The Next Big Thing.

There are great plans over Polly at Caughtwriting.  She's going on what is being referred to between us all as 'The Big Adventure' - travelling around France with her small son for a month next Summer. Plans are afoot for a book through various blog posts and it's all spelt out in this post called 'The Next Big Thing.'

This is a project being passed between bloggers at present, answering these set questions about our 'Next Big Thing,' before, naturally, as is always the case with these memes, inviting some others to do the same.

I've actually got serious plans with my writing work so was glad to be asked these questions and set out my replies here:









What is the working title of the project?

I have two projects next.   The first is getting my Older Single Mum Diaries published and the second is starting a second blog as a platform for another book I have written - about exploring natural medicine while working in the City and discovering my own gift for Hands on Healing. 

Where did the idea come from?
My real life.   Both single mums and Healers have common mis-conceptions about them.  You could say these opinions are narrow-minded if you like, but I believe they're due to a lack of information more than anything.    

What genre does the project fall under?
Both non-fiction.

Picture - National Geographic

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
People used to say I looked like Demi Moore when we were both a lot younger , but you'd need someone in their forties for the first and someone about to hit thirty in the second, someone half-Indian, 5'0".   Any ideas anybody please?

What is the one sentence synopsis of your project?
1)  Only 2% of single mums are teenagers and I believe that the rest of us - older, wiser, with exes in tow, have something to say that 'll make you laugh and feel proud to know us.  2)  When you look at the sea, you don't see the whole world that lives underneath and I want to guide you to the world that is deep within you, for you might not see it yet, but it is there!

Will your book be self published or represented by an agency?
You know me, I've seen how hard those self-published people work, so preferably the latter, but I appreciate that won't get me off the hook!

How long will it take to write the first draft?
They have taken years, but I have written stuff at the time, while it's still fresh.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
I only really know of Single Mother on the Verge - blog and book re the first project and for the second, it would probably be the very famous 'You Can Heal Your Life' by Louise Hay. 

Who or what inspired you to write these blog posts / books?
I really enjoy the other Single Mums' Stories - other people who defy the myth of who single people are supposed to be.  They surprise me and regarding the other project, I'm starting the new blog in January when I go back to my Healing work properly.  I love watching people 'open up' a part of themselves they haven't been used to.

What else about your project might pique the readers’ interest?
People always love a good story.  Both books demonstrate courage and going against the grain.  I want to inspire and many people are intrigued, particularly when they find out about me shunning a six figure salary because I was unfulfilled.  Re the Healing one, They identify with the 'something missing' and a niggling, never-ending tiredness.  I believe their instincts will pull them to want to feel happier in their own skin.   

I know these three women have some really exciting new projects, so let's ask them what their 'Next Big Thing is!'    

Liska at newmumonline
Hello it's Gemma.
Jax at liveotherwise

Older Single Mum Diaries - continued.

It has been heartening to receive such hefty encouragement from newer readers about my older posts, specifically the Diaries of an Older Single Mum stuff.  Here is the second piece I originally wrote to end up as a column / chapter for their eventual 'proper' publication. 
This, too, was on my blog in the early days - this time at the end of a post I called An Anti-Orgasm - the way it feels when you leave your kids with someone you don't like. I'd quite forgotten how fraught I used to be, not to mention my ex's pervy shocking behaviour in the kitchen:

I'll be back on normal form soon.  My recovery is taking more time than I envisaged.

Eating Standing Up!

Reality...

‘EAT while the baby sleeps,’ that’s my motto. Those who said ‘Sleep while the baby sleeps’ is for those with only one child about or the delightful luxury of plenty of help around.

Seeing as neither of these scenarios exist here, it is virtually impossible for this single mum to catch a nap in the daytime. I must be one of few breastfeeding women to actually gain weight! This is partially due to a new penchant for an absurd amount of chocolate raisins, along with ... Read more ...    

Still Laid Up!

Seeing as I am still laid up, have gone back to keeling over a bit too regularly for anyone's liking and am really not up to much other than ploughing my way through lots of Bloggers' books (reviews to follow) I thought I'd re issue my old Diaries of an Older Single Mum, hopefully published in their own right when I get my arse into gear.


Here's the first one - written a few years ago.    It has been featured on the blog before, but not since the early days.



'It's Terrifying!'

Who can blame a girl?

IT’S not what you expect – having a baby at 45.

