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.

Psara's guide to party etiquette

The Humble House Party

For those of you with children, a "house party" is a social gathering of adults (a party if you will) in the house of a person, the host (hence house party). Where drinks containing a substance known as alcohol is consumed and conversations are held at leisure with people, sometimes as tall or taller than you, about current affairs, life events, weather and points of mutual interest.

This weekend I went to one of these house parties and I thought it may be useful to offer some simple behavioural guidelines to other parents, now that we are entering the festive season. It is important that you are aware of how these events work since although, like algebra, you may have once understood them it is likely that as time has passed you have forgotten the finer details and mechanisms of such occasions.

Psara's Guide to Party Etiquette

#1 Rid yourself of spawn.

Children are not welcome, you will need a babysitter. You should ensure that for the evening you address your desperate need for once to not talk constantly about the children by talking constantly about the children, perhaps about your need to not talk about the children. Ensure that people who do not have children are aware that your child is better than all other children in every respect. Also ensure that you show photographs of your children to each person at the party in turn, this is a nice way to lead into a conversation about how you don't want to spend the night talking about the children.

#2 Prepare yourself.

Get dressed in clothes, including shoes. Possibly with heels. Also apply make-up. This is what ladies put on their faces to stop themselves looking like they haven't slept a full night in three years.

#3 Embrace the theme.

Embracing the theme often means interpreting the title in such a way that you can dress as a themed prostitute. For the holiday season think 'sexy elf' or perhaps 'sexy santa'. If the theme is a famous work of American Literature set in the 1920s, try to find some way of expressing yourself as a 1920s American prostitute. You probably don't own any clothes that fit. This will be a helpful start to your outfit. So dig out something from that period in your young life before the children where you were a bit fat and team it up with some ill fitting stockings that can then end up falling down just enough to show off the suspenders you haven't worn since you were single. They will complete the desperate "hasn't been out in a while so is dressing like a teenager" look. First and foremost you must be classy.

#4 Introduce yourself to new people.

After a few beverages, I find that the best way to meet new people isn't to quietly say hello to whoever is near you and ask their name, offer yours and ask some insightful question about their work or study. Personally I like to bound eagerly up to anyone I haven't seen before, get right in their face and demand to know who the HELL they are, what the HELL they are doing there and then point out some obvious feature of their appearance to them. "You've got a moustache", "You're wearing a watch", "You're eating some cheese", anything will do really. That way they will feel entranced by your wit and intellect and will obviously want to be your new best friend. Which is lucky because you should finish up by announcing to the room that this is your new best friend before moving on to the next victim. I mean guest.

#5 Hug existing acquaintances.

You may not usually be much of a hugger, but a few extra beverages will help in that respect. If you come across anyone at the party who you have ever met before, embrace them with glee as if they are the one person you came to the party to see. You may not actually know them very well, but by balls you know their name already and why they are there so it seems only logical. If you don't remember their name, after the hug is usually the best time to ask.

#6 Drink

Make sure that you have another drink in between each friendly conversation and also during if you should be offered a top up. You shouldn't try to keep any track of the number of drinks you have had. Have a drink or two before you arrive if you can and then continuously drink throughout the party. This is important for several reasons: firstly since you haven't had more than a couple of glasses of wine in an evening for such a long time you will have forgotten what it feels like to drink your own weight, this is the perfect opportunity to remind yourself. Secondly, you can't be certain when you will be able to leave your house in the evening again, so it is important to drink enough alcoholic drinks to appease the alcohol quotient per capita as advised by the British Government. It is advised that women drink two to three units of alcohol per day, so in three years that is between two thousand, one hundred and ninety units and three thousand, two hundred and eighty five units of alcohol. That amounts to about one thousand, three hundred and sixty-eight point seven five large glasses of wine. After the first hundred or so you should lose the ability to count your legs so trying to keep up with your alcohol consumption is largely pointless.

#7 Dance.

Like a loon. A loon on fire. A loon on fire in a sexual frenzy. A loon on fire in a sexual frenzy on a mountaintop just before an explosion that is about to cause a near fatal avalanche, thus permanently disabling them and ending forever their ability to express their otherwise undying lust for the dance.

#8 Vomit.

After your 1368.75th glass of wine, it is wise to step outside for a while. The combination of alcohol, dancing, shouting at strangers and euphoria should now enable you to freely vomit, providing the final touch to your house-party experience. Enlist a friend and your relatively sober spouse to find your shoes and carry you to the nearest place you can safely sleep, perhaps the house of a friend who is still at the party, and fall asleep in their bed. Make sure that you vomit some more onto their clean sheets and apologise profusely to your spouse until you lose consciousness.

#9 Leave.

When you return to consciousness it is likely to be the next day. Panic about the vomit. Change the sheets. Panic about the children waking up without you home (if you haven't got a babysitter staying over you should report yourself to social services at this point) *disclaimer: we did have a babysitter staying over* Panic about how your erstwhile friends now probably think you're an idiot. Panic about the fact that your spouse has lost any respect they previously had for you. Panic that despite your efforts, you did in fact spend all night talking to strangers about the children.

#10 Embrace the shame.

