Myths about rear facing car seats...

You don't need a rear-facing car seat. You actually probably don't need a car seat at all.

Here are the number of children that die every year in the UK:

People who say that we should all buy rear facing seats are talking about children up to the age of 4, so that's 4065 deaths a year. Now, how many of them could have been avoided if we all had rear facing seats? I wonder...

Look, another handy graphic! Look at the causes of those deaths:

This handy graph will show you the extent of the problem. 0% of babies die in road traffic accidents. Mmmkay (well most of them have rear facing seats don't they?) and 15% of 1-4 year olds that die per year do so because of 'external factors', which includes road traffic. So of the 3.5 million children in the UK (England and Wales 2011 Office of National Statistics) 4065 of them died, which is 0.116% of them.

What we're looking at is 3.5 (ish) million children, of which 85 died due to 'external circumstances'. That's 0.0024% of children. 

How many of those were road traffic related? well let's have another graphic shall we?

This many. children up to the age of 4 in one year that died in road traffic related accidents constitute  3 deaths a year. THREE. 

Even assuming that all three of those deaths could have been prevented by having a rear facing car seat (which is VERY unlikely) that means that the number of lives a year in the UK that could be saved by everyone having a rear facing car seat is 3. THREE. 

All these people are campaigning to save the lives of 0.0000857% of children under 5 in the UK:

http://www.rearfacing.co.uk/

http://incarsafetycentre.co.uk/category/extended-rear-facing/

http://www.rearfacingtoddlers.com/

https://erfmission.wordpress.com/tag/rear-facing-car-seat/

I could go on but it would take forever to list them all. This stuff comes up on my facebook feed all the time. It's quite a big thing. the campaign...not the issue.

I'm not saying that rear facing car seats aren't safer. They evidently are. (500% safer according to one blog) (I mean, if you plan on having a high speed head-on collision, definitely get one)

I'm not saying that the children whose lives were lost in car accidents aren't a terrible and tragic waste. They obviously are.

I'm just saying that caring THAT much about hassling strangers about what car seat they use, when investing in one is betting on your child being one of the 0.0000857% of children who POSSIBLY could be saved by having a rear facing car seat instead of a forward facing one is totally insane. 

So what should we worry about instead?

Almost all the top preventable causes of death in the UK are linked to low socio-economic status. 

Children die more when they are poor. 

There is worse maternal health, more premature birth, more disease, more accidents and more intentional harm in poor families than there is in rich families. 

The average price of a rear facing car seat in the UK that I could find was well over £200. maybe I was looking in the wrong places. you can get a forward facing car seat for less than £50. 

Maybe if we used that extra money to help children actually at risk, start a toy library, give a donation to a kids club, campaign to stop the closure of the Surestart centres and more extensive funding for good quality childcare, trying to fight for better wages for early years carers so that the profession can attract more competent and well-qualified staff, better provision for family support that isn't punitive, better funding for social services so that they can actually help poor families learn the skills they need to help their children, yknow, not die, instead of just scolding them for not being able to do something they've never been shown how to do (it is nuts when you think about it). 

Maybe then you could make an ACTUAL difference to the number of preventable child deaths in the UK.

Buying your own child a rear-facing child seat is fine, if that's what you want to do then go for it. But please oh please stop telling the world about it, stop telling everyone that they're putting their child at risk by not doing it, stop falling for the fear-mongering hype of ill-disguised advertising campaigns. 

Keep it to yourself, make your choices and let everyone else make theirs.

(I often sound like I'm really intolerant. I'm not, apart from of intolerance...it's the only thing I cannot stand. Like, I'm seriously not saying you should buy or not buy anything in particular, I don't care if you breast feed or wean early or feed your kid sweets all day long. I'm pro choice and pro education. I hate advertising, I hate the culture of fear it creates and I hate people being judgemental of the choices of others because they differ from one's own. Lots of what you see online that looks like it's educational is actually advertising. Look at those websites above promoting the safety of rear facing car seats...see how the people who make them advertise all over their page? They get paid for that you know. A lot of pages about rear facing are both "informative" as well as created by the people who make and sell the car seats. Just, be a bit critical when you're reading. A reliable source is one that has nothing to gain through being believed. Like me. Peace and love people, peace and love.)

Dear Sophie, shut up.

Why would you ignore the cries of someone you love?

I read a post on the Huffington Post this morning that grabbed me so hard I just had to post it.

Sophie: My husband left me alone crying until I threw up

I’m too scared to make a noise next time

He made me sit on the stairs for ages earlier too, because I was joking around.

He just shouted at me to shut up

I’ve tried to open the door. He’s holding it shut.

He came in. Didn’t look at me I tried to hug him he pushed me away and put me in bed.

He must hate me.

I’m scared.

I’m hungry.

I keep waking and calling for him. He must have left.

He left me in my own sick didn’t clean me up. He didn’t hear me be sick so didn’t help me.

I tried to tell him I needed him. I just wanted a cuddle.

Apparently I have sleep issues. That’s what they told my husband. And I need to learn.

I don’t understand why the person I love the most doesn’t want to touch or look at me…

Sophie’s Husband: My heart aches for you when I hear your cries. I don’t hate you but you can’t understand that.

I don’t want to scare you or hurt you.

Sometimes, you’re just too much for one person to take.

For months now, all day and all night, all you have done is cry and you won’t ever tell me why you’re crying. I haven’t sat down and eaten a meal, seen my friends or even managed to drink a hot cup of tea in 6 months now because I leap to attention every moment you seem like you need me. You have spent months biting me until I bleed and yet I continue to let you because people make me feel too ashamed to stop.

You can’t clean up your own vomit, you can’t wipe up your own faeces or urine. You have defecated on me more than once, you have vomited into my mouth. And I have only continued to love you.

I am only one human being. We all need to be shown love, but my relationship with you is all one-way. You take everything I have, emotionally, physically and financially and you offer nothing in return and I do not ask for it.

The only thing I ever really yearn for from the immense list of things I am denied in caring for you 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, is a night of sleep so that I can at least function normally in the daytime.

