiny things, the pretty things, that when I had no option but to look at it I realised that my life was full of glitter. Annoying, shiny, useless glitter.

The people in the home  who I raised and who I loved were shells I never understood. Their requests and cries were cues to action. But now, I had to listen, I saw the frustration behind every wrong spelling, the boredom behind every flick of the channel and the emptiness that also resided in me. We were mannequins in a house of horrors rotating around each other but stuck in our own course, close but not connected.

Now we talk and listen. The sounds of my children’s laughs and cries are not indications of me as a mother but them as a human on this journey they have only just started. I hear them now. I can’t explain why it took me so long to hear. But I got there.

When the world was silenced when time was valued I learnt who I was and who i wasn’t. I’m not an amazing wife nor a perfect mother. I’m a hard working wife and a dedicated mother.

I had fallen into a routine with the spouse. We saw, we talked, we lived. But we had forgotten to be each others. He was meant to be brave, funny, loving and there yet he was careful, quiet, loyal and distant. And I hated that. And him.

I hated who I was with him because I remembered who I was before him. The fun sassy 22 year old who knew what her life was about. Who had dreams. But this 30 year old was dull, submissive and had no direction. And I blamed him.

What I didn’t realise is that I chipped away at myself to mould into what I thought a good wife should be. A domestic woman should be. And in that process I became a version of womanhood that was a lie. A tame housecat wishing she was the tiger of her youth.

But now I see that to make a partnership work both parties have to be present and unapologetically themselves. Be the wife and yourself simultaneously . To sing out loud to ‘bringing sexy back’ whilst washing the dishes. To be domesticated in the most wild and liberating way. Being a carer and nurturer does not make me weak, make me less or make me docile in any way.

I can dream, I have forgotten how but I now give myself permission to do so. I will fly but right now I must float. I will blaze the way even though right now I might just be a wavering flame. 

My future is mine to carve and even though I have offspring and the spouse; I can still live for me. Even if I still hold their hands and help them through their journey my journey is still just as important.

Boulder

The boulder changed

Her body chipped away. 

   ” Why don’t you stop this?!” 

The boulder remained

Piece by piece sliced away

   ” You don’t even look the same!”

The boulder took the pain as 

Scalpels and knives came again and again

   ” It hurts to see you so different!” 

 The weight of words made her bow under dark clouds circling her head.

The boulder saw herself as something lost, half of who she was. 

Moulded to suit the hands of men. 

The boulder now Venus.

Erima Rehan

Her Vs Me

Shiny edges

Polished surfaces
The smooth lines all parallel all crisp.

Each curve the perfect round not too slim not too fat.

The colours all vibrant all glossy.

Her face a picture of beauty, age lines? Not here! Baby weight? Never! Can she cook? Of course better than any restaurant 5* or other wise! Can she clean? Her house is as immaculate as the showrooms in IKEA, just enough signs of living but not too much!

I hang her over my bed, buried under the lids of my eyes. Her smile so wide her eyes watching.

My arm, bruised, broken wrapped at every joint, reaches for her. Nearly there, not quite. My knees scraped knocked and exhausted by the countless falls, the many tumbles. The hard floor pushed against me, pushed heavier than gravity. I still reach. I pine I cry I wail but her face, that could have been mine, is unmoving.

Then I search, around me, above me then within me. Her face still there but my mind is a whirring of cogs of ticks and tocks. Then my arm broken but stronger still, picks up a rock.

Smooth, hard, round but not fat, perfect yet imperfect. And I expel it. All my force all my might all my hopes all my fears. It hits her square in her chest, her perfect form, splinters, cracks then shatters.

Here’s to 30

Been a while…

Nearly 3 years on and baby no. 4 has graced us with his blessings.

Back to being a stay at home mum, back to being a mum. So what changed? Everything. I turned 30 realised my 20s are a black hole; one that disappeared in nappies, tears, babies, finding my feet then falling, then finding my feet again. The demons singing on my shoulders – my own Shakespearean chorus of nay sayers.

But I got to 30. I birthed another child and actually enjoyed it all. (Apart from the birth…that’s a haze of gas and air, another black hole). But I accepted me. I accepted my life and I know it sounds silly but for once I wasn’t chasing an ideal.

There wasn’t a finish line that kept moving, no standard that shifted further away, no bar that just kept on rising. I was free at last. My demons were even silenced, their cold reaching fingers couldn’t penetrate this new flame I ignited in my heart. They try, they always try but for once I can accept that.

Little Lion turned 6, Fairy is 5, Madam is 3 and now I have Lil Egg. They all complete me. they are perfect as they are, I don’t dream for them anymore, I hope. I am not on alert for ‘developmental red flags’ or ‘issues’  because I accept that in their quirks they are them. His lisp or her shyness is an asset not a problem. They are complete. As am I.

So 30 here’s to you not bulldozing me down like 20 did. 30 you seemed a lifetime away but you finally sashay in at a point where the world is going to the shits, but somehow we can do this we can change. For the climate, for the future, for the little people who don’t even know how much their little hands and feet will shape tomorrow. Here’s to a decade of growth, love, adventures and acceptance.