Apologise to the children, apologise to the babysitters, apologise some more to your spouse. Apologise to anyone you have ever met, perhaps via the medium of a blog.

Sorry everyone.

Bloody good party though.

God and Boobies

Since the recent vomiting episode escalated into a full-blown horror, I haven't had much to write about because other than a lot more chundering not much has happened.
One thing happened in real life, one thing happened on the internet and one thing happened in the news.
In real life, Angry Bird has decided to give Baby Woo the odd bottle of formula. Please put your shocked face away. On the internet I got into some debates about a BBC article on breastfeeding rates that I found deeply offensive in its use of language. In the news, the General Synod of the Church of England voted against having female bishops. Put your shocked face back on if you like.

God and Boobies

 Much as the internet is awash with commentary on the subject, I feel like I should probably make some mention of the Church of England sort of voting against women bishops. But the whole thing is so obviously absurd that there doesn't seem much to say about it. The Bible doesn't say that the Church shouldn't involve women - well it does if you read it that way I suppose but then if you want to play that game you can make the Bible say whatever you want it to say. The basic principles of Christianity are the equality of all in the eyes of God, we can't judge other people because that's God's job and we should just be nice to everyone (but especially nice to God). So it seems pretty un-Christian to deny women any rights quite frankly. But there is no need to even say that because most people agree. It's just unfortunate that there are enough of a minority who don't agree for it to be upheld as a rule. Go men, I'm sure Jesus'll love your attitude.

Now that's said I can talk babies and God! Two of my favourite topics because it's the two things I know most about. Well, two of the things I think most regularly about...

 God was invented by Aristotle. Yes he was. You can't deny it to be honest, there were gods about before but it was all rather tragically disorganised before Aristotle cleared it all up for everyone. Cunningly he managed to do this without living in a world where monotheism was all that much of an option or where Christianity was even a twinkle in the Virgin's eye. Aristotle invented most things, although the Dutch will claim it was them. Aristotle deffo wasn't Dutch. He may have invented the Dutch.

A very brief (this will totally get to babies soon) bit about a little bit of his Philosophy goes thus:

Everything is what it is because of its four causes. If you want to understand what something is, find out what its causes are and then you'll know. That's science. Aristotle also invented science.

Cause 1: The Material Cause. (what is it made of? Let's do science by finding out!)

Cause 2: The Formal Cause (what form does it take? You can think of it as being what shape it takes if you like)

Cause 3: The Efficient Cause (what made the material take that form? That involves tools and workmanship)

Cause 4: The Final Cause (why is it? What is it for? Partly you can think of this as its function, but more specifically it is to do with purpose. This is the clincher. Everything has a purpose. A pencil is for writing, that's what it's for, great! But it all gets a bit more complicated when you look at more complicated things like people, obviously. Don't think about this for too long, you might hurt yourself or else lose your mind. It's ok, mostly we've let it go now outside of organised religion)

When Aristotle did science he said we should be trying to find the meaning of why things were what they were and what they were for.

Let's think about breasts,
you see where this is going?

More to the point, Aristotle (although he wasn't talking about breasts at the time) said that for something to be good it should be good at being what it is.

Breasts are good if they are good at doing what it is that breasts are good at.
You see where this is going?

This eventually becomes a moral condition when Thomas Aquinas squishes all of this Aristotle into his analysis of the Bible and claims Aristotle for Christianity.

For something in nature to be morally good it should do what it is that it naturally does. 

Breasts.

A consequence of this view in the Church was that natural was considered best. For a long time afterwards it was thought that pain relief in childbirth was a morally bad thing because it was not natural. This attitude is from an ancient thinker, interpreted by a medieval thinker, slammed into the modern world without much further critique.

There is STILL an overarching view among people, including government people, that natural childbirth is morally better than unnatural childbirth (ie having a Caesarian), that having no pain relief is morally better than having pain relief (why have an epidural when you can have a water birth?) and that breastfeeding is morally better than formula feeding.

I will completely completely acknowledge that real, proper, non-medieval science has shown the benefits of breastfeeding. It's all very lovely of course.

But the issue is not a moral one.

Be very wary oh readers of mine of those who claim that 'breast is best'. This is not a moral issue and mothers who don't breastfeed, who choose not to for whatever reason are allowed to make that choice and it is purely a practical one and never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever a moral one. Ever. Except maybe when...no. Never.

The scientific enlightenment bore us many geniuses, revolutions in thought, insights and freedoms that pre-enlightenment science never could have done. Its main tenet was the abandonment of the search for the Final Cause of things.
To look for what God has deemed the moral purpose of something is now unconditionally considered to be unscientific and so claims made on this matter are faith-claims and never knowledge claims.

All this 'purpose' language in science (yes Brian Cox, I'm talking to you, you big massive....rude swear word) must be abolished. That is a rant for another time, but I stand by the periphery point that I make to you now; to feed your child at all is certainly a moral issue, but how you choose to do that is not a moral question.

The difference is the same as that between kicking a puppy and kicking a pencil. Don't kick any puppies, that was just an illustration.


Ps. If it was you that I was debating about the BBC article don't be offended, I was really just struggling for a topic other than vomit. This isn't me going way overboard about making my point.

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