Every second weekend my children stay with their father. Their father is technically still my husband but as we haven’t lived under the same roof since November 2004 and as we weren’t …errm… 'man and wife' (if you catch my drift) for at least a year before that, then I feel well within my rights to describe him as my ex. But I digress. (I do that a lot, stay with me here). They go on Friday after school and come back on Sunday, any time between 4 and 8pm. Except on school holidays. On school holidays the girls go on Friday and come back….whenever. It’s become slightly less of a guessing game in recent months since I have asked them to text me when they are on the way home so I get an hour’s notice at least. LB and I don’t go out much*, so it’s all good.
I like the fact that the children have such a close relationship with their father. There were times in the early days of our separation when I bit my tongue so often and so hard that I was in danger of losing an inch or two of it, so as not to jeopardize the children’s view of him. I lied more often than that little wooden puppet kid to cover up for unexplained broken plans and visits. Who said lying doesn’t pay? Let me tell you, I’m reaping the rewards in the satisfaction of the excellent and regular relationship they have.
I’m rewarded in another way too. Guilt free laziness. When the girls are here, I need to be up at a reasonable time, however long it took me to fall asleep the night before. There needs to be three meals a day, at least one of which should be hot and have a passing resemblance to nutrition. I have to get dressed and I can’t sit at the computer all day. Guess what I do when they’re not here? Yup, eat what I want when I want, sleep when I want and get dressed if and when I want. If I want to be on the computer all night and sleep all day, that’s ok. If I want one unhealthy meal a day involving chocolate cake and Pepsi that’s fine. If I want a two hour bath, well that’s just great. Like I said, we don’t go out much*, but if we wanted to we could. All night. (Well, we couldn’t because we can never afford it on account of all the chocolate cake, but I’m just saying).
Then the girls come home. And that’s great too. Because I miss them when they’re not here. And you can have too much of a good thing. Besides, my girls are better than any chocolate cake.
*ever.
Thursday, 18 September 2008
Saturday, 13 September 2008
You're Fired
On 7th July 2005 4 bombs exploded in central London, killing 52 people and injuring more than 700. When the details of the perpetrators were made public, I got a shock. I had met one of the bombers.
I didn’t know him well; I had met him only a few times. We lived in Leeds for my children’s first year of junior school and he was a teacher there, although he didn’t teach either of my daughters. At the time Diva had some health problems that resulted in her vomiting a lot and I often had to bring her home from school. A couple of times it was this man who reported the details and signed her out to me. I remember thinking later that they must have made a mistake. I barely knew him but nothing in my, admittedly very brief, dealings with him gave me any cause for concern. Which is ridiculous I know – did I expect him to walk around with a sign pinned to his tracksuit that said ‘I’m going to blow up a train in four years time’?
People who commit acts of terrorism are supposed to be ‘different’. They’re supposed to have wild stares and walk around talking to themselves, right? They’re not supposed to seem to be a nice, friendly person. Most importantly they’re not supposed to be people that you’ve talked to – that your children have talked to. I’ll admit to be being very shaken up at the time so I can only imagine how the parents of the children he taught on a daily basis – and the children themselves – must have felt. I was glad that, four years on, at almost nine years old, neither Diva nor Blue could even remember the name of the teacher they’d had at that school, let alone any of the support staff. (There was only one person they remembered from there – but that’s a post for another day).
I tried to keep as much of the information about the bombings as I could from the girls but one day when the lunchtime news was on Blue came in without me realizing. The reporter was summarising a few basic details about the bombers, names and occupations. When this particular man’s picture came on the screen, she spoke from behind me.
B: “That man Mummy?”
Me: “What about him sweetheart?”
B: “They said he blew up a train and people got hurt?”
M: “That’s right”
B:“and he’s a teacher?”
M: (Tense, wondering if she’s recognized him) Yes, he was.
B: “He is soooooooo fired”
I didn’t know him well; I had met him only a few times. We lived in Leeds for my children’s first year of junior school and he was a teacher there, although he didn’t teach either of my daughters. At the time Diva had some health problems that resulted in her vomiting a lot and I often had to bring her home from school. A couple of times it was this man who reported the details and signed her out to me. I remember thinking later that they must have made a mistake. I barely knew him but nothing in my, admittedly very brief, dealings with him gave me any cause for concern. Which is ridiculous I know – did I expect him to walk around with a sign pinned to his tracksuit that said ‘I’m going to blow up a train in four years time’?