People come and help me for the odd hour here and there, but as soon as your care is difficult or disgusting, as it so often is, you are handed back to me. I love you and am duty bound to care for you and whatever you do to me I can never stop loving you, but why am I not allowed a limit?

Whenever I complain I am told I am lucky to have a wife at all, so many people don’t have one.

I am told I am selfish for wanting 5 minutes of peace from your constant draining demands on me.

I am told I am a terrible person for reaching the end of my tether with you when I try so hard to make you happy and you, sometimes literally, throw that in my face.

When you cannot communicate to me what you want and I am always left guessing, all day and all night, is it not normal for me to reach a point where I will try anything? 

When you do try to tell me what is wrong, sometimes you don’t know yourself and whatever I try only makes you worse. More often than not I can’t even understand what you’re trying to say at all.

I cry myself to sleep too, I get sick too, no one helps me either.

I read a book, and heard from other carers that maybe I can help you learn in a way that might seem cruel to you.

Yes, perhaps to begin with I was able to be your nurse, your comfort, your chef and provider all hours of the day and night. But after months and months of relentless demands I am desperate.

I wish the world would offer me help and support.

I wish someone would give me a weekend off where I could just have some time to remember who I am.

I wish looking after you hadn’t meant that I had to give up my friends, my job, my clothes, my self-worth, my self-esteem, my self. But it did.

When I hear you cry, every fibre of my being yearns to hold you, to love you, to understand what you want and give it to you. But I can’t do it anymore.

Why do people call me evil, selfish, shameful for being a human?

Why am I judged for every decision I make about your care?

Why is this judgement always so public when I am so vulnerable?

Why does the world believe that the way that I try to cope with this life of constant guessing and giving and thankless generosity is anything to do with them?

Why is there always someone ready to pounce and tell me what I’m doing isn’t good enough?

Sophie, I mean you no harm and I love you immeasurably. I will never divorce you or ask you for anything for the rest of our lives…but please why won’t you just let me sleep?

Why do I even bother to ask, you can’t tell me.

So while I try my best, can everyone else just please f**k off?

I'll leave you with your thoughts.

A short story

Before you start you should know that I actually don't care at all about football. Any football knowledge contained within this story is merely coincidental and is not intended to bear any relation to any real game, living or dead. (I googled for facts)

Also, hi everyone! *waves*

 I am Football

I am a footballer. That isn’t to say that playing football is something I do, what I mean is that this is who I am. Without football, I am nothing. All I am is this beautiful game.

When I was a boy, life was pretty tough. I don’t dwell on it now; the toughness hasn’t left much long-term scarring except some oddities; some quirks and eccentricities. One of these is my victory dance.

My mother was a dancer. She used to dance all the time, and I mean all the time. The only times she stopped dancing were times when she was angry or sad. As time went on I suppose the dancing became more and more rare, but I was gone by then. When I say she danced all the time, part of what I mean is that she did everyday things in a dancy way. She walked as if it were part of a dance; she would reach up to a shelf as if this step had been choreographed for her and rehearsed for weeks. Every movement had precision and grace and for all of her faults that have now left us estranged her dancing remains with me and its traces remain in me. I don’t dance all the time. I seek out dancers to see and watch and I notice and befriend the naturally graceful, but I don’t dance through life like my mother did. What I do though, is dance occasionally. I express my joy through dance. Since childhood I always have and this has not always been understood. In some situations, if I’m in the supermarket and I find my favourite biscuits are on a special deal I’ll have a little spin in the aisle. It makes my kids laugh. I’m glad they see the beautiful parts of the dancing, a link to their grandmother that they won’t ever know. I dance when I have a success, I dance when I want to show love to someone. Those who know me well love my dancing. A little jig to say “I love this” or “I love you” and without the mundanity of language I can say so much in a step or two, in a turn or a jump, a wiggle or a gesture. Yes, those who know me love my dancing. I call this quirk my ‘victory dance’ – where there’s a win, there’s a wiggle. That’s my motto. Not everyone feels the same way about my dancing. I struggle to understand these people.

I’ve been a professional footballer for 9 years. I was unspeakably lucky that the first team I was ever signed to was one of the top teams in the world. It was a futsal team. Maybe you don’t know about futsal, lots of people don’t.

Futsal comes from a Spanish word, it basically means “room football”. It’s much the same as regular football, still governed by the FA and the rules are basically the same. It’s different in that it’s played inside and the ball is a bit smaller, less bouncy, it has to be because we play on a hard surface. Lots of futsal players transfer out to regular football. Generally football players don’t take us too seriously because they think what we do is much easier than what they do. Generally these are the players who’ve never tried it.

The fans were so loyal; really they were the best thing about the team. Their loyalty helped us play – they were patient when we were learning new tactics and trying things out. Sometimes the new formations worked perfectly and they celebrated with us. Sometimes they didn’t work at all and they didn’t complain or waiver in their support, they saw what we were trying to do and trusted that we would work on it.  Whenever I scored a goal or made a great pass, I couldn’t help myself but have a little victory dance. This wasn’t conscious you understand, this is just what I do. The fans loved it, some of them danced back at me. They understood that the dance was a dance of joy for them, they were the reason I wanted to play and wanted to play well. When they danced with me I felt safe, appreciated, loved.

I am football. This game is my beating heart. Those were some of the best days of my life.

Then after 6 seasons, our manager and coach retired from the game. It’s always a sad time when someone leaves a team, we’d had transfers of course and it had almost always been fine. But this was different. We didn’t know what we were going to get and some of the guys were terrified. Much as I understood their fear, I didn’t feel it. I don’t get scared by this sort of thing because I’ve seen over the years how changes you aren’t sure of can turn out to be incredible. A few of us felt the same way: Bring it on.

The new manager was very different; everything about the man was different. It was pretty clear from the start that his loyalty wasn’t with the fans, it was with the FA. That’s ok of course; we do all work for them when you look at it in that way. But I can’t share that mentality because if I’m not doing this for the fans then I don’t much see the point in doing it. They call it the beautiful game, it’s the ones there to see the beauty that I play for, this just seems obvious to me.

