Five Favourite Miffs.

We all have our miffs, don't we?  The things that really naff us off - not rage-inducing stuff, just a bit narky.  Well I'm going to  let you into a little secret - I've re-named them.

You know when you're generally just thinking to yourself  'FFS,' like you do, which, if you use text speak, you'll know exactly what it means, but, if not it shouldn't take you very long to work out?  Well miffs have been re-christened 'My FFS!'

Here are my five favourites presently:

Feeling miffed starts pretty early in the day. We'll by-pass the whole sleep (or lack of) palaver and go straight to getting the Nutella out of the cupboard for the kids' morning porridge.  You can guarantee the jar will be found empty, as will be the peanut butter / marmalade / jam ones in the fridge, also, when we decide on toast instead then.  This will be kind courtesy of our foreign language students.

Why not leave the plundered containers out on the side so some more gets bought?  Why put them back, thereby lulling us all into a false sense of security? And, honestly, do they really have to leave their late night feast entrails all over the kitchen worktop FFS for Heavens' sake?

On the whole, however, they're great guys!

The second miff - we move on to the school run - a journey that takes seven minutes in the car, apart from when we're on the school run when it takes forty.  Despite the fact we use this time constructively for the eldest to learn his times' tables (and it looks like an opportunity to learn five languages in the years to come), it's still annoying that there's a mad dash around at home, with lots of shouting plenty of good hearted cajoling and coaxing, grabbing coats and book bags and lunchboxes in order to get out of the house on time, just to come to a sudden sit still in the car, for an age, and for which I'd really rather be briefly relaxing and listening to Radio 2 than doing sums.

Mind you, the majority of it this is along the coast road with splendid views out to sea, so should I be feeling so frustrated at all?

Morning coffee with friends makes number three.  £2.30 per cup, per day?  Whose planet did that get decided on?  And what's all the fuss about cake all the time?  It's vastly overrated, not to mention also overpriced.  I find the nation's need to obsess about it increasingly flummoxing.

Yet, here we are with three lovely big Birthday cakes at home - one we made ourselves (a first), another so very kindly brought by a friend who is a chef and the last bought by said students!

Something that doesn't happen daily, but mightily miffs me though is number four and it is much more common than is bearable:  Hearing anyone, anywhere, anytime bleating about 'Could of / would of / should of.'  Aaargh!  It's 'coudda woudda shoudda' because it's 'Could HAVE / would HAVE / should HAVE,' FFS for goodness' sake.

Perhaps we should check on the ex-husbands'?!

And the most massive miff of all, number five, would be my ex-husband presently paying only £7.00 per week maintenance, off arrears of many hundreds of pounds, or nothing at all, thus forcing them to continually accrue and compelling me to take in yet another foreign language student, which is only going to exacerbate my FFS matters, but there's no way I would want to give him that satisfaction so we won't go there.

Instead, him not giving me money due is one thing - I'm used to being exploited by him - but parking meters?   If they can get a man on the moon soft drinks machines can give change, why can't they?  It's irritating enough having to pay for parking constantly anyway, but needing the correct coins - and naturally never being organized enough to always have them on one's person can rather give rise to feeling ripped off regularly when they don't cough up the balance owed either.

But I suppose that I should appreciate the fact I own a car, that I run it and that I'm not catching the bus everywhere with two children in tow?

So these are my little miffs, my FFS - nothing earth shattering, just little tolerations that we all have to endure.  What are yours?  I'd really love to know!

My First Blog Post - Shitty Ex-Husband.

The ingenius Mammasaurus has suggested we link up our First Blog Posts.  As she says, they often establish who we are and don't often get read later on.  Here's mine.  I really look forward to reading others.  It also gives rise to the opportunity to introduce a series from other single parents which I hope to start here soon:



This is the voice of an older single parent. Everybody knows one. We're not all born on Council Estates and we are severely under-represented or mis-represented.

And another please...

The term 'Single Mum' conjures up such images as a young girl with offspring, sometimes of various parenthood, broke and scrounging off the State, but this is also unfair.

It was never meant to be this way. Some of us were married to the father(s) of our children, even before we were pregnant! And the marriage broke down and we were left lumbered with the demands of our Darling Angels alone.

Plus the demands of a shitty ex - husband.

Mine is probably not one of the worst, however he is mean and spiteful and controlling and that's why I divorced him.