For sale: my voice

Ok the washing machine is done, the cats food is empty and while I’m there might as well find a frozen pizza for lunch…I think there’s one in the deep freezer.

The afternoon rush had begun, Little Fairy was back from nursery, and currently half undressed and tutoring Little Madam (newest addition, who is now nearly 3!) how to build a fort with the pillows…

“Get changed then we can have lunch!” Oh maybe make the husband’s lunch while I’m at it, after the afternoon rush hour dies down I’m going to need a nap.

” How does cheese work?”

“Trees?”

“No!…” She sighs takes a deep breath and Little Madam carefully enunciates “Ch..ee..sse”

Wth do I say to that, do I explain how it’s made? I don’t know exactly myself…

“Cheese doesn’t ‘work’ it’s food…”

“Yes, but how does it work?”

“It’s bought from the shops and we eat it”

“Yes” she says satisfied, my answer has pleased her, a glow of pride radiates through me.

I turn to see Little Fairy omg your still walking around in tights and a vest!

“How do planes fly?”

Are you *#!?#* kidding me?!?

“I’m not sure ask your Papa he will know. Can you please change!”

But she’s gone I turn back to the task at hand…frozen lunch. Mum of the year award.

Ah I need to buy some fruit, they only eat grapes and strawberries now so I guess the apples, bananas and oranges are all for me.

“What’s for lunch?”

“Pizza and waffles.”

“Is there greens?”

Being judged, I feel it…

” I can make some…”

” No I don’t like greens, no peas no carrots”

“But…” I try to be a responsible adult-

“Greens are good for you, they help you to grow…” hands on hips tights still on now the vest is missing…

“So I’ll make some…”

“No I don’t like them it’s yucky.”

Ok deep breaths and just get on with it, she’s made her point.

” I like fish fingers…” Little Madam back at it.

” It’s pizza today…”

“That’s not fair!” She stomps, folds her arms and pouts. She’s angry but she’s so cute I just want to…

“She always gets what she wants…it’s not fair!!” The volume is rising the situation is getting quite perilous!

“I’m making waffles too!”

“Waffles! My favourite!” All anger gone all smiles and hugs. Ok back to business make the pizza, put out washing, feed cats.

“Can you fix my trousers?” Quickly turn them inside out.

“My dolly wants her pony,” run and get it off the shelf where it’s been for an eternity.

“I need to go poo.”
deal with that..

“Can I have cheese?”

“No–” oh she’s gone

“Have you seen my keys?” No check your pockets. Oh he’s gone too.

“Whose house are we going to today?”

“No one’s!”

“Not fair…” Happy place happy place.

“Have you changed?”

“I can’t find my dress!” You just threw it down the stairs!!!

“Mama, I love you” as she plants a big wet kiss on my hand don’t cry she will think you’re upset.

“I said it to mama first, your just a copy baby!” Aww she loves me too

“I am not!” Ok moment disappearing fast!

“I love you guys too” thank god you changed!

“Why is lunch not ready yet? you’re taking a 100 years!”

End the Silence

Silence. 

“You will have to deliver your baby…now” 

“But i’ve just reached 21 weeks will he be ok?” 

SILENCE.

Delivery in all its blood, pain and glory 

“Here’s your baby” 

“Is he alive…” 

SILENCE 

whispers and sympathetic looks. 

So many:

“atleast you know you can have children  ” 

“He’s in heaven now”

“You’re young, just try again”

“Dont wait! Have another straight away”

SILENCE

3 children on.

Birthdays, knowing that there is one more that should be here.

Laughter, knowing that there is one more melodic voice that should be joining in. 

Moving houses, knowing that one pair of little feet will not prance around the new empty space.

Saying that i have 4 not 3 children and being met with SILENCE.

talking about the most terrifying moment of my life and being met with SILENCE. 

Reminding people of my holiday (in which my son left us there) and having the subject change to SILENCE. 

There is too much silence and too much pain. 

Listen, acknowledge and celebrate the life that was, no matter how brief. 

My son was real. He breathed, he kicked. He responded to our voices and to my touch. 

He was smaller than my hand, he had a mop of dark hair. He had a handsome face that i still wished i had touched. I swore he was smiling as the nurse took him away. 

His body was put in the ground on a beautiful green hill in a far off land i am too terrified to visit. 

He was real. 

End the silence. 

#babylossawarenessweek

Date night…with 3 kids

So we are either very brave or very stupid. Depending on the situation i yoyo between the two. My 2 yr old little man, 1.5 yr old little fairy and now a 2 week old little miss (nickname soon to be decided) have bought me to the point of extreme happiness, extreme exhaustion, extreme tears, basically a lot of extremes. Little miss has only just joined the fray but seems to have learnt a trick or two whilst still in the womb.

She realises that nap time is the 2 hours in the day that you do not want to mess with mama. So she drinks and nods off with little to no fuss (touch wood). She also realises when little man and little fairy are screaming the house down it is only polite to join in and contribute to the wonderful sound.