People who commit acts of terrorism are supposed to be ‘different’. They’re supposed to have wild stares and walk around talking to themselves, right? They’re not supposed to seem to be a nice, friendly person. Most importantly they’re not supposed to be people that you’ve talked to – that your children have talked to. I’ll admit to be being very shaken up at the time so I can only imagine how the parents of the children he taught on a daily basis – and the children themselves – must have felt. I was glad that, four years on, at almost nine years old, neither Diva nor Blue could even remember the name of the teacher they’d had at that school, let alone any of the support staff. (There was only one person they remembered from there – but that’s a post for another day).
I tried to keep as much of the information about the bombings as I could from the girls but one day when the lunchtime news was on Blue came in without me realizing. The reporter was summarising a few basic details about the bombers, names and occupations. When this particular man’s picture came on the screen, she spoke from behind me.
B: “That man Mummy?”
Me: “What about him sweetheart?”
B: “They said he blew up a train and people got hurt?”
M: “That’s right”
B:“and he’s a teacher?”
M: (Tense, wondering if she’s recognized him) Yes, he was.
B: “He is soooooooo fired”
Thursday, 11 September 2008
To the population of the USA
To those who lost loved ones and those that survived; To the people who risked their lives to save others. To every single person who could only do as I did, and watch their televisions helplessly as our innate sense of security was blown up before our eyes, never really to return, I wish I had the right words to tell you how my heart aches for you.
I look at my girls sleeping and I know how incredibly blessed I am.
Peace be with us all.
I look at my girls sleeping and I know how incredibly blessed I am.
Peace be with us all.
Monday, 8 September 2008
Her Father *Name Deleted*
I went to University in 2002 to get a degree in Social Work. If you’ve read my previous post you’ll know this didn’t work out as planned. You’ll also know that I didn’t have the required qualifications to attend University, thanks to a misspent youth. This meant I had to attend College for a year to gain the ‘mature’ student’s qualification. (Incidentally ‘mature’ in academic circles is 21 – how many 21 year olds do you know who are really mature? Pah!)
Obviously the college course was structured towards students wishing to go into the field of Social Work. This meant a lot of regulations, laws and ‘Acts’ to learn, most of which I have since forgotten. However one thing I learned was of great interest to me – I think it was part of the freedom of information Act – feel free to correct me if you Know about English law, cos I sure as hell don’t. Anyway, the part that interested me was the ruling that children who had been ‘in care’ were now allowed to have access to their case notes. I was in the care of Social Services from the age of four to the age of eighteen, and a lot of decisions were made during that time that I thought were ‘suspect’ in that I didn’t necessarily think they had been made with my welfare in mind, more to make peoples jobs easier.
Long story short (yeah right – I never use one word if I can use ten!) I managed to obtain my notes. Two thick files full. The organization that undertook this for me was wonderful and it is to my regret and shame that I cannot remember the name. They did what they said they would do, when they said they would do it. They hand delivered the notes across the country to me, and I was offered counseling several times. I didn’t want it, but it was good to know the offer was there.
Whoever had prepared the notes had blacked out the names of every other person mentioned in them – family members, foster family, social workers, neighbours, schoolteachers, everyone. I understand why they had to do this, but I found it particularly amusing to read over and over again the line ‘her father, Mr *******’ especially as there was an uncensored copy of my birth certificate at the front of the file. Most of the names I knew anyway, and I can live without knowing those I don’t remember.
I read my notes all through in one sitting, and I got through it by treating it as though it was a fictional story about someone else. It must have been a good story because I couldn’t put the damn thing down until I’d finished it, hours later! Then I shoved the files in a cupboard and forgot about them.
Until this weekend. Maybe it was writing my last post that did it, but I had an urge to read them again, which is what I did. I was reminded of things that I had forgotten. Some good, some not so good. Good was a local shopkeeper who, witnessing minor verbal abuse by my foster mother, contacted my headmistress, who made the effort to report it to social services. A social worker that was assigned to my case after I had been fostered knew something was wrong and – unbeknown to me – tried very hard to help me. Not so good was a report of prospective foster parents who sounded perfect for me being turned down as they hadn’t gone on to further education. Eighteen prospective families expressed interest in me, yet I was only taken to visit one, the place I ended up in. I don’t blame Social services entirely, they were under pressure to place me and I wasn’t an easy child – but I was only ten. They were well aware that I was being manipulated in my responses, and by whom, the reports make this clear. However they shut their eyes and ears, and carried on anyway.