Neither is it what you expect to tell your husband you’re divorcing him, followed by such news. And that’s how it started. Nothing could change my mind. Matters would merely be delayed. Three miscarriages is enough for any woman to contend with. It would be foolish to risk a further one. This would mean having to put up with him for a while yet, as long as it was bearable. However it was not to be. Things would eventually and naturally prove intolerable.

We already have a delightful son who was approaching 4. It was important to me and I was glad that they were full siblings, same blood etc . Secretly, that is sort of the only reason I’d had sex with my husband in the first place. Shamefully, despite pretending such shenanigans were with Daniel Craig ... Read more ...

 

Diaries.

By popular demand here is the next in the series of extracts / eventual book from my 'Diaries of an Older Single Mum!'  It is interesting, encouraging and enlightening to look back at those days.  I feel for those women still going through them whether alone and anguished or happy and exhausted, with a young baby in tow.  To them, I say this: Things will only get better.  To those with children starting school, I say: 'You won't know yourself shortly.  Enjoy!'

No longer getting away with ASDA..!

September 2009.

Column 4 - ROBSON STARTS SCHOOL.

Well it was the shoes that did it.  He looked so grown up.  Big boy black trousers, polo shirt with collar over his sweatshirt – all nice and casual, then you spot the polished formal footwear.  My little boy was starting school.

They break you in gently round here – a couple of taster sessions in the few weeks leading up to their first half week or so , then just mornings for a term being a May baby.  This must be more for the parents than the children i.e. to get us used to the idea.  Robson thought the whole thing was a hoot and ‘brilliant.’  Good old Montessori Nursery had set him up nicely.  He was confident and strutted in happily, all independent and never looked back.  I howled my way around the local Co-op for those days before relief finally took over.  Things were definitely easier now and there was so much pride running through my veins, any one of them could have burst.  It was a profound and moving time and having counted down our last days as things were, I would hold him close to me, sobbing behind his back, so, so, sorry for every moment he had been shouted at or moaned to.  We would all miss each other.  Things would never be the same. 

My heart lurches each time Baby Aiden and I see a train or when driving through a local  tunnel.  He is not as interested as his brother was, presently, but, you see, as a parent, we are trained to become over zealous about such matters and there is a great deal of fun to be had discussing and pretending who we are choo-choo-chooing to be – Thomas, Gordon, Percy etc. It’s also too tempting to not be able to help myself still sometimes diverting a journey in order to bump over a nearby level crossing, just for Robson, even when he is no longer a passenger because his days are spent elsewhere, without me, without us, now.

Not arguing about what we are going to listen to is a plus.  Radio 2 is my preference over the Nursery Rhymes and ‘Action Songs’ which have been endured and, shortly, probably will be again, so there is now peace in the car and joy for the lack of bossiness about to compete with my own.  He once told me not to gulp a glass of water or it might make me wet the bed!  He also once said he loves me with all his love.

Peaceful Puppy..!

Robson has been a Puppy dog since he was three.  Good Puppy, Naughty Puppy, Brilliant or Excellent Puppy, even, or especially, Rude Puppy sometimes.  Rather late down the road addressing him as ‘Puppy Dog’ has proved useful to dispel the more negative aspects of his personality, allowing the more gentle, kinder, generous ones to form positive bonds with Baby Puppy.  I am Mummy Dog. Daddy dog still comes almost every other week-end and ‘phones most evenings.  All of our adult friends are ‘Dogs,’ obviously, in the nicest sense of the word, while his friends are so and so ‘Puppy.’ This has remarkably held steady for so long, it escapes me how it all started.  Lately, he is being called ‘Verruca Puppy’ a great deal after his seemingly spoilt behaviour just like the girl from Willie Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.  Not popular with said Puppy dog, but richly deserved and hopefully helpful in the never ending battle which has begun since he ventured from my apron strings further afield into those school gates.  We had a great laugh when someone remarked what a cool cat he looks in his uniform.  'I'm not a cat, Mummy, I'm a Puppy!'  He thought it was truly hilarious.

Oh My Lord.  They say you might ‘lose them’ when they go and, indeed, it is another child who comes home.  Not to mention the table manners.  Where do they go?  All those years of ‘Sit to the table nicely.  Don’t gulp your dinner / Do eat your dinner.  Elbows off the table. Don’t talk with your mouth full etc…’ have to be started again.  Someone should make a recording on a CD that parents can play every meal time.  I should make one.        

