I have never been a fan of family photos. You know the ones, you're at your grandma's birthday dinner or your uncle's retirement bash and all of a sudden the party stops while EVERYONE gets a camera out and takes a million versions of the same picture. Actually, let me rephrase that, I never had an opinion on family photos other than irritation until my son was born and annoyance level was raised a few notches.
Tiny children seem to have a threshold for being sociable so when my boy was little I would graciously bow out of any family party when I could see the grumpiness levels rising in him. And as I would announce mine and his departure the same thing would ALWAYS happen. 'Oh, we'll just take some pictures before you go' would reverberate round the room as people reached for their cameras. 'No wankers' I would be furiously thinking, 'I have a child who is tired/hungry and I am knackered and we want to go home. This could of been done hours ago.' Outwardly I would do the nearest I could manage to a smile* and there would be endless repetitions of similar poses with different groups of people while the boy would become increasingly agitated and I could feel my blood pressure rising.
Obviously as the boy got older this was much less of a problem but it was too late, the damage was done and my hatred for having my picture taken and indeed of taking pictures was pretty much set in stone.
But fast forward several years and things change. Just over a year ago I managed a whole hour of posing - well, it was my wedding and with the boy moving down south in a month or so suddenly everything is a Kodak moment. It was his sports day on Wednesday and there I was proud as punch in the front row like some paparazzi taking endless shots of him and his team.
I shall digress slightly and offer you my opinions on sports days. I remember the excitement of taking part as a child and if only the olympics were based on egg and spoon races or obsticle courses I think the event would be a lot more fun. But as a parent, especially a parent of a child that is not athletically gifted they are torturous, heart breaking affairs. My boy dropped his bouncy egg off the spoon just before the finish line and ended up being last. He wasn't that bothered but I could feel the tears welling up and I wanted to stand up and shout 'WHO GIVES A FUCK ABOUT A POXY RACE?' I obviously didn't but the worst thing was it wasn't even just my son I got upset on behalf of. Any overweight, clumsy, or uncoordinated child coming last by a mile and I felt terrible. Sports days should be banned under the Geneva Convention.
Anyway, How gutted was I when I checked my camera's memory and couldn't find any of the sports day pictures? I know I am a technical fucktard but how can I get wrong point and press? Somehow I fucking managed. I have however made up for it with several million pictures of the boy and dog, the boy with my mam, the boy eating, the boy standing. You get the idea, now I'm the irritating wanker with the camera.
*grimace. (an ugly twisted expression of a person's face)
Friday, 22 July 2011
Sunday, 10 July 2011
Not funny or rude, but a bit sad.
I haven't posted anything in a while, and here's why.
As well as being about eight weeks away from having a new bundle of joy/screaming poo maker, I already have a nine year old son Simon* from a previous relationship. He is all the words that mam's regularly trot out about their offspring, beautiful (although he won't thank me for that, he would prefer handsome) clever, kind, thoughtful, polite and generally a whole heap of fun to be around.
When me and his dad split up six years ago, there was much in the press about how boys were going off the rails and it was thought that this was due to a lack of male role models in their lives. Determined this wouldn't happen to my boy, me and his dad agreed on an equal access arrangement, which has worked well.
So for three years I was by myself, then I met my other half and Simon coped well with a new man about. In fact as I sit and type this they are playing some Call of Duty game and discussing which is the best weapon to have.
Now Simon's dad is not from Ooop North, he is from Daaahn South but when we split up he did an honorable thing and rather than move back to his friends and family he has stuck it out up here to be close to his son. But just as I have moved on and found happiness again, so has my ex and I am very happy for him that he has. The only tiny fly in the ointment is that his new partner is also from the south and understandably my ex would like to start a life with her and her two children. For the past year or so my ex has travelled down south most weekends taking Simon with him every other weekend. This is where it gets really tricky, because Simon has decided he would like to move down south with his dad.