The FA make the rules, sometimes it seems like they dictate to us at the bottom of the pile what beauty is and what the game is and what the fans need. It’s ok, you have to do what you have to do, actually they do often have a point and we get a lot of new ideas from their guidelines and things. One thing though, they don’t like the victory dance.

A lot of the time the things that come down from the FA are things we already know and already do. Like I said, we’re one of the best teams in the country. We still have to go to the meetings and listen to the speeches and we don’t mind that. But we do it understanding that these things need to be said, it isn’t necessarily directed as us.

Then my wife had a baby, it was an amazing time of course, but I had to take a season off the team. It was all ok, all by the book. It isn’t that uncommon. While I was away, the manager found this new boy, he was there on a temporary transfer from a different team actually, covering for one of the others who had an injury.

When I got back to training full time again, the new guy had been signed. A full time paid up extra sub was a bit of a weird idea. But I really liked him and he had some decent skills so I could see why they wanted him around. I didn’t know the new manager too well so I figured he knew what he was about and left it.

That was a mistake.

The day I got back to training, that very day, the manager called me in and said he was reviewing all contracts. We had a funding issue and too many players and someone had to go. I’ll cut a long and painful story short and tell you what you’ve probably guessed, it was me. I had to transfer as quickly as possible, there was no other option.

I am football. This game is my bleeding heart. That was the worst time of my life.

I’ve been playing long enough now that pretty much every team my agent contacted said I could try-out. But team after team turned me down. My transfer fees are pretty high and the newer, less experienced players are easier to mould. I don’t really know the reasons but the rejections really got to me. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t understand.

Then an ex-team-mate who I saw now and then gave me a nod, he knew one of his team were transferring, they were just waiting for the paperwork. They weren’t interested in someone with no experience, they wanted someone with skills. I got a try-out. The other guys at the try-out were good, really good, but they wanted me. Relief and joy and excitement. It was all going to be ok and I could get back to playing soon.

Now this was regular football, field football. Transfers from futsal to football have been made in the past, the ex team mate had done really well. I didn’t go in thinking that it would be exactly the same, of course not. But I hadn’t ever thought it would be so different either.

The ball was bigger, that was the first thing that bothered me. It was ok at first, but when you play all time and train all the time you really feel it in the calves with a bigger ball. The fans were different too. Fickle. They’d boo and hiss at the team they were there to support, they shouted at the ref and the players if they didn’t like (or didn’t understand) what they were doing. It was pretty tough. The game was longer too. A futsal game is 20 minutes each half. It’s fast and furious, it takes precision and speed. Football lasts 45 minutes each half, it takes endurance and stamina. The training sessions are longer too. The FA care much more about the ‘real’ football, and its players. They paid more attention and scrutinised more. The coach had to keep them satisfied, so we had to keep the coach satisfied. The way I saw it I had 2 choices: train tougher, longer, harder. Watch the others and learn how to work with this ball, this surface, these fans, this pitch, this pressure, this endurance, this beautiful game. Or else quit. If this isn’t football and only futsal is football then maybe I should stop. But I’d seen these transfers work and I knew that people loved this game, ‘regular’ football, the same way I had loved futsal, ‘room’ football, my football. That was worth working for so I chose the former.

I came to training early and I left late, I put in all the hours I could. But it all caught up with me. The physical exertion on top of the worry and everything the transfer had cost me all hit me at once and I’ll admit, I failed my team. I was the reason for too many losses. They were right to call me on it. I had to take some time out.

But then, next season, I was back and ready. I was healthier than I had ever been, even at my peak at my old club and my fighting spirit was raring to go. When the season started I threw all I had into being the best I could be. I started early and finished late. I trained at weekends. I sacrificed spending time with my daughter, my biggest fan, to spend time with the fans of the club. I signed autographs for hours and tried to figure out what they wanted from me. These were new fans and some were so keen on having a new player. They saw my skills and instantly followed and emulated me. I saw glimpses returning of the passion I had felt before and I was so excited. These small sparks could be fanned into a roaring flame again and it would be worth it if I could work hard enough to get there. And work I did.

But the differences were still challenges and I couldn’t see how to deal with them all. Then over time I realised that the team operated and interacted differently to how I was used to. We were at the bottom of the league with a threat of relegation and it was tough for everyone. Every game mattered and every point counted. The captain, the coach and the manager all worked together but it seemed like it was them vs the rest of us sometimes. If someone thought I’d made a bad pass or missed a goal I could have made, they didn’t come to me. No one said a word. I noticed, of course, and I was working on it. But no one saw that. I could have explained if they’d asked, but no one really spoke to me. I knew someone had noticed my mistakes, but never who. I only found out from the captain and all the voices were never matched up to the faces. So when I needed some advice I couldn’t tell where to turn. If I asked a teammate for a tip, there was a chance they’d go to the captain and tell them there were things I wasn’t good at. It was pretty scary. But as I’ve said, I don’t do this for the captain, or for the coach or the manager. I don’t play for my team. I play for the fans.

I saw other people make mistakes; I saw it all the time. But I never said anything. Sometimes I tried to share ideas hidden in changing room banter, but I never felt brave enough to really offer to help anyone. I couldn’t tell the captain about the mistakes people made, sometimes it was the captain but I learned pretty quick not to mention it. Some of the skills I had from my futsal days would have really helped a lot of the players, but no one noticed and used me for those. I coached a local team once a week and I taught them all I knew. They loved it and one day they are going to be amazing footballers. They also loved my victory dance.

The new fans were pretty split on the victory dance; some of them loved it and even started dancing back at me. That was awesome. Plenty didn’t like it and some even wrote letters to say so. Not to me though, obviously. I wouldn’t even find out about these until later. That wasn’t how things worked here.

One girl, she was a big fan. She loved my victory dance and she saw the things I was good at that other people didn’t see. She met me one time after a game and said she was thinking of coaching her son’s team. We met a few times then, over a month or so, I showed her the ropes and warm-ups to do. I told her the best ways to keep the kids focused, we worked really well together and it was nice to put some time into the fans. Even if it did mean I trained a little less that month and saw my own kid a little less too. Once she got going I went to her first training session with the ‘Little Blues’ and it was great! I talked it through with her and even wrote to her son’s school to say how great she was. But then, I had to get back to my training. I saw her around sometimes but I guess that wasn’t enough for her. She started spreading rumours and not turning up to games as much as she used to. That was ok, a little disappointing but I figured that was her baggage not mine. But then suddenly she was gone. I never saw her again.