Sometimes my body and soul ache for some back up.  It is not easy being a lone parent.  The simplest things require a magnitude of patience and, although developing, it has never been and never will be a virtue of mine.  I long to be held occasionally and cuddle up at the end of a particularly trying time, however it is simply not to be at present.  The silence of the evenings is a joy, instead of Estranged Husband’s shouting at the television and incessant moaning, boring me to death about his day and anything and everything else he brought to ‘us.’  Although he is good in lots of ways, there was no peace and I let it envelope me now when possible.  It is going to take time to recover and with Robson at school, the process can start.  In the meanwhile my electric blanket is my comfort, together with the children, naturally and that will have to be sufficient, because time will heal and, as my little boy has shown me in his posh black shoes, it will pass for evermore quickly. 

Read Diary 1 HERE.

Read Diary 2 HERE.

Read Diary 3 HERE. 

Emotional Abuse.

There I was, sat on the loo, knickers around my knees, gazing around, like you do, when the poster on the back of the door caught my attention.

Squinting to see better, my heart and breathing stopped.

We were at the Sure Start Children's Centre, little Robson and I, a few years ago and as life can do, it turned around in that very moment, not so edifying as it was and a normal day turned in to a not-so-normal one.  Oh.

'Intimidation and Bullying - using looks and gestures, threats of suicide, making you feel guilty, putting you down, Isolation - controlling who you see, making you feel afraid, blah blah blah.'  It all turned into a haze.  Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.  No.  A bit. Not sure, really etc.

So it wasn't me.  Not crazy after all, then.   It was classed as Domestic Abuse, according to this sheet of paper harmlessly hung there.

Not Domestic Violence.  The difference was important.  It helped.  It clarified things.

Although his actions could sometimes be classed so, he never struck me.

Having come from a Rugby background, violence was part of him and it sometimes showed.  However, I didn't like it - it was confusing.

In lots of ways, he was kinder than anyone else, my Ex, but that little read is exactly what started the ball rolling that day for him to no longer be my husband, i.e. for me to divorce him.

All in all, it was relief there was a name for it, because living a lie is a strain.  What to do about it would remain unresolved at that point, but, armed with such arresting information, the balance of power changed that day. Sometimes it is evident in other relationships  - not nearly to such an extreme extent, but especially around money issues.

Having worked in the City some years before, it had been only natural to acquire my own home outright, but he soon had me releasing equity, with my confidence eroded, to pay for counselling and flounder around - not my nature at all - just to pick up all the pieces of his sorry existence.

I loved him, that was the problem.

Why?  Because he was wonderful at first and he found me, pursued me and appreciated me, respected my Healing work and wasn't fazed by the odd TV, Radio or Newspaper interview demanded of me.  Looking back, he wasn't very impressed either - he was supposed to be the star of the show, remember, but he was far too clever to say so.

He undermined me in other ways, while staying pleasant on the surface and when your confidence has gone and their public persona becomes further removed from the private one, it is impossible to tell when their temper tantrums take over and your life becomes increasingly less yours.

Most of us think we are above this kind of thing and, being no exception, things ticked along for a quite a period of time.  Then the penny dropped.  That my unhappiness was not necessarily of my own making, but by colluding, it most certainly was.

And reading those faithful ' Diaries of a Middle Aged Single Mum,' this one written Summer 2009, reminds me how much harder everything was to become once the courage to do what had to be done came, plus how  every single hardship was worth it, per ounce.


Having some luck now with pictures, and from now on, we will be dealing with what this blog was originally destined to be - the more humorous aspects of being an older single mum - and less of how we got here.

P.S.  We go to the same Centre now, little Aiden and me.  The humble poster remains in place.  Who knew peeing could make you so proud?!  (Tel. 0808 2000 247 for help).  

Column 3 - Exhaustion and Delight Set In.  

TOP tip:  Never watch ‘Supernanny’ with any of your children!

Oh dear.  What a huge mistake – probably the worst ever since becoming a mum.  An absolute disaster. 

Robson, visibly appalled by the kids’ behaviour in the episode we watched together ‘for fun’ has ever so efficiently managed to mimic it brilliantly.  Firstly, it was funny.  Now, not so.  We have been to Hell and back slowly, surely and several times over.   

Matters have somewhat tempered a bit, but tempers are what we are dealing with. Estranged Husband said he could have told me what would happen.  Always clever after the event, while no help whatsoever in the aftermath.  He just sits there in shock.