Of course, he will never forgive me. He thinks I will 'come to my senses' and 'we will re-marry.'

Did I mention he must be deranged?

Technically, perhaps, it could be said I am an Ex-WAG, but I think that is too mis-leading to write, so I won't.

My shitty ex-husband, as we shall refer to him, was, indeed, a famous Sportsman in his time, but seeing as we are ancient and I didn't even know him then and it was before the term had even been invented and his sport - Rugby - was still amateur and the lack of cash for his 'lifetime of graft' still rankles him, then it is absolutely wrong to use that expression.

However, I think it is appropriate to bring it up, for the size of his ego, his inability to behave in a normal fashion (what first attracted me to him and ultimately what still drives me mad about him) and his willingness for the world only to revolve around him are entirely and exactly, I think, why I was to become a single mum.



Click here to view the Linky Tools list of First Blog Posts.

So Glad Am Outta There!

'I wish not to harp on about this book, 'Why Does He Do That?', (re previous post) so won't, however it is important that those who find themselves in a relationship that is disrespectful come to appreciate what a crucial problem it can be, or is.  

We all find ourselves in one from time to time - with work colleagues, family members, lovers or friends - where we feel DEVALUED.  Sometimes we find the ability to stand up for ourselves, yet, depending on who we are, our upbringing, our culture, our current state of mind, we really don't and life can be miserable as a result.  Our self-esteem is eroded, our strength evaporates and we are just plain worn out.

In extreme cases, insults and certain forms of intimidation - looks or glares and sneers plus much worse, this is considered abuse.  Mental cruelty is common.  The perpetrator attempting to justify it, playing victim and distorting or twisting events is just par for the course in these relationships, at work or home or 'play.'

In Natural Medicine circles, or Spiritual ones, they say we attract what we need to heal.  My Shitty Ex-Husband was a perfect gift looked at in that light.  He isolated me to a degree that no-one would expect of a bright, successful person, cleverly lured me in to his dramas and warped my mind, sucking up my life like a vaccuum cleaner to meet his own ends.  He was selfish and destructive, while making me feel sorry for him and I still don't get how it all occurred.

There are women (and men) who live with a Jekyll and Hyde character and are too ashamed to say so.  They are scared and confused, depressed and anxious, yet everyone they know feels sympathy too for the other person in the frame.  It is a complex situation.

'Why Does He Do That?' covers all these things in general.  I have only had a peruse, not wishing to drag up stuff that, previous to reading it, could happily (naively and wrongly) have been deemed to be OVER.  It made an uncomfortable time looking through, but I feel it could be of help to those who know they deserve better, but don't know what to do.  Good Luck!

Many of us will come out the other side.  Having children gives you the wherewithal for backbone you never before knew existed and you may find out who you really can be - see 'Is Life Like a Sat. Nav. Drive?' - an essential a thing as you'll ever do!


Emotional Abuse

Refuge Charity

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.

Shitty Ex-Husbands.

This is the voice of an older single parent.  Everybody knows one.  We're not all born on Council Estates and we are severely under-represented or mis-represented.

And another please...

The term 'Single Mum' conjures up such images as a young girl with offspring, sometimes of various parenthood, broke and scrounging off the State, but this is also unfair.

It was never meant to be this way.  Some of us were married to the father(s) of our children, even before we were pregnant!  And the marriage broke down and we were left lumbered with the demands of our Darling Angels alone.

Plus the demands of a shitty ex - husband.

Mine is probably not one of the worst, however he is mean and spiteful and controlling and that's why I divorced him.

Of course, he will never forgive me.  He thinks I will 'come to my senses' and 'we will re-marry.'

Did I mention he must be deranged?

Technically, perhaps, it could be said I am an Ex-WAG, but I think that is too mis-leading to write, so I won't.

My shitty ex-husband, as we shall refer to him, was, indeed, a famous Sportsman in his time, but seeing as we are ancient and I didn't even know him then and it was before the term had even been invented and his sport - Rugby - was still amateur and the lack of cash for his 'lifetime of graft' still rankles him, then it is absolutely wrong to use that expression.

However, I think it is appropriate to bring it up, for the size of his ego, his inability to behave in a normal fashion (what first attracted me to him and ultimately what still drives me mad about him) and his willingness for the world only to revolve around him are entirely and exactly, I think, why I was to become a single mum.