I have read some heartbreaking and horrendous accounts in other blogs of peoples early years, abuse of all kinds, neglect and hardship. Compared to many people I am lucky. But this isn’t a competition as to who had the worst childhood; this is just a recollection of my own. I can see so many points where if an alternative decision had been made, things could have been so different. I know that all roads lead to here, and without all that I wouldn’t be who I am today. I have to keep telling myself that. The past is done and we have to move on, and I really thought I had, a long long time ago. I don’t know if it’s this blog that’s making me re-examine old wounds, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing. I decided I wanted to write my life story. Not on here, it’s too long and would probably bore anyone who doesn’t know me, but somewhere. I can’t decide if this will make me feel better or worse.
Obviously the college course was structured towards students wishing to go into the field of Social Work. This meant a lot of regulations, laws and ‘Acts’ to learn, most of which I have since forgotten. However one thing I learned was of great interest to me – I think it was part of the freedom of information Act – feel free to correct me if you Know about English law, cos I sure as hell don’t. Anyway, the part that interested me was the ruling that children who had been ‘in care’ were now allowed to have access to their case notes. I was in the care of Social Services from the age of four to the age of eighteen, and a lot of decisions were made during that time that I thought were ‘suspect’ in that I didn’t necessarily think they had been made with my welfare in mind, more to make peoples jobs easier.
Long story short (yeah right – I never use one word if I can use ten!) I managed to obtain my notes. Two thick files full. The organization that undertook this for me was wonderful and it is to my regret and shame that I cannot remember the name. They did what they said they would do, when they said they would do it. They hand delivered the notes across the country to me, and I was offered counseling several times. I didn’t want it, but it was good to know the offer was there.
Whoever had prepared the notes had blacked out the names of every other person mentioned in them – family members, foster family, social workers, neighbours, schoolteachers, everyone. I understand why they had to do this, but I found it particularly amusing to read over and over again the line ‘her father, Mr *******’ especially as there was an uncensored copy of my birth certificate at the front of the file. Most of the names I knew anyway, and I can live without knowing those I don’t remember.
I read my notes all through in one sitting, and I got through it by treating it as though it was a fictional story about someone else. It must have been a good story because I couldn’t put the damn thing down until I’d finished it, hours later! Then I shoved the files in a cupboard and forgot about them.
Until this weekend. Maybe it was writing my last post that did it, but I had an urge to read them again, which is what I did. I was reminded of things that I had forgotten. Some good, some not so good. Good was a local shopkeeper who, witnessing minor verbal abuse by my foster mother, contacted my headmistress, who made the effort to report it to social services. A social worker that was assigned to my case after I had been fostered knew something was wrong and – unbeknown to me – tried very hard to help me. Not so good was a report of prospective foster parents who sounded perfect for me being turned down as they hadn’t gone on to further education. Eighteen prospective families expressed interest in me, yet I was only taken to visit one, the place I ended up in. I don’t blame Social services entirely, they were under pressure to place me and I wasn’t an easy child – but I was only ten. They were well aware that I was being manipulated in my responses, and by whom, the reports make this clear. However they shut their eyes and ears, and carried on anyway.
I have read some heartbreaking and horrendous accounts in other blogs of peoples early years, abuse of all kinds, neglect and hardship. Compared to many people I am lucky. But this isn’t a competition as to who had the worst childhood; this is just a recollection of my own. I can see so many points where if an alternative decision had been made, things could have been so different. I know that all roads lead to here, and without all that I wouldn’t be who I am today. I have to keep telling myself that. The past is done and we have to move on, and I really thought I had, a long long time ago. I don’t know if it’s this blog that’s making me re-examine old wounds, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing. I decided I wanted to write my life story. Not on here, it’s too long and would probably bore anyone who doesn’t know me, but somewhere. I can’t decide if this will make me feel better or worse.