I was still training hard, like sixty hours a week hard. Some things I was getting better at and some things I wasn’t. I was being played in midfield most games when I was more useful as a striker. I spent a lot of time working on finding new ways to train to fix what wasn’t being fixed and picking on every part of my game that I thought I could do better. I was training with everyone else, but I had so many questions to ask, I wanted so much advice, I often went to the captain for help. I arranged to call in to the coach too, I had run some techniques past him in training and he’d seemed ok with them, but the time I was putting in was starting to affect my performance so I knew I needed better guidance. I could have lied and covered up my mistakes, I could have deflected the coach’s attention by pointing out the mistakes other people made but, well, it isn’t in my nature. I set up a meeting with the coach but I hadn’t arranged a time yet. Turned out I never would.

Next thing you know the coach calls me in for a meeting. I’m not playing well enough, I haven’t scored enough goals this season, I’m not controlling the ball. We’ll see the manager, but this isn’t good enough. I might be sacked, then I’ll never play again.

If I had to transfer again it would be even tougher, people had seen my game deteriorate as I tried to train through the change in skills from futsal to football and it was too early to say I was a great footballer and to start all over again at another new club. If I even got a try-out I’d be surprised if I’d be signed. It’s a small world, football.

I’m shocked, scared and confused. I’ve worked so hard, I can’t understand what’s happened. I worked to be the best player I can be and I wasn’t anywhere near finished yet! If the coach had told me I wasn’t working on the right things or I wasn’t working in the right ways or if…or if…or if…

What makes a good player? I thought I was worth waiting for. I put in the hours and picked up my flaws, I hid nothing and exposed no one. I was willing to do more or do different, I presented myself as a dry sponge to water. Ready potential. I cannot understand.

What makes a good team? I thought I was helping others by helping myself. I asked every question and examined every critique, I asked for very little and gave all I had. I thought the team, the captain, the coach, the manager, the FA were all parts of the same whole. I thought we were all here for the same purpose. As I danced, they only watched in silence until the day they could ensure no one would see me dance again. I cannot understand.

Who do I play for? I thought I played for the fans. I sign their shirts and relish their cheers. I gave myself over to their passions with all that I had and all that I am. I heard them boo and hiss with sadness and self-deprecation, not with anger or fear of rejection. I was never shown the letters they sent until it was too late to reply. I cannot understand.

The coach, he loves stories and the manager, well he loves football. So I wrote them a story about football. Because maybe then they can understand me the way that I wish I could understand them.

I am football. This game is my broken heart. I am a footballer. That isn’t to say that playing football is something I do, what I mean is that this is who I am. Without football, I am nothing. All I am is this beautiful game.

What The "No Make-up Selfie" shouts at me

Hello reader types! 

Just a short bit o'bloggage from me today. I should list. Everyone likes lists.

1. I'm feeling a LOT better of late. I've done loads to stop being so depressed and now having found medication that works for me and an excellent counsellor I am positively beaming with good mental health. Most days.

2. Nothing much has gone on since I've been ill, apart from that I was really ill and now I'm almost better.

3. This whole "no makeup selfie" trend going around got me thinking.

4. No one I know has taken part in the "cock in a sock" thing. I am very grateful for that.

So, no make up eh? 

Has your twitter feed been filled with photos of women without makeup on? Has your facebook revealed the face beneath the slap of women you thought you knew? Have you yourself indeed bared your soul...I mean face...to the world of the internet without its usual four inches of slap and finely honed minimalisation of your flaws and extremising of your best facial features? (yeah, that's a word)

It's been a big deal the last few days on social media. There have of course been several commentators rightly noting that taking a photo of yourself without makeup and sharing it online will IN NO WAY help to research cancer treatments. However, Cancer Research UK has actually seen a huge spike in their donations (possibly from people donating in protest of the futility of the selfies, so they are basically working even if they didn't do the work they were saying they would do by actually doing it but by making people do it in outrage at the lack of doing it that they were aiming to do without actually doing) (a lot like Fred Phelps being one of the most useful advocates for awareness of equality issues of LGBT people...well done Fred, sorry you're dead...)

This is me with no makeup...

Actually, since I basically never wear makeup this is pretty much just a picture of me. It's me without my glasses? 

Maybe that doesn't count..

I've decided that does count.

So. Ready for another list?

Let's have letters this time.

Points to note about my selfie:

a) I look totally fine without makeup on. (having now replaced my glasses I am confident in this assertion)

b) I have pretty good skin...which is almost certainly down to the fact that I don't put anything on my face apart from water. I went through a teenage phase (which lasted probably about 2 weeks) of putting on makeup every day and taking it off every night. Dutifully using the 'put on makeup in the morning' 'cleanse, tone, moisturise in the evening' routines I had been assured would be beneficial to every aspect of my life by the beauty industry. And my family. And my peers. And my school. And the media. And biscuit adverts. And books. And films. Actually, everyone says this is what you should do. 

Only girls though. Boys in makeup are just weirdos*

c) I do not look like this:

Which is surely what I SHOULD look like without a face full of magical potion, no?

Hmm.

Well,  good for me, you might say. I'm one of the lucky minority who doesn't look like a troggy fuglatron as soon as the paint comes off.

I call bs.

I've seen a whole heap of these makeupless selfies the last few days and I can tell you two very important pieces of information as a result.

i) EVERY SINGLE ONE of the women I have seen participate in this trend look better without makeup on. ALL OF THEM. WITHOUT EXCEPTION. ALL. EVERY. EACH. Seriously, some people who I have never seen without makeup on I have simply never realised were so stunning. But now I know because I have seen. I can't unsee this. It makes me angry.

ii) I really really don't go in for empowering other women by saying that they look wonderful when they actually don't. I'm very blunt and always always honest. If someone had posted a picture that was just incredibly ugly and awful I would be the first one to call them and laugh at them. It sounds cruel but this total lack of tact comes with total sincerity and so long as you're robust enough to take the rough with the smooth it does mean that a compliment from me you can be certain has no secret motivation or kindness of heart behind it. If I say you look hot today, you look hot today. If you looked hideous today, I'd tell you in a heartbeat. (anecdote. I met one of my husband's friends for the first time at her wedding and by way of introduction said "aww you look really beautiful! Of course this does mean that if I ever meet you again I'll think you look like shit") (See, honesty.)