When this idea was first mooted I was of course against the very idea. He is my son and the idea of me not seeing him on a more or less daily basis makes my heart feel like it is being ripped apart. In fact because me and my ex couldn't agree, my ex ended up applying for custody of Simon (our custody arrangements have always been voluntary and agreed between ourselves) so that he could move away with him. It got to a few days before the court date when Simon told me he didn't want to move with his dad and wanted everything to stay as it was. My ex withdrew his application and although my solicitor was convinced I would of won, I heaved a huge sigh of relief. I didn't realise how much stress I'd been under until it stopped.
Fast forward six whole weeks and Simon came to me saying he had changed his mind and wanted to move with his dad. Now I can't really explain how as a mother this made me feel. Hurt is not the right word and I don't want to speculate on a blog why my son wants to spend more time with his dad but there is a mean, horrible part of me that thinks if six years ago when we'd split up I had only let Simon see his dad every other weekend none of this would be happening.
Things got nasty for a while. I was straight back to my solicitor all ready to go back to court and fight tooth and nail to keep my son with me, all the while the stress building up again to the point I couldn't sleep for worrying, I wasn't eating and and then I would worry about the effects of the stress on the baby. When I talked to Simon he was consistently and calmly saying he wanted to live with his dad so in the end I met my ex and told him I wouldn't stand in the way of Simon moving down south with him so long as we could agree on access. So I will see my son every half term holiday and half of the longer holidays with the odd weekend in between.
This has easily been the hardest thing I've had to do ever. Just sitting here and thinking about not picking Simon up from school on a daily basis brings tears to my eyes and if I think about it too much, I actually physically crumble in to tiny, tiny pieces.
My other half has been endlessly supportive. From the outside looking in, people might think that he would be delighted that Simon wants to move away so then he gets me and our baby all to himself but nothing could be further from the truth. My other half has worked hard to get to know and build up a loving relationship with Simon and we both had visions of us being a terribly modern family with the baby having a big brother to look over him and were already thinking of days out and holidays that would cater for siblings with a nine year age gap. Not that these days out and holidays won't happen now, but they wont just happen on a whim, they will be meticulously planned and include a 240 mile trip to pick Simon up.
I obviously worry that Simon thinks he's been pushed out by the impending arrival of his sibling so I've explained to him just how important a part of our family he is and he says he understands but I still worry.
The state of affairs now as it turns out, could be seen by some as ironic. As we count down to the arrival of our baby, I am also counting down to the departure of my son. My ex wants to be moved down south by the start of the autumn term and the baby is due on the fourth of September. Simon has two more weeks of school, is away for the first three weeks of the summer holidays with his dad then we have him for the last three weeks. A holiday has been planned with my mam and dad and it's as if we are planning to stock up on time spent with Simon because we know these stores are going to be depleted.
Some friends have not been entirely sympathetic with my situation and think I should fight on regardless of what Simon wants. And don't get me wrong, this has been a tempting option. But in my heart I feel it is better that I support Simon with what must of been a very difficult decision for him to make, and ensure that he knows how much he is loved and that if he ever changes his mind, he is always welcome here in what I consider to be his home.
This has been an entirely selfish post. It's as if until I write this, I can't write anything else. I have a very funny story I want to share about my big hot boobs (they are both these things) and I feel the urge to write about how feeling a baby move inside you is not always pleasant, but they have had to wait.
*Oh, Simon is not his real name, if I used his real name I probably wouldn't of got past the first paragraph without being a gibbering wreck.
As well as being about eight weeks away from having a new bundle of joy/screaming poo maker, I already have a nine year old son Simon* from a previous relationship. He is all the words that mam's regularly trot out about their offspring, beautiful (although he won't thank me for that, he would prefer handsome) clever, kind, thoughtful, polite and generally a whole heap of fun to be around.
When me and his dad split up six years ago, there was much in the press about how boys were going off the rails and it was thought that this was due to a lack of male role models in their lives. Determined this wouldn't happen to my boy, me and his dad agreed on an equal access arrangement, which has worked well.
So for three years I was by myself, then I met my other half and Simon coped well with a new man about. In fact as I sit and type this they are playing some Call of Duty game and discussing which is the best weapon to have.