Thursday, 4 September 2008
Advice to my selves
I read THIS the other day and, after I stopped laughing, it got me to thinking about what advice I would give my younger selves. So, if you don't like this post blame Mike, it was his idea. (Unlike Mike, I wouldn’t allow my younger selves to answer back because they’d probably make me cry).
Age seven – Do not carry on a shouted conversation from the toilet in your classroom to the kid in the toilet in the adjoining classroom, especially when (for some reason not even known to yourself) you tell a pack of lies about how you are the new girl from America, when A. You have been at the school for a year, and B. You have a totally English accent. When you exit the toilet, you will discover that the entire class, including the teacher, has been listening to every word and they will all laugh at you until you cry.
Age ten – When you are asked if you have any doubts about the family that are going to foster you, be honest. If you lie simply to avoid hurting anyone’s feelings then both you and the family are going to be stuck with each other for seven long years.
Age twelve – When you are told that there is a place at grammar school for you so you will be able to get higher qualifications and go to University at eighteen, but you will have to start working to your potential, do not tell the headmaster that ‘what you see is what you get’. You will be stuck in a school that is due to close the year after you leave which means everyone just stops trying and you leave at sixteen having never worked to your potential.
Age seventeen – When you go to college to get the qualifications that you should have got at school so you can go on to University, do not spend the first year of the two year course in the pub. This will lead you to failing your end of year exams and not being allowed to come back. You will then end up in a ‘safe’ utterly dull job, and be told to leave your foster home. (Actually, that last was all for the best, so maybe the year in the pub was worth it).
Age nineteen – Learn to control your eating habits. When you stuff all that crap in your mouth and people ask how you manage to stay so slim, do not reply casually ‘yeah I know, one day I’m gonna wake up fat’. Because one day you will.
Age twenty – When your parents tell you they are emigrating and taking your eighteen-year-old brother with them, be honest. Tell them you want to come too.
Age twenty-two – When your friend tries to set you up on a date and you tell her you can’t possibly go out with someone called Nigel, listen to your instincts. Run fast and far from this man.
Age twenty-six – When you are 32 weeks pregnant with twins, do not wish that you were no longer the size of a small block of flats. Because when the babies come early you will spend 3 weeks watching them in hospital thinking it was your fault.
Age thirty – When you move to the other side of the country, and you are secretly relieved that your husband tells you at the last minute that actually he’s not coming, so you’ll only see him for four days out of every fourteen, listen to the warning bells. Something is wrong here.
Age thirty-two – When you decide after a year at University that you don’t want to be a Social Worker, try to pick a more useful degree course to transfer to than sociology/applied psychology. Sure it’s fun, but it won’t get you a job.
Age thirty-five – When you lose lots of weight and look great after becoming a single mum, check your graduation outfit before the actual day. That way your mother doesn’t have to pin your shirt to your trousers so they don’t fall down.
Age thirty-six – When you meet the man you want to spend the rest of your life with, talk more about whether he should live with you or you should live with him. They have good schools up there too.
Present day – Accept that all the things that have happened in the past have happened for a reason and they have led you to this point. Sure, you could be better off financially, be slimmer, and have a tidier house. But you aren’t and you don’t. What you do have is pretty damn good, so hold on to it, appreciate it, and continue to be happy.
Age seven – Do not carry on a shouted conversation from the toilet in your classroom to the kid in the toilet in the adjoining classroom, especially when (for some reason not even known to yourself) you tell a pack of lies about how you are the new girl from America, when A. You have been at the school for a year, and B. You have a totally English accent. When you exit the toilet, you will discover that the entire class, including the teacher, has been listening to every word and they will all laugh at you until you cry.
Age ten – When you are asked if you have any doubts about the family that are going to foster you, be honest. If you lie simply to avoid hurting anyone’s feelings then both you and the family are going to be stuck with each other for seven long years.
Age twelve – When you are told that there is a place at grammar school for you so you will be able to get higher qualifications and go to University at eighteen, but you will have to start working to your potential, do not tell the headmaster that ‘what you see is what you get’. You will be stuck in a school that is due to close the year after you leave which means everyone just stops trying and you leave at sixteen having never worked to your potential.