Am well past that myself, trying not to faint with fatigue or the self-inflicted stress and agony of it all.   

Tiredness already overshadowed a great deal, what with the relentless disturbed nights and seeming conspiracy between the two boys that one of them will definitely be awake in the early morning to boot absolutely EVERY single day.  Not to mention the sheer practicalities of becoming a single parent and strain of a marriage break down.

But, no, depths of despair were yet to be discovered, only to be superceded by full on fear as Robson runs around the house screaming, clinging on to the furniture or bannisters, defying my attempts to place him on his ‘Naughty Step,’ while crossing his eyes when being told off.  A very impressive impersonation, it has to be said.  He, sweet natured, never would have thought of that himself, but it is no less awful for it and never previously being disposed or prone to headaches has meant these new ones I have developed - during such stage managed dramas – are all the extra unwelcome as something else to learn to cope with.  

My Susan Boyle effect eyebrows - one before her makeover and the other after it because the second one never gets finished - or even started sometimes - are now well matched with Hollywood sized circular bags under the eyes.  These, sadly, make me reminiscent for the smudged mascara I keep striving to remove with no such luck, because that is not what all the grey is.  It is only now my looks have disappeared that I realise there might have been any there in the first place, but that’s ageing for you! 

On the plus side, however, apart from all the madness, there is a wonderful air of peaceful delight among the three of us.  We dance in the kitchen a great deal and are generally frivolous without the moody old man mocking us.  We enjoy eating.  Plus chasing and tickling one another is a great pastime.  There are no demands other than our- plentiful enough - own, yet having a free rein enables me to be calmer and, therefore, more intuitive with the boys.  I can be gentle and truly listen to them without someone else to answer to or consider.  There can be quiet thinking time, which is essential and constructive.   

Not that one could be terribly averse to some regular back up, some splendid ideas and real support as Nature intended.  Indeed, in principle, with the right person, this could be deemed downright attractive, especially since this latest stupid scenario has occurred.

Experience with Estranged Husband, the first time around with son number one, proved to be radically more pressured.  It is preferable this way for now, but feels totally unnatural to be alone with it all.  Not only could the delight be at least doubled and the chores shared, it just makes more sense.  A recent short stay with my mum proved beneficial all round.  Robson and his cousins have each other and Baby Aiden doesn’t get plonked down once he’s stuck his nose in my armpit, smiling triumphantly, falling asleep after a feed.  

We are full of love.  The loveliness has room to outweigh the loneliness and Robson’s serious questions - such as whether the ‘Stop n Grow’ we paint on his nails will make his bogies bigger if he picks his nose - get more attention.

It may also be possible to remember whether it was the evening before that my teeth were cleaned, because, in the mornings, purely through lack of sleep, it feels like they were only just done. But we live miles away where the days are long, the nights seem longer, yet the years shoot by faster than we can say ‘Supernanny.’  And in the meanwhile there is always Touche Eclat make-up!     



Read Diary 1 HERE.

Read Diary 2 HERE.

Read Diary 4 HERE.

An Anti-Orgasm.

Leaving your children with someone you don't like can give you a feeling in the pit of your belly quite the opposite to that of an orgasm.  It took all my strength not to throw up or look back at this daunting sight - my two little boys and their father, playing together in a local park.

 'Shitty's' 'contact' has to be supervised.  He is not allowed to be alone with the children - due mainly to his ugly temper, but also because he regularly threatened to commit suicide, so a good friend has offered to take over what I had previously been doing by chaperoning them.

Frankly, he was using every other week-end - when his visits took place - to harangue me and then it all came to a head in January which resulted in me punching him.  That had a been 'a long time coming,' said a friend, who was so used to me in tears that she doesn't even know the real me.  I'm not sure I do any more, but there's a good reason you don't see many divorced couples out together with their children on too regular a basis!

The trouble with egotistical maniacs is that they are who they are and nothing you do or try to say to them (because they won't listen) will enter their magical little worlds, in which they are all that matter!  By gracing you with their very presence, one is supposed to be enormously (i.e. erroneously) grateful, but it doesn't necessarily start out like that, nor does their contempt for us all show its face in public very often, if they can help it.

'Shitty' looks like a brilliant father to the children when we are out of the house.  He also used to be pleasant to me too.  Shame on him.

I don't care who knows I hate him.