Now Simon's dad is not from Ooop North, he is from Daaahn South but when we split up he did an honorable thing and rather than move back to his friends and family he has stuck it out up here to be close to his son. But just as I have moved on and found happiness again, so has my ex and I am very happy for him that he has. The only tiny fly in the ointment is that his new partner is also from the south and understandably my ex would like to start a life with her and her two children. For the past year or so my ex has travelled down south most weekends taking Simon with him every other weekend. This is where it gets really tricky, because Simon has decided he would like to move down south with his dad.
When this idea was first mooted I was of course against the very idea. He is my son and the idea of me not seeing him on a more or less daily basis makes my heart feel like it is being ripped apart. In fact because me and my ex couldn't agree, my ex ended up applying for custody of Simon (our custody arrangements have always been voluntary and agreed between ourselves) so that he could move away with him. It got to a few days before the court date when Simon told me he didn't want to move with his dad and wanted everything to stay as it was. My ex withdrew his application and although my solicitor was convinced I would of won, I heaved a huge sigh of relief. I didn't realise how much stress I'd been under until it stopped.
Fast forward six whole weeks and Simon came to me saying he had changed his mind and wanted to move with his dad. Now I can't really explain how as a mother this made me feel. Hurt is not the right word and I don't want to speculate on a blog why my son wants to spend more time with his dad but there is a mean, horrible part of me that thinks if six years ago when we'd split up I had only let Simon see his dad every other weekend none of this would be happening.
Things got nasty for a while. I was straight back to my solicitor all ready to go back to court and fight tooth and nail to keep my son with me, all the while the stress building up again to the point I couldn't sleep for worrying, I wasn't eating and and then I would worry about the effects of the stress on the baby. When I talked to Simon he was consistently and calmly saying he wanted to live with his dad so in the end I met my ex and told him I wouldn't stand in the way of Simon moving down south with him so long as we could agree on access. So I will see my son every half term holiday and half of the longer holidays with the odd weekend in between.
This has easily been the hardest thing I've had to do ever. Just sitting here and thinking about not picking Simon up from school on a daily basis brings tears to my eyes and if I think about it too much, I actually physically crumble in to tiny, tiny pieces.
My other half has been endlessly supportive. From the outside looking in, people might think that he would be delighted that Simon wants to move away so then he gets me and our baby all to himself but nothing could be further from the truth. My other half has worked hard to get to know and build up a loving relationship with Simon and we both had visions of us being a terribly modern family with the baby having a big brother to look over him and were already thinking of days out and holidays that would cater for siblings with a nine year age gap. Not that these days out and holidays won't happen now, but they wont just happen on a whim, they will be meticulously planned and include a 240 mile trip to pick Simon up.
I obviously worry that Simon thinks he's been pushed out by the impending arrival of his sibling so I've explained to him just how important a part of our family he is and he says he understands but I still worry.
The state of affairs now as it turns out, could be seen by some as ironic. As we count down to the arrival of our baby, I am also counting down to the departure of my son. My ex wants to be moved down south by the start of the autumn term and the baby is due on the fourth of September. Simon has two more weeks of school, is away for the first three weeks of the summer holidays with his dad then we have him for the last three weeks. A holiday has been planned with my mam and dad and it's as if we are planning to stock up on time spent with Simon because we know these stores are going to be depleted.
Some friends have not been entirely sympathetic with my situation and think I should fight on regardless of what Simon wants. And don't get me wrong, this has been a tempting option. But in my heart I feel it is better that I support Simon with what must of been a very difficult decision for him to make, and ensure that he knows how much he is loved and that if he ever changes his mind, he is always welcome here in what I consider to be his home.
This has been an entirely selfish post. It's as if until I write this, I can't write anything else. I have a very funny story I want to share about my big hot boobs (they are both these things) and I feel the urge to write about how feeling a baby move inside you is not always pleasant, but they have had to wait.
*Oh, Simon is not his real name, if I used his real name I probably wouldn't of got past the first paragraph without being a gibbering wreck.
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