Age seventeen – When you go to college to get the qualifications that you should have got at school so you can go on to University, do not spend the first year of the two year course in the pub. This will lead you to failing your end of year exams and not being allowed to come back. You will then end up in a ‘safe’ utterly dull job, and be told to leave your foster home. (Actually, that last was all for the best, so maybe the year in the pub was worth it).
Age nineteen – Learn to control your eating habits. When you stuff all that crap in your mouth and people ask how you manage to stay so slim, do not reply casually ‘yeah I know, one day I’m gonna wake up fat’. Because one day you will.
Age twenty – When your parents tell you they are emigrating and taking your eighteen-year-old brother with them, be honest. Tell them you want to come too.
Age twenty-two – When your friend tries to set you up on a date and you tell her you can’t possibly go out with someone called Nigel, listen to your instincts. Run fast and far from this man.
Age twenty-six – When you are 32 weeks pregnant with twins, do not wish that you were no longer the size of a small block of flats. Because when the babies come early you will spend 3 weeks watching them in hospital thinking it was your fault.
Age thirty – When you move to the other side of the country, and you are secretly relieved that your husband tells you at the last minute that actually he’s not coming, so you’ll only see him for four days out of every fourteen, listen to the warning bells. Something is wrong here.
Age thirty-two – When you decide after a year at University that you don’t want to be a Social Worker, try to pick a more useful degree course to transfer to than sociology/applied psychology. Sure it’s fun, but it won’t get you a job.
Age thirty-five – When you lose lots of weight and look great after becoming a single mum, check your graduation outfit before the actual day. That way your mother doesn’t have to pin your shirt to your trousers so they don’t fall down.
Age thirty-six – When you meet the man you want to spend the rest of your life with, talk more about whether he should live with you or you should live with him. They have good schools up there too.
Present day – Accept that all the things that have happened in the past have happened for a reason and they have led you to this point. Sure, you could be better off financially, be slimmer, and have a tidier house. But you aren’t and you don’t. What you do have is pretty damn good, so hold on to it, appreciate it, and continue to be happy.
Geeky? maybe. Sexy? HELL YES
I just wrote three paragraphs about why I haven’t posted for a few days but it was boring so you get this instead.
Yesterday I came across THIS . I take great offence at both this poster and the ASA. Not because of any rulings that have been made, not because I do or don’t like Angelina Jolie (beyond thinking she is kind of odd looking I don’t really care about her)
I am mad at the ASA because in their statement they said the ads featured a glamorous actress. Hang on, where is the equality? (I’m all about the equality) What they didn't mention is that the ad also features the gorgeous Scottish actor James McAvoy. James McAvoy, people. I don’t know if he’s known outside of Britain yet but this guy makes me go all tingly. He is very very cute, but more importantly, (well equally importantly at least) he is a talented actor.* I take offence at the poster because James is not featured as prominently as Angelina – I mean, come on – she’s had more than her fair share of movie posters. So what if she’s going to be the one to sell tickets to this film until people discover James. I want to put my own complaint in to the ASA, I demand more James.
*If you see him in nothing else, watch 'The Last King of Scotland'. I'll admit it's not an easy film but well worth it. As an added bonus it stars the always brilliant Forest Whitaker as Idi Amin in what, I think, is one of his best performances.
Yesterday I came across THIS . I take great offence at both this poster and the ASA. Not because of any rulings that have been made, not because I do or don’t like Angelina Jolie (beyond thinking she is kind of odd looking I don’t really care about her)
I am mad at the ASA because in their statement they said the ads featured a glamorous actress. Hang on, where is the equality? (I’m all about the equality) What they didn't mention is that the ad also features the gorgeous Scottish actor James McAvoy. James McAvoy, people. I don’t know if he’s known outside of Britain yet but this guy makes me go all tingly. He is very very cute, but more importantly, (well equally importantly at least) he is a talented actor.* I take offence at the poster because James is not featured as prominently as Angelina – I mean, come on – she’s had more than her fair share of movie posters. So what if she’s going to be the one to sell tickets to this film until people discover James. I want to put my own complaint in to the ASA, I demand more James.
*If you see him in nothing else, watch 'The Last King of Scotland'. I'll admit it's not an easy film but well worth it. As an added bonus it stars the always brilliant Forest Whitaker as Idi Amin in what, I think, is one of his best performances.
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