Anyway, am getting the hang of importing photos over to this blog - to make it appear less wordy and more beautiful - although it is something still defeating me, but according to those in spiritual circles all our needs are met, so please watch this space.  Some help might appear!

In the mean time, here is the second of my still-to-be-re-named 'Diaries of  Middle Aged Single Mum,' written Spring 2009, and, goodness me, we have moved on many moons and miles, it is a wonderful relief to see!  Another anti-orgasm is due this Saturday.

Column 2 - Eating Standing Up!   

Reality...

‘EAT while the baby sleeps,’ that’s my motto.  Those who said ‘Sleep while the baby sleeps’ is for those with only one child about or the delightful luxury of plenty of help around.

Seeing as neither of these scenarios exist here, it is virtually impossible for this single mum to catch a nap in the daytime.  I must be one of few breastfeeding women to actually gain weight!  This is partially due to a new penchant for an absurd amount of chocolate raisins, along with the sleep deprived nights and subsequent requirement derived for many snacks just to keep going.

My cooking skills are not awful.  It is important to give decent grub to my family, so I make the effort as often as possible to produce fresh and natural, nutritionally packed, balanced meals, but sometimes it is out of the question.  We have some lazy nights, the odd take-away, plus stuff for the kids’ social standing, so that they will fit in with their peers.  Robson, once, was left playing on his own at a party when the ‘Wotsists’ were handed round, because he didn’t know what they were.  Mortified, this was speedily remedied!

We are not obsessive, but aware of what is good for us and we have discovered that lightning will not strike us down, should we deter more often than is truly necessary from the ideal.

The trouble is, nowadays, practically everything is done one handed, standing up with a baby upon one shoulder or hip.  The term ‘multi-tasking’ like this takes on a new meaning.  So when the opportunity arises to complete those pesky jobs which require more than one working arm i.e. when the baby is sleeping, they must be completed adroitly, for this time will be short comparative to what needs to be accomplished – for example, food preparation with sharp implements and its necessary eating, sorting washing and washing up, together with the incessant clearing up.  It is not intentional to eat standing up, just more convenient.  The mess generated by a four year old looking for attention can sometimes be astonishing and much of it remains where it lays (long enough to take root) as Baby Aiden becomes heavier, because it usually involves a great deal of crouching.

Like the gardening, ironing remains a fantasy, but never mind. 

High points:  1) Making a Love Sandwich with the boys in the mornings – all of us lying in bed together, someone in the middle.  2) Robson blowing raspberries on Baby Aiden’s tummy, both giggling their little hearts out, while - as a mere onlooker - mine swells with pride and a joy waltzes through me that I have never known, allowing utter exhaustion to be momentarily entirely eliminated. 3) Doing nothing at a friend’s house.  She made lots of tea and cooked dinner while I didn’t move.  Have never in my life had such a good time just sitting down.  What a revelation. 

Low point:  Estranged husband regularly standing in the kitchen with his willy out.

Seeing as he pays for the services of our weekly cleaner, for whom gratitude knows no bounds every moment of every hour almost, every single day, it seems churlish to mention it.  I am trying to stay on his good side, so make polite conversation despite the offending gesture, which is neither acknowledged nor discussed and, eventually, it disappears.   

Fantasy...

Anyway, back to more normal people, a friend of mine moved to America a couple of years ago, with her two young boys.  She had been a single parent for quite some time, met the man of her dreams and, after some considerable soul searching, decided to go.  The mountains of dishes stacked up in her sink were often shocking.  If I knew then, what I know now and should it be possible to turn back the clock to when visiting her, my sleeves would have been rolled up and the job always cheerfully done.  It would have cost me nothing but goodwill and time.  Plus, I would have taken and prepared food, made sure she sat down while she ate it, picked up any shopping she needed on the way, sometimes taken the kids out to give her some respite or perhaps just kept her company more often. 

I realise now how hard it must have been for her and how she was relishing every moment with her children, but lately, when my naturally regretful thoughts turn towards her and her new situation, so vastly and incredibly different, it makes me wonder what miracles, surprises and mysterious moves of Fate might be in store for us!  Baby Aiden’s arrival is all of these three combined, as is the simple pleasure of sitting down to eat, ever since!    

Read Diary 1 HERE.

Read Diary 3 HERE.

Read Diary 4 HERE.

'It's Terrifying!'

So. It transpires that an old bird needn't necessarily really struggle with the technicalities of a blog such as this, as much as first attempts would indicate.