So we, husband and i, decided quite impulsively to have dinner out. The kids had a busy day running in the garden, sometimes without shoes, i had had a busy day of catching up on chores as my brood either rocked in their bouncer or became one with nature by climbing trees or playing with the stored up rain water.

It seemed like a welcome break, no cooking! But as the ridiculous task of getting three under 3s ready to go out started, the true stupidity of it all came to light.

Chasing two of them to get changed while they struggled to comprehend why their holey baby suits and ripped shoes were not ok for outside when they were fine to go to the garden in. Cramming three babies essentials into one baby bag and running through a list of all the things i possibly could need, and praying intensely that no poo explosions occur. Dont even ask about how three baby seats fit in the back of the car. That’s husbands super power i just know it.

Surprisingly the dinner was quite relaxed. Little man and little fairy found another little person with whom they kept playing peek a boo with around the booth. It kept them entertained while the food came and they were sufficiently hungry enough to sit quietly and eat their whole meal!

Little miss had a feed shortly before departing on her longest road trip yet, so she slept, and slept and didnt disturb mama or papa the entire meal!

Husband and i finally got some time to catch up and actually have an adult conversation (shock! horror!). It was a risk that paid off.

Although ive been playing this parent game for a while and am fully aware that just because this time the kids realised that chairs are for sitting and tables are where the food goes, doesnt mean that next time they wont be crawling all over the table while we defend the food to the best of our ability. Just because little miss decided to sleep peacefully this time wont mean that next time she wont sing us all the song of her people.

Its either a brave risk or a stupid one.

16/03/16 17:14

The quiet stretched as high as the sky and yet with each passing minute became more fragile.
Any minute now there would be a soft cry of “mama?” And the charade will begin.

It could go two ways.

1. There will be a lot of face stroking and hugs that squeeze her neck yet fill her with warmth. There would be nursery rhyme requests, all communicated via hand gestures.
The children will wake fully rested require a snack and play happily till the hours of late evening. Untill it’s bedtime.

Or

2. The crying will start that won’t end untill they are in her lap. But the little one will want to be the only one on mama’s lap and will push her brother off. Then he would cry, point and complain. All the time she will try and make gentle shushing noises. Trying to keep them distracted from each other. This will continue whilst they are fed.  They won’t play just whine. Untill bed time.

But she has to continue smiling whether it’s scenario 1 or 2, she has to keep her cool. To always be the source of calmness. To clean up every and all messes, without being annoyed. To discipline but with love. To play without being bored. To acknowledge they are angry, upset or tired without her allowing herself to admit she is angry,  upset and tired.

The charade will begin. But right now there is silence. Right now she can sit and eat her chocolate and not pretend she is anything but a slightly plump, angry woman in her mid twenties enjoying her chocolate a bit too much.

20/01/16 22:20

The rounded woman, in her baggy top and maternity leggings that she should have thrown out a year ago, bit her lip.

The words threatening to spill out and the rage that was itching to be set free, were held back by the strong clench of her teeth on the inside of her mouth. Pretty soon she will be tasting blood.

She patted the nappy rash cream on her child’s bottom as gently she could but he screamed blue murder.

“Bad mother” rang in her ears. She should have stayed home. The disapproving eyes of everybody in the room burned holes in her heart. They were seasoned mothers, women who surely had experienced a few raw bums in their day yet the judgement dripped from their faces. The little boy wiggled on to his legs and was off like a shot ready to play. The sore bottom forgotten.

But they would not forget and she knew it. She heard whispers of:
“can’t even clean nappies how will she raise him?”
The lady is old and is bored, ignore her.
“You should really toilet train him”
Smile, nod, bite harder.
“You could have been more gentle! He was in so much pain”
Control the rage. Happy thoughts!
“You aren’t like your mother she raised you lot so well”
The dam broke.

Tears threatened to spill. She tried to exit the room as quick as she could but her vision began to blur.
“You’re upset?  In our day people always complained but we didn’t cry!”

Next time she would decline any invitation to a party untill the kids had grown and left. Maybe not even then.

???

What kind of mother am I?

It’s one of those days, the kids woke up crying from their nap and haven’t stopped since.
I’ve tried everything. But the crying doesn’t stop.

Then daddy comes home and it’s all smiles and hugs and I wonder what kind of mother am I? 

Dinner should be ready by 8, but the damn potatoes took longer than usual today. So its 8:02 and little man is bawling pointing at the kitchen and I try to explain to a two year old that dinner is not quite ready. All the while tears stream down his face.
What kind of mother am I? 

I woke up today feeling the onslaught of a killer flu. Throat swollen sinuses congested. To find both babies are also under the weather. I just about make it through the day, hiding in the kitchen to get some personal space away from the needy, clingy kids.
What kind of mother am I? 

I finally get them down to sleep, climb into my bed only to hear one of them cough on the baby monitor. My whole body fills with dread. The thought of another disturbed night has my heart racing and I pray harder than ever that they roll over and sleep.
What kind of mother am I?

I type this blog with little fairy on my lap, fever burning her body. While the little man climbs the sofa then the table and is testing the radiators stability. Yet I write. So I can exercise my brain. I write so I can vent. I write so these thoughts don’t drive me mad.
What kind of mother am I?

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