In Conclusion.

Stop wearing makeup. All women right now need to stop wearing all makeup all the time. Who has EVER looked at someone and judged them for an uneven skin tone, for short eyelashes or lip-coloured lips? Who actually thinks that covering your face with overpriced chemical gubbins is good for you? Isn't the whole basis of attractiveness and goodlookingness (yeah, that's a word) about health? I'm pretty sure that to look healthy you should try to BE healthy (says the chocaholic, exercise refusing smoker...oops) and smearing whatever that crap is all over your whole face (your actual FACIAL FACE for crying out loud! That's the front part that everyone will look at!) cannot be a good thing!

I'll admit, I do wear makeup maybe once or twice a month, when I feel like I need to look like I've made an effort. I'll probably continue to begrudgingly do so and I don't actually think that it's a necessary feminist statement to stop wearing all makeup all the time. But I do think that we, as women, need to fight against this dictation by the media that to be beautiful is to be other than ourselves. This notion that women should be obliged every morning to 'put their face on' before they may be presented to the world as an acceptable human being must stop.

Oh God I'm about to sound like *a popular music artist or group*...

You are actually beautiful, just as you are. 

(Unless you're ugly, in which case makeup won't help you and you should just stay indoors.)

*I don't think it's any more or less weird for boys to wear makeup.

Stick Some Nazis on the Giant Phone

Oi that's my depression! Put it down!

I last did a blog in March. It's now November.
In May I was diagnosed with depression - hence the silence.

Depression eh? Well this is bound to be a riot of a blog post.

Yep. It's very cheery.

1. The Stress of it all

In online lists of "the top 10 most stressful things" I'd imagine the key features of 2012-13 would all feature: 

Had a baby, 

Got made redundant, 

Gave up smoking, 

Several job applications rejected, 

Moved house, 

Moved city, 

Started new job, 

Child became possessed by satanic forces.

It's been pretty shitty. 

Plus to top it all off a diagnosis of depression is like a gagging order. At least if you break your leg you can tell people all about how it happened, they share sympathy and open doors for you and the like. 

You'd probably get some 'get well soon' cards from friends, family and colleagues. People wouldn't expect you to do too much. 

Even when you're back on your feet people might legitimately say things like "are you sure you're ready for all this?" or "goodness aren't you doing well to be getting back to things so soon" perhaps even "how are you doing?"

Mental illness yields no such sympathies.

I lost my job, then I couldn't even work my notice because setting foot in the place made me hyperventilate and feel like I was going to die. 

It wasn't the best.

So I was signed off work. 

From work I received no well-wishes, no get well soon card, no one called to see how I was doing, no one text to ask if I was ok. No one popped round to check in on how I was feeling. My boss eventually rang to tell me not to go back and introduced herself on the phone with her first name and surname. Friendly.

I never went back. 

Now I have a new job. And I thought it was going to be a magical solution to all my problems. 

But it wasn't. Which is a bit of a shitter.

2. Wonderful advice

In dealing with the current situation I have had several different threads of advice from different sources. Why don't you play a little game and see if you can sort them into good pieces of advice and stupid pieces of advice:

i) Go and see your GP

ii) Get some rest

iii) Spend some time with the children

iv) Just roll up your sleeves and get on with it

3. What not to say to someone with depression

Apparently the sort of suffering I am currently enduring is totally normal and everyone has it. In fact lots of people are way worse off than me so I don't really have any reason to complain.

If I can't get up in the morning: 

"why don't you just do what I do?" what? Leap out of bed singing "oh what a beautiful morning!" dance to the shower and beam with pride at the full night of sleep and marvellous day ahead?

er...because I have depression and getting up makes me want to die sometimes.

If I can't go to work without having a panic attack:

"why don't you just do what I do?" what? Arrive at work early with a smile on your lips and a song in your heart whistling "heigh ho!" and exchanging "good mornings" with all you pass, ready to face the challenges of the day with an optimism only rivalled by Happy Feelgood McGlad of the Shiny Shiny Good Vibe Crew?

er...because I have depression and going to work makes me want to die sometimes.

If I feel like I can't do my job properly:

"why don't you do what I do?" what? What is it that you do? Please tell me because at the moment I can't do anything because I'm paralysed with fear and anxiety and I don't even need to make the effort to want to die because my body is just going to stop living all on its own.

I have depression.

If I can't function enough to go to work:

"why don't you just do what I do?" what? Accept that everyone in the world hates their job and just get on with it? Decide that I actually CAN function on the basis of a personal motto that I read off a teatowel and can adopt as my own to give me magical inner strength and possibly also the ability to become invisible?

because I have depression. It doesn't work like that. 

I am Mrs Rational. If I could rationalise myself out of depression I really really would. I don't actually need a teatowel to tell me how to do that. But a new mug might be nice, for all those million coffees I need to drink because I can't face eating solid food.

I hope you're getting the point here, I'm aware this is in no way amusing you, but if you know someone with depression - even if YOU ALSO have depression, just don't tell them to be more like you. 

It's not helpful. 

I'd love to be able to do what other people do. I'd love to be able to go to work and do my job. I'd love to be able to shrug off a bad day like we all have to sometimes and simply hope that it'll be better tomorrow. I'd love to be able to look at a massive workload and crack on and get as much as I can done with the acceptance that I'm only human. I'd love to be able to deal with my plans not going how I want them to by just serenely accepting what I cannot change. But I can't. Because I have depression. 

It actually isn't my fault and it actually isn't my choice.

