Dotty

First of all I would like to extend my thanks to everyone on here and Twitter who have shown me such support, love and understanding, that it has quite taken my breath away. I wish I could thank you all personally. I wish I could hug you and show you just how much every word means to me. I know that your words and concern were sincere and not ‘just words’ – I feel it in the very heart of me, and I am truly grateful to know such a kind community.

I have lashed out at the two people who mean more to me in the world – I have said words I sincerely regret and did not mean – they were designed to drive them away. They didn’t. They won’t let me go. They still love me. I don’t understand how or why, but they do. And I love them. It hurts me to love them – they are so far away and every time I leave them is harder than the last. They speak their mind and they are not afraid to question me, they delve deeper into me than I am comfortable with. I am learning that this is real love and real commitment. It isn’t an easy subject – give me Latin any day, even physics which I was so singularly inept at that my teacher despaired of me. (I got the O-level though – just to spite him).

Anyhow, life goes on. The earth turns, the sun rises and sets, the clouds float by, it rains, it is fine, it is day, it is night. This too shall pass.

My husband has taken my children away on what was to have been an amicable break for all of us. After Wednesday night I was told that I don’t deserve the pleasure of seeing my boys cycle freely, swim and slide in pools with gay abandon and so I am left to my own devices.

I am using this time well. I have a haircut planned for this afternoon to put right the devastation I created with a pair of blunt nail scissors on Thursday. I am seeing my CPN tomorrow.  I am having coffee on Thursday with a kind friend and a rummage in a very secret charity shop which receives samples of the most beautiful Tweeds our mills have to offer. On Friday I am traveling to Edinburgh to meet with a solicitor so that I can do the very best I can for my boys and not be ridden over roughshod by my husband and his family. Next Tuesday I have a meeting with the homeless department: they believe I have a good case and have been very helpful.

I am looking forward and I am picking myself up. It is tiring – I have known sleep deprivation and exhaustion, but nothing could have prepared me for the mind-numbing state I find myself in right now. I will do it and I will survive and I will be the very best that I can be: and that means being a mother that my children can be proud of and glad to know.

Thank you, to you all, for your help and support.

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The Paradoxical Commandments
by Dr. Kent M. Keith

People are illogical, unreasonable, and self-centered.
Love them anyway.

If you do good, people will accuse you of selfish ulterior motives.
Do good anyway.

If you are successful, you will win false friends and true enemies.
Succeed anyway.

The good you do today will be forgotten tomorrow.
Do good anyway.

Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable.
Be honest and frank anyway.

The biggest men and women with the biggest ideas can be shot down by the
smallest men and women with the smallest minds.
Think big anyway.

People favor underdogs but follow only top dogs.
Fight for a few underdogs anyway.

What you spend years building may be destroyed overnight.
Build anyway.

People really need help but may attack you if you do help them.
Help people anyway.

Give the world the best you have and you’ll get kicked in the teeth.
Give the world the best you have anyway.

© Copyright Kent M. Keith 1968, renewed 2001
www.paradoxicalcommandments.com

I am drawn to paradigms and this text strikes a particular chord with me. The events of the last year have left me feeling incredibly vulnerable yet capable of inflicting dreadful hurt. My first reaction is to want to withdraw from the world and let it pass me by – yet I know that to be who I need to be to enjoy this life, I have to “go out there”.

I hope that reflection on this text will inspire me as it has inspired many others, far more vulnerable, before me.

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After all the upheaval, surviving the backlash and making what I thought were concrete plans, I have decided to stay with my family.

I don’t know that this is the right decision for me as an individual – but I do know that leaving is not the best thing I can do for my family.  There are many things I need to change first before I throw the metaphorical baby out. I still believe that I am not the feisty, vibrant individual my children deserve to know – but I don’t know when I fell back into believing that person could only be brought alive by a man, or that a man could be the cause of her demise. I was brought up with that belief and somewhere, somehow during the last 10 years I have regressed.