Having about two years of journal notes, attempted columns of funny and embarrassing stories and quips etc., it seemed simply too awful to contemplate not being able to simply transfer some of it over here, but this is what was looming at me.

Feeling totally inadequate - more, even, than on a normal day - complying with various requests for 'URLs (?)' and taking wild guesses at file format selections, the soreness of frustration and failure was seeping into my soul.  

A marvellous friend - the least computer literate one of all - suggested old fashioned Copying and Pasting and hey presto, hooray for her, because it works!

Yes.  It can sometimes be woeful to be me and getting photos over alone is still flummoxing!

Anyway, appreciating that the blogosphere hadn't even emerged when I started all this stuff and that 'Diaries of a Middle Aged Single Mum' are not aptly named to appeal to the masses, now 'Twitter' is where it's at. How on earth are we supposed to keep up when the TV remote controls can defeat us?

But here is what I wrote April 2009:

Column 1 - 'It's terrifying!' 

Who can blame a girl?

IT’S not what you expect – having a baby at 45. 

Neither is it what you expect to tell your husband you’re divorcing him, followed by such news.  And that’s how it started.  Nothing could change my mind.  Matters would merely be delayed.  Three miscarriages is enough for any woman to contend with.  It would be foolish to risk a further one.  This would mean having to put up with him for a while yet, as long as it was bearable.  However it was not to be.  Things would eventually and naturally prove intolerable.

We already have a delightful son who was approaching 4.  It was important to me and I was glad that they were full siblings, same blood etc .  Secretly, that is sort of the only reason I’d had sex with my husband in the first place.  Shamefully, despite pretending such shenanigans were with Daniel Craig, abstaining had still been preferable for quite some time, yet there was a consistent feeling of another child to come yet.  And so, miraculously, he did.  This once-off timing was incredible. 

And so, as well, I would become a single mum with full parental contact for their Dad, which is the hardest bit to cope with!  He’s brilliant with what money he has, yet it’s still a struggle to make ends meet and, furthermore, he is of the opinion it buys him things it doesn’t.  Fortunately, he works away, lives there and is nonetheless devoted to our two boys, Robson and Baby Aiden.

It’s rather confusing at times and although I feel independence is overrated, I miss it terribly.  It is ridiculous to find myself presently truly grateful for any small mercies whatsoever - such as someone else hanging the washing on the line, a job usually undertaken by one of my visiting friends, the impact of which is immeasurably and preposterously disproportionate to the gesture - as my hands are blessed with being full of a tiny bundle of bouncing baby joy.

This, however, is the life of a single parent.  If you know any – and there are plenty of us about, so, indeed, there is a great likelihood you might - do try to be a little kinder, as any miniscule amount of help will go further than you could fathom!

High points of the week – Robson’s mate tunefully teaching him and them both very loudly singing ‘God the Builder, can we fix it? God the Builder, yes we can!’ Robson telling me he loves me ‘To the roofs of buses, all round the town and through everywhere!’  Enjoying the most utterly divine experience of massaging a freshly bathed beautiful baby Aiden, while trying not to let Robson know and avoiding my own secret feelings of jealousy.     

Very low point - being whacked on the ankle with a proper cricket bat.

All things must change...

Major achievements – getting the Alphabet frieze out of its packet, on the wall, spirit level straight, but 6 months after it was given to us, however managing to open the NEXT parcels only five days after they had arrived, plus the bargain adjustable waist jeans were perfect for Robson.  Also, managed to refrain from punching a chatty man, who was innocently and politely discussing the price of a demonstration gazebo in M&S with me, seemingly oblivious that I was sat, obviously rather too discreetly, breastfeeding Aiden under it at the time.  

Unfortunately, the little one’s subsequent blissful slumber would be a bit short lived, for while I 

mindfully perused their school uniform stuff, pleasantly unencumbered by either offspring at the time and piling up my basket, he was rudely disturbed by a packet of vests falling from it onto his head and all hell broke loose.  He screamed.  We scarpered. O.M.G. Had to get out of there. 

Left the lovely so-called shopping and went to collect eldest from Nursery, muttering away about never getting anything done and how likely it is Aiden’s first word will be Bo**ocks!’

Sometimes it’s terrifying being a single mother.  Even when you’re 45! 

  
Read Diary 2 - HERE.

Read Diary 3 HERE.

Read Diary 4 HERE.