4. What to say to someone with depression - regardless of whether you are being paid to say it.

So now I have a counsellor. She is different to other people because when I say "Apparently I make out that I'm being victimised all the time" she says "well why wouldn't you feel victimised? That seems like a perfectly rational response to the situation" 

And when I say "I'm just so angry about it" she says "It's ok to be angry about it". 

And when I say "I just can't do my job" she says "What do you think needs to change to make you feel like you can do your job?" 

Which is a very different response to "Well I can do my job, why don't you just do what I do?"

I'm aware that she is paid to say these things and trained to know that these are the right things to say. However, we all have friends and family with depression and we all get frustrated at their insistence that everything is awful and the whole world is against them and whatever they do nothing is going to make it better...but instead of saying "why don't you just go for a walk, a walk will make you feel better" or saying "well everyone else has a shit life too you know" or saying "well I hate my life but you don't see me bitching about it all the livelong day" or "it's not that bad, stop moaning all the time it's not all about you" why not try saying "I'm not surprised you feel that way", it's ok to be angry about it", "What do you think is making it so bad?", "What could make it better?",  "Do you want a cup of tea?"

My husband was training to be a counsellor. But he's very strict that he doesn't do counselling on me, he's just my best friend. He makes a lot of tea.

We've been watching a documentary about Auschwitz recently on netflix, it's really good. We don't have a TV so we watch it on my son's tablet, it's a samsung like my mobile but bigger.

I got really angry last night, I was upset and I knew then that I would never be able to get to sleep because I can't switch off when I feel like my insides are being compressed into a tiny cube.

My husband didn't tell me I was being stupid or justify the actions of the person who had unintentionally made me feel like I should just die because I'm so useless.

He made me an ovaltine, took it upstairs and said "I'll stick some Nazis on the giant phone".

That is why I love him.

Mamas and Papas

Hi everyone.

So I have two things to talk about, I'm not in the most jovial of moods so you'll have to find the gags hidden in the bitter sarcasm of the post this time. Ok? Good. Ok.

1. Mamas and Papas - the pushchair saga.

Hats off to M&P this week, we didn't have the receipt for the broken buggy but they found us on file, sent a courier to collect it, repaired a whole heap of bits and replaced other bits that weren't even broken then couriered it back to us all for free. This was OUTSIDE of the 1 year warranty but within the 2 year aftercare service. Everyone was completely helpful and polite and I was most impressed. So that's that one, if you ever need to buy a buggy I would utterly recommend them as a company. The blog title is sort of aimed to get googlers on their side, I do like a nice investment in customer service training. (they did miss the pickup the first time because our house is hard to find and they do take forever to answer the phone but I'll forgive that and assume they are working on it)

2. Mamas and Papas - Oh! The sexism!

This happened ages ago: http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/politics/stayathome-mothers-may-get-more-support-says-david-cameron-2097967.html

then more recently this happened:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/politics/9942602/David-Camerons-must-end-astounding-discrimination-against-stay-at-home-mothers-says-charity.html

Now there are two issues at stake here and I care a lot about both of them. the first is obvious - childcare is incredibly expensive. Additionally, some children completely love it (I got all psyched up for the "no mummy don't leave me" tears and was actually a little disappointed by the distant cry of "eat my dust" I was given when I dropped him off for his first day at creche. He's never ever been sad to be left and he loves all his friends and the lady who looks after him. We don't NEED to put him in childcare, but we do for his own social wellbeing and growth)

Some parents were actual whole people before they had children, and part of that was them having a job. Having a job, your particular job, can be a huge facet of your identity and granted that when you become a parent you have to extend what defines you to include 'parent', really that's not that unusual. We have so many labels and identities anyway; friend, colleague, child, neighbour...it doesn't always mean a radical shift in self-image to add another. Different people have different priorities and we live in a world where we encourage young people to value themselves in a lot of different ways (ok, we do in education, in the actual world they are pretty much told just to be sexy but that's another blog) so we should be positively embracing the fact that we have the freedom in law at least to choose whether we prioritise differing aspects of our selfhood over others. Note that I didn't say prioritise our CHILDREN, I mean prioritise ourselves. I have a job and I'm a mother. I don't feel like I'm juggling the two or that they get in the way of each other. Monday-Friday 8-4 I am an employee and my job is my priority. Before and after that I am primarily a mother and I prioritise the children. I try not to take my home life to work and I try not to take my work life home. As much as possible.

For David Cameron, or anyone for that matter, to suggest that parents who stay at home to look after their children are better or worse at being citizens or employees or parents is absurd, rude and morally dubious. Some children NEED to be looked after by their own parents and some children NEED to be socialising with other children in a childcare setting. Some parents NEED to work to maintain their already existing sense of identity and some parents NEED to stay home with their children because they are allowed to choose to prioritise that aspect of their identity.

Lay off the working parents, lay off the stay at home parents and for the love of St Margot in a rickshaw will you PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE stop acting like you're doing the world a favour by offering shared parental leave "so that mothers can go back to work". On to my second gripe with the world. The sexism of it all.

Some issues are undoubtedly 'women's issues'. Abortion isn't something a man will ever have to go through...but it is shockingly a majority vote by men that continues to restrict women's options. Childbirth isn't something men will ever have to go through - you don't see massive poster campaigns pushing a "natural vasectomy -  all the cutting none of the anaesthetic" do you? No man would be expected to go through anything like childbirth without pain relief, but because it's women and because it's cheaper we are sold a line that it is in some way morally more acceptable to grunt and sweat and well done you for only having a little bit of gas and air right at the end.
Fuck you, to be honest, I've done it twice now and feel a total fool. If you are reading this and have not yet had a baby, as soon as you feel your first contraction get straight to the hospital, grab the inevitably male doctor by the testicles and squeeze until he sanctions the epidural.

Breastfeeding is a women's issue - men can actually breastfeed as it goes, but the equipment takes longer to get ready so I don't think there's much of an argument to promote it as the norm but I should at least mention that. In the same way as childbirth, women are heavily pressured into breastfeeding and not enough government money is invested into the alternatives. Women are harshly judged if they don't WANT to breastfeed and it isn't even subtle when arguments are used to persuade and guilt-trip women by explicitly stating how much money the NHS would save if more women breast fed. How much money would the NHS save if they didn't have to deal with drunken fights outside pubs, suspicious items becoming...ahem...lodged in places...and victims of domestic abuse and rape? Men cost the NHS money too y'know and you don't see men crying about having to let another human rip their nipples off for the sake of a few pennies do you? Well rarely.