I need to believe in myself again and I need to lose the strict contraints I have put around myself to define what makes me a good mother. Before Wee1 was born I believed I could only qualify as a good mother if

1. I used terry nappies (and the old-fashioned squares, not pre-made)
2. I breastfed exclusively
3. I served only wholesome home-cooked food
4. The television was never on
5. I used a real Silvercross pram
6. I enjoyed every moment of my baby’s company
7. I kept a perfect home
8. ….999. I stayed at home

The list goes on and on and on – and of course almost every item on the mile-long convoluting, strangling, suffocating mental list I made  has at one point or another fallen by the wayside. I am still a mother and my children are still fine human beings.

The last hurdle I have to face, and one which I suspect will cause more upset in my family than the thought of me leaving my husband is that I have to return to work.

I love my children – but their sole company is not enough to illuminate me. I will be the first person to acknowledge that this may indeed make me less of a person, but it is the truth. I need more. I need other adults to laugh with, battle with, be challenged by and fire off. I need the focus and adrenaline rush that comes with deadlines, deals closing and targets being hit and busted. I need to be employed outside the home.

As for Mr? I don’t know – I hope that the spark will return and that love will grow into what it should be. I know that we will both try. I know that what I seek is not to be found in the arms of another man (I really truly never thought it was).

I begin February knowing a lot more about myself but paradoxically understanding a lot less. Please bear with me.

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A meme from Careyannie’s Mumma Said

Family

Aunty Mim is 9 years older than me. She lent me her Jackie and gave me the non-David Cassidy posters to put up on my wall. She told me that the henna she put on her hair was cow poo and for years I believed her. I followed her diet fads with fascination (someone could choose what to eat!) and her life outside 9-5 conformity with awe.

Aunty Mim has, since I have been aware of her presence in my life, become a mother and a granny. Both roles she fulfils with a gusto I can only marvel at. She is also a mother-figure to me as well as being a big sister and an aunt – she is so much more than the sum of those parts. Aunty Mim is outspoken, opinionated and feisty and has a heart as big as a hippo. Sometimes we fall out – she doesn’t mince her words, and I retreat quickly when confronted with disapproval and possible rejection – but we make up and are the stronger for it. We even had a heated discussion last week – and parted company closer than before.

Aunty Mim keeps my feet on the ground and lets me have my head in the clouds. She is nobody’s yes-girl, but she rarely utters the word “no”.

I wish the world could have the pleasure of knowing my Aunty Mim.

Friends

I am very lucky to have some fabulous friends. Not very many of them live on my doorstep, and those that do I try not to bother. This can look as though I am not particularly friendly… as much as I am always the one there to lend a shoulder, a hanky, a cup of tea or a gallon of wine:I can rarely be the one to accept the same. So I battle on for the most part behind closed doors, coming out only when the going is good. But to Tom, Fred, Russ, Hilary, Rachel, Annie, Jez, Angela, Wendy, Mona, Jacqui, Emily, Andy, Dawn, Pam, Penny and Joanne – I am profoundly grateful for the fact that I could, if I could, knock on any of your doors and be welcomed in.

The White Coats

The last 4 years have been difficult. I am not quite sure why many of the people I have met in white coats choose to pursue their profession in the mental health field. It doesn’t seem to have been through empathy of either patients or disability. Some are, quite frankly, insulting. However, I do have two bright shining stars: my Community Psychiatric Nurse “K” and my GP, Dr W. Both not only accept that my IQ has not nosedived to double figures with the diagnosis of a disorder, but seem to appreciate the fact that they have an intelligent and articulate patient – and that they too might have something to learn. I respect and applaud them.

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When I said those words almost 15 years ago I truly believed the promise I was making would be an unbreakable bond. I looked forward, like most other brides, to a life of making memories and growing old together. We have weathered sickness, changes in our fortunes and circumstances, been blessed with two wonderful children, but what has broken us is the death of love… the one thing I thought would never happen.

I am still inordinately fond of my husband, despite his still very raw and understandable anger. I appreciate his strengths and I know all his weaknesses. He is still the most wonderful father – the same one who sped from Bristol to Scotland to see his first son minutes after he was born, the same one who was called in from combining in the middle of harvest to meet his second son. The issue is that I do not love him as I want to love a man.

There is no-one else involved. There may never be another man for me to love, but I cannot live without the hope of that spark, the possibility of finding that missing piece from the jigsaw puzzle of my life. We have tried actively for the last 3 years to fan the dying embers back to life: we have been responsible parents and done our very best to maintain the ideal nuclear family unit – but I am spent: I have nothing left to give.

I do not want my children growing up with a mother without verve; watching a marriage without affection – they and I deserve more than that.

The practicalities will be difficult – we have little disposable income and no capital. I am looking for a job (doing anything) which will enable me to save up enough to put down the deposit on a small flat big enough for me and for the children. My husband will remain in the family home: the decision to leave was mine so it seems only right that I should be the one to find a new home. We will share custody and I believe that once the hurt has subsided we can recreate the great parenting team that we were – albeit under separate roofs.

In the meantime we will try to rub along, tease apart finances and chattels and remind ourselves that to conduct ourselves in anything other than a civilised and amicable manner would be a travesty, not only for our children, but for the 18 years we have spent together.

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I am a procrastinator. There I have said it. There are countless web sites, books, mp3s, gurus who promise to teach me how to confront this burden I carry – but not one which will do the one small thing that gets in my way of

perfecting the art of ribbon pleating

http://www.vintagesewing.info/1920s/25-m/m-11.html

making my ideal hat

http://www.hgtv.com/crafting/silk-and-taffeta-hat-and-handbag/index.html

creating a profusion of ruffled delights

http://www.etsy.com/storque/how-to/how-tuesday-pillow-with-rosette-clusters-from-felt-furnishin-5095/

or simply writing for the sheer unbridled joy of it.

There is, in my home a shelf. It is a shelf of little value, tucked in amongst many other shelves. Somewhere upon that shelf sits a row of how-to books. How to identify wild mushrooms; how to fix just about everything; how to sew; how to sew some more; how to be the perfect mother; how to be the perfect wife; how to have the perfect child, how to make the perfect blog website… Unfortunately this shelf is directly behind ‘my’ seat at our dining table.

The dining table in our tiny wee house is also the children’s drawing table; their making table; the laundry sorting and folding table; the ‘I’ll put that in the kitchen in minute’ table. When it comes to mealtimes to which we do, to our credit, always sit down together there is usually something which has not been moved from the table. I am usually the one who picks this errant item up and pops it on the self behind me.

The shelf behind me groans and moans and taunts me with higgledy piggledy abandon. I cannot move until it is conquered. To do so would be the work of 5 minutes. 90% of the pile will be destined for the bin or the recycling basket. 5 minutes work to release me to the joys of creativity.

But, of course, there is always the top of the printer, just behind Mr Dotty’s seat…

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My idea of the perfect Christmas present has changed over the years… particularly over the last 6 child-filled years. I am sure that strikes a chord with many….

Gone are the days when, as one half of a high-earning couple, I could go to my favouite jeweller (the very handsome, charming and utterly delectable David Dudley of Marlborough), spend many happy hours dressing up dripping diamonds, pearls, aquamarine and my favourite of all: a star sapphire, unmatched in its understated beauty.  We would choose our favourite and carefully pick 2 stooges to be displayed alongside on the magic black velvet. After a relaxed (boozy) lunch Mr Dotty and our dearest friend would be led into the lion’s den and given ‘the choice’. David would gently guide, Uncle Kerr (as he is now known) would bluster and egg Mr Dotty on – and the prize would be mine.

This year my list is quite different. In no particular order, I share with you my heart’s desires:

A £20 book voucher and 3 hours to spend alone in http://www.mainstreetbooks.co.uk/. It is a gem of a bookshop, fully deserving of its award for Best Independent Bookshop 2009 and amidst the warren of books is a place of calm to sit and read, drink real coffee or tea and pick delicately at mouthwatering cakes. It is a haven.

A driving lesson to drill into me the magic formula for reverse parallel parking. I believe this would save me at least one week a year in my bid to find a 3-car-length space in which to drive straight into.

A wardrobe assistant to pick out a smart, appropriate, slightly quirky/funky outfit for the next day to keep me away from the old lazy fail-safe of the jeans and fleece at the bottom of the bed. I have many beautiful clothes – and they are seldom worn.

A swimming lesson to teach me grown-up front crawl. The idea of actually moving arms and kicking legs in synchronicity *and* moving forwards is a joy only those confined to breast-stroke can dream of. The swimming instructor also happens to be an official hunk of the highest order

Anything at all from the ever innovative, stylish and amazing Khoola Designs www. khooladesigns.co.uk

And my last wish of all – true acceptance of mental illness and maybe one day a cure or two….