Childcare, who looks after children, who goes to work and who is the primary carer is NOT A WOMEN'S ISSUE. I don't know about you but I had two people make my children and one of us is a man. There is actually no legitimate reason on Earth why it should be an assumption that women stay at home and the conflation of terms "stay at home parent" and "stay at home mother" in the articles above is utterly infuriating. My husband stays home with the children. We only got married at all because we knew a tory tax break was on the horizon for married couples but no, didn't come. And now we're all buggered aren't we?

The government should be doing more to help with childcare, but they need to stop stigmatising, stereotyping and shaming women in the process too. It's disgusting and I hate it.

*Insert your favourite joke here*

All sorts of things

Been a while ain't it? 

Excuses being:

1. I am now back at work, which has taken a lot of mental build up if not very much actual work to achieve.

2. I have two children. Duh.

3. I gave up smoking. Well, I gave up smoking ages ago, but after the last blogging episode, and then I was VERY ANGRY for a few days (weeks) and that sapped all my sense of humour away so I didn't think blogging would be wise. Who wants to hear about how much I hate everything for no reason? It wouldn't have been a good time. For my lungs it was a pretty good time. But then I had some teeth out and had to stop sucking my thumb, combined with going back to work and starting a new (amazing) diet I am now smoking again. But less than I was (I am prepared to lie more freely about how much I smoke now) and as a result all is rosy. La la la la.

4. Nothing ever happens.

Ok so now I'm getting around to it I actually have a bunch of stuff to write about. Ingredients for the latest blog-a-thon are:

1. My teeth.

2. My diet

3. My buggy.

4. Softplay. And twatbags. The two go hand in hand.

Here goes!

Chapter 1 - My Teeth.

My dad says I was a really good baby. His standard story goes that after I was born I cried a load, then he put my thumb in my mouth and I never cried again. Although this is probably the romanticised embellishment of an over-proud and possibly tipsy typical dad-type, fundamentally the lesson to learn is that I have always sucked my thumb. As a result I also smoke - because thumb-sucking is NOT cool when you're a teenager and it sets you up for always needing to have something going on between your hands and your mouth. I hid my thumb sucking for a long time. All through university I had my blankie in my cupboard and only got it out when no one was around. Luckily I didn't have very many friends so I basically sat in my room with my blankie for three years. I know what you're thinking...but you can't be me, I'm taken. #Soz.

So now I'm almost 30 and my thumb sucking has RUINED my teeth, have a look at your own, doubtlessly beautiful, gnashers. At the bottom there, you see your front ones? You see how you have four in a row...gleaming with colgatesque brilliance and practically screaming "I am loved"? Well one of mine was shunned behind the other three. Shamefully hiding it's plaquey nastiness from the world. This hiding tooth has been something of the bane of my life.

Since it was hiding, it was always a total arse to clean, I had to have hygienist appointments every 6 weeks and had to brush my teeth at least 3 times a day through my teen years (again, not cool in the lunch hour to be manouvering a toothbrush around your gnarly pegs). Then the solution was suggested by the orthodontist that I could have my jaws broken in 4 places, my mouth wired back together and 4 back teeth removed. So I'd be completely unable to chew for 6 weeks, but then regain about 40% chewing function after that. I was 16. They said they'd do it over the summer so I wouldn't miss any school. Yeah...thanks...I never went back. The tooth wanted to hide, so I let it hide and generally speaking people didn't see it unless I pointed it out. But remember, I was drunk a lot.

So now I'm all new-baby-having, denistry is free (woohoo!) and my new, sombre and scary dentist said I should just have it taken out. The heavens sang like...in a film...imagine one. Oh I know, when Harry Potter finds his wand for the first time in Ollivanders and a shaft of light shines down upon him like he's Jesus. Maybe that was a hidden metaphor. Not very well hidden let's be honest. I digress, anyway that happened. In my mind obviously, I'm not sure Jesus K. Rowling gives a monkeys about my incisors. I was on the road to freedom!! Opted for a general anaesthetic as they had to take out some wisdom teeth too and what, like, 400 weeks later off to the hospital I go. La la la la la.....

To most people, the wisdom teeth would be a big deal. I cared not. For when I awoke from the (terrifying) anaesthetic I would have something like the teeth of a normal person. I. Was. Excited. I told the nurse my tale of woe and went through the procedure with the surgeon. Like, 400 hours later, off I am wheeled to surgery. The anaesthetic was horrible by the way, felt like a plastic rod being thrust up my arm.


Imagine the scene...I awake...a nurse is looking over me asking if I feel ok, calling my name...hello...hello...is it me you're looking for?

And I'm awake! Woo flipping hoo!! Genuinely, a tear formed in my eye at the joy that it was all over and the evil hiding tooth was gone, GONE!!! GOOOOOONNNNNEEEEEEE!!!

I had a feel with my tongue...

What the f....it's still there. My tooth is still in my mouth. I have not had my tooth removed. My tooth. Stayed. In.

Nurse lady says "don't worry now, it's just the anaesthetic, it'll wear off soon and everything will be clearer, it all went fine" NO! IT'S STILL IN MY SODDING MOUTH, WOMAN! It was like I was in a coma and no one knew I was still totally there. Ok it was nothing like that, she just didn't believe me. But same sort of thing.

Back on the ward the nice nurse came to ask me how wonderful it was to be free and I showed her and burst into tears. The surgeon was promptly called for and her explanation of what went wrong was "oh, I forgot that one. That's never happened before" Wicked. Well I'll just leave it then shall I? "You can come back next week?" WHAT??? NOOOOO!!!!! I've said my goodbyes to my thumb now! Sob sob sob!! "OK, We'll put you back under" thanks.

So I had two general anaesthetics that day, but the tooth is now confirmedly gone forever. So I've stopped sucking my thumb and blankie lives in a box. That is the story of my teeth.