And on a humorous note – here is what stirred me from my lassitude and got me back into the Christmas spirit: a message from Father Christmas himself sent by my dear friend on Twitter @grizzlyfish: http://portablenorthpole.tv/watch/507e822ab36032eda5f8e993342d8870

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Picnics have been a part of my life since I can remember – from being packed off for the day as a child with a jam sandwich, a bottle of Dandelion & Burdock and a promise to be home by teatime to dining al-fresco in black tie deep in the Nambian bush beneath the twinkling skies.

Eating outdoors holds a magical allure for me – which I hope to pass onto the Wees. Picnics can be an impromptu decision to take a flask of coffee, some home-made flapjack and just sit by the river watching the ripples and eddies (and keeping an eye out for Mabel the crocodile), or it can be a planned long-anticipated afternoon of decadence with smoked salmon sandwiches, strawberries and Champagne watching an outdoor play or opera.

The joy for me is in the place and the company – and the irreverence. There are no rules (at my picnics, anyway) of the order in which food should be eaten. The Wees are free to get up, run, paddle, and return for another nibble as they wish. Picnics can be eaten anywhere: I’ve sat on a low wall in Mayfair with my aunt eating a sandwich, a city centre bench eating hot chestnuts, underneath the shade of a tree at the foot of a massive sand dune; public parks galore – but best of all are the secret places discovered by us.

The view while we laze, play and eat...

Weather provides no restraint: flasks of Bovril, that long-forgotten staple of my childhood; baked beans with slices of sausage (or whole sausages wrapped in foil), chunky soup with crusty bread… a picnic in the snow can be as memorable as any balmy sunny day.

Trekking in the foothills

Food does not have to be prepared at home: think of blisteringly hot fish and chips on sea wall with a biting wind, or crab claws sucked clean of their sweet juicy flesh: even an emergency dash into the newsagent to buy HulaHoops, bananas and Mr Kipling’s Fancies.

I was prompted to write this post, rather than any of the others scrapping for attention in my head, by a new website www.onlyfootprints.co.uk. Take a look, and follow them on Twitter @only_footprints.

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I am in a reflective mood…

I should mention that today was Wee2’s 4th birthday. We had a quiet day with just the right ingredients to make it a happy day for the little one. His requests for presents included a Transformer (Wee1 likes them), swimming goggles, a shelf and a torch. Cleverly Mr Dotty found a wind-up torch in the camping section of the supermarket, so there is at least one toy which won’t eat batteries. Big Smartie point to Mr Dotty xxx!

We have recently returned from a less than successful trip to Orkney. Orkney itself was beautiful – in the rather bleak and raw way that Orkney is. The deserted clean beaches were lovely – but we missed other children for the Wees to play with. Granny and Grandpa spent little time with the Wees, our parenting skills seemed under scrutiny and found lacking, and it was all rather a shame.

To compound the lethargy which accompanies a dissatisfaction which cannot easily be overcome, I have gained weight and girth. I am convex where I should be concave (OK should be flat, but would really really like to be concave). I am spilling over where I should be filling out. I have decided to try running: but it is to be our secret. I am telling no-one. I have found a free podcast called “Couch to 5K” and I intend to try it out tomorrow morning. There are a few obstacles I can see along the road: the only time I can do this activity is first thing in the morning. Since I gave up work and being given large sums of dosh to catch flights at crazy hours, I am incapable of getting out of bed before I am kicked out. I have never been a successful fitness runner. Since having the Wees I have unfeasibly large breasts (what they tell you about breast-feeding is not true): there is no sports bra which can hope to constrain the darlings – maybe I shall steal some of Mr Dotty’s duct tape.

I have started drinking alcohol again. I say this, not as an alcoholic confession, but that I have found it (particularly during the holiday!) to be a useful relaxant, which also tastes quite yummy. This will also have contributed to the weight gain I am sure….