Chapter 2: My Diet

I do NOT believe in dieting. All the people I've known to diet have only made themselves sadder and rarely any thinner. I also think I haven't the willpower to stick to it properly. Which is a massive bummer because I'm a massive bum...mer? I have a massive...you get the point, I'm a bit fat. I did just have a baby.
I don't actually even care about what size I am, only now I'm back at work I need to wear clothes (that's "the rules" apparently) and none of them fit so what choice do I have? The science diet...yeeeeah. Not like what you feed cats by the way, I mean a diet based on science. And not celebrity "How Mylene Klass lost 6lb in a lift with this simple diet tip and you can too" science, I mean actual science made by science people.
I'm intermittently fasting, so for 2 days a week I limit myself to 600 calories and the rest of the time I eat biscuits. I've lost a bunch of weight and it's brilliant. You should try it. Research it first, don't let's be stupid. I am not a celebrity...keep me in here? So anyway, my point is that two days I week I don't eat much. And now my clothes fit.

Chapter 3: (wow 2 was short wasn't it?) My Buggy

This is just a quick intro to what will probably be my next blog. Given my excessive use of the C word in the first post I don't think the advertising people are going to want to use my influx of readers to hard sell crap to, but that doesn't have to stop me doing my own product placements. I have a mamas and papas sola. It's very pretty. It does a load of cool stuff and I love it. Except the wheel keeps falling off. This is extremely inconvenient, especially as it has done this a mere week after its first birthday which is typically what all expensive items do when they are under a 12 month warranty. Buggies definitely need to have wheels, of all the parts of a buggy that could fall off, the wheel is probably one of the least good. So I called the helpline (open from 8-6:30 mon-fri) at 8:30 and it was shut. If mamas and papas piss me off I will be ranting a lot about them on the internet, brace yourself. However if they pick up my buggy, give me a courtesy buggy, fix my buggy and return my buggy I will be all sweetness and light and will probably start recommending their products all the time. So prep yourselves for the future...watch this space.

Chapter 4: Softplay and twatbags

If you don't own a toddler, know this: they are arseholes. They need constant amusement, food, attention, placation, scolding, activity, stimulation and monitoring. A bored toddler is about as dangerous as a terrorist, and people are just as pissed off about having one on their plane.

One of the worst things about toddlers isn't amusing them, they are frankly very easily amused. However they will insist on you paying attention to them, mine will play quite happily alone with his train set as long as I am actively watching him and making appropriate oooh aaah noises, as well as providing the 24 hour Thomas the Tank Engine Jukebox that is my newfound alternative to exchanging speech with real humans.

One of the best things to combat this barrage of tantrumming, attention insistent, Thomas-jukeboxing is softplay.

At softplay, there is so much fun that adults are not required. We have a coffee, the toddlers go bananas, everyone is happy. Well, until you start noticing the complete idiocy all around you.

Here are the top 10 things to look out for at your own local softplay:

There would be a prize for spotting all ten, except there isn't unless you take your own. I suspect that all prizes must be purchased on the premises or else they are not allowed in the seating area, but you take your own risks.

1. Babies drinking suspect liquids from their bottles. Today I'm pretty sure I saw a baby drinking coffee. It could have been tea but either way that just isn't good.

2. Adults keeping their shoes on whilst they supervise their children. Why the bollocks do they think the children have to check their shoes in? Like danger money? No. There are babies licking the carpet all over the place, keeping your shoes on is just gross.

3. "That parent" (ahem Angry Bird ahem) shouting at the staff for not enforcing the policies of softplay correctly. Those policies are there to ensure that all children (MY child) is able to play equally and fairly (uninterruptedly) with all the toys (my toys. Basically. I paid right?) in the place. God help you if you disobey the printed signs from the 90s. God help you.

4. Table Stalking. A lot like the age old pastime of 'swing stalking', adults will loiter around the seating area, as soon as someone so much as rests their coffee on the table all adults assume the "get set" pose, then if a coat is lifted RRUUUUUUUNNNNNN!!!!! Seating is vital. One must not stand at softplay.

5. Escape enablers. The smaller children are protected, in all the softplay centres I have been to, from escaping to their certain death by a gate with a simple latching system designed to be too high for them to reach. How marvellous then that adults are so willing to hold the gate open for unattended toddlers to roam through. Slow clap. Well done you.

6. The look of almost religious awe that small kids get when looking at the big kids area. There is a divide...to cross it means death. Or maybe a bonk on the noggin. At least a telling off. The toddler will yearn for the big kids bit like the terrorist yearns for Jannah. And they're about as likely to get in there. Luckily for the world there is no terror equivalent to the escape enabler as far as I'm aware. So the whole metaphysical wonder of the afterlife is in principle better designed than soft play, but I can't say I'm surprised because I think heaven has been going since before the 90s. Correct me if I'm wrong.

7. You see that kid who looks a bit peaky. Yeah he's got a disease. Could be norovirus, could be conjunctivitis, could just be the shits. Tomorrow, your kid will have that.

8. Big kids, for some reason, seem unhappy with the Valhalla of the big kids area and will invariably sneak into the small kids area and star chucking stuff about. They are usually the children of the escape enablers who apparently run a two way gatekeeping system. They will swear and chuck stuff about, maybe just the toys but maybe also some crisps if you're lucky. Enlist "that parent" to get an incoherent announcement made over the loudspeaker, that should solve (do nothing whatsoever about) the problem.

9. "That kid". Is my one I'm afraid. He's the one going up the slide instead of down. He's the one who has realised you can climb up to that precarious ledge, he's the one who's figured out how to skip past the parentals and get straight to the escape enablers, he's the one who just ran over that lady's foot (if only she'd kept her shoes on eh?), he is the one licking all the fake foods to spread the diseases more efficiently, he is the one eating the crisps off the floor. He is "that kid". All other kids will follow him. He is not Jesus, following is not wise. I am sorry.

10. Music. Why not play some banging house tunes from the 90s? Toddlers love that shit.

I'm done now. Go and share.

If my blog gets a million likes my kid said he won't teach your kid how to use matches.