I am worried that I will not be able to maintain my new-re-found vegetarianism. I am yearning flesh. I stare at it in the fridge and it winks at me, wriggles suggestively, and promises to elevate my mood. Chorizo is the worst. Thank goodness we have no Parma ham in. I am cooking roast chicken tomorrow. God help me…

My last ‘gripe’ is that I have to (PLEASE excuse the phrase) sort my life out. I mean that quite literally. I am spurred on to do more than merely exist as a housewife and mother only to collapse at the end of the day. I know that I can be the mother I want to be, but also be ME too. To do that means organisation. I really loathe housework: the day-in-day-out kind, and the only way I can manage it is to have a list that I have to stick to. I need to clear shelves ready for my OU books. I need to find time for a new project (Melrose Community Cooperative is the working title) and I need to help Mr Dotty set up his new business. I also have to keep me healthy and happy – so that means time for tapping here.

As you see – lots to reflect upon!

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9.30am
Mr Dotty has ‘nipped out’ to B&Q to return a faulty saw. This would be like me ‘nipping out’ to have ‘quick coffee’ with a girlfriend. He has not taken the Wees with him. It is peeing down outside. My washing (most of the childrens’ clothes that I need to pack) is still on the line, now hanging perilously close to the ground (ungrassed mud).

11am
The Wees have seen me place a pair of trousers on the bed – overcome with excitement they have stripped off, placed their clothes in a pile and bounced all over the bed – singing ‘We’re going on holiday!!’ while the piles scatter.
In an attempt to keep them busy, I’ve asked them to bring through some clothes. So far we have: a Spiderman costume, a spider costume, a pirate costume, a Sportacus costume and one pair of pants.

11.20am
Mr Dotty has just called – he isn’t home yet (really?). He has bought a new saw. He has to take it to a friend’s farm, but he’ll be back in 10 minutes. He isn’t at the friend’s farm yet – and it is a 15 minute drive from there to here. He is also going to ‘nip in’ to the butcher to get some ham. I think he may have forgotten that we have quite an old-fashioned high street, and drive-thru shopping is not yet a feature. Hopefully we’ll see him by lunch-time.

11.40am
Wee2 has found the dustbin bag of old outgrown toys hidden at the back of the wardrobe waiting to be delivered to the charity shop. He is delighted. I am not. On a positive note it has drawn his attention away from the packing…

11.45am
Mr Dotty is home. A little spot of ear-chewing may be in order (to those who don’t understand the phrase ‘having one’s ears chewed off’ – it is the opposite of the erotic image you have in your mind).

12.15pm
Finding a way to last the day without a nap will have to wait until tomorrow. I do love Mr Dotty and I don’t want to be put into prison for a very long time, so I shall snuggle down for an hour or so and I am sure that after that all will be well.

2pm
I think we are going to have to build ’siesta time’ into Mr Dotty’s new business plan. As I shall be writing it, it shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ll have to think of some code-word to fool the bank manager. As it happens, I really should have stayed in bed, had a lovely cup of tea and read my book. Between 2pm and 7pm everything I did, or attempted to do was undone, subverted or hidden by the Wees. Mr Dotty didn’t help by unloading everything that I had carefully packed into the car on the premise of checking that I had packed everything that I should have. Oh, and did I really mean to pack this particular coat, etc, etc….

7pm
The Wees are bathed and in bed. I set about gathering up all the ‘old’ toys (which have been played more with this afternoon than ever they were before), and hiding them again. Then Wee2 surfaces. ‘What are you doing now, Mummy?’ ‘Nothing, go to sleep.’ ‘It’s too dark in my room, Mummy.‘ ‘You’ve just asked me to turn the light off – go to bed: NOW.’ Wee1 joins in. ‘What did you say, Mummy?‘. ‘Nothing’. ‘But you did say something – I heard you…‘ Wee2: ‘But Mummy. I love you, please can I sleep with you?’ Wee1: ‘What was that?‘ ‘NOTHING!!!!!!!!!!!!!’. Wee1: ‘It was something. I heard. Why can’t Wee2 sleep with you? He usually does…‘ ‘I am still trying to pack.’ Wee1 & Wee2: ‘Why, Mummy?‘.

7.30pm
I send a very eager Mr Dotty to the shop for some beer and chocolate. I devour the chocolate (sadly soft and not quite right, but the need is greater than the time needed to chill it), and steal a beer.
I do not drink. The beer is GOOD.

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