I read a book recently, this in itself is not unusual but what was out of the ordinary was that it made me think quite a bit afterwards. The book in question was Caitlin Moran's How to be a Woman and although she made a lot of valid points about what it is to be a feminist, the part I kept going back to is that of pubes. In the book it is suggested that we should be all proud of our pubes and grow magnificent bushes and not bother with the very modern phenomenon of waxing let alone vajazzling. I will lay my cards on the table, I get waxed. Everything. I used to do a DIY job with Veet cream, but one chemical burn too many in my intimate area meant I left my very personal grooming in the capable hands of one of my good friends at the local beauty salon.
When I read How to be a Woman, it made me think, why do I feel the need to inflict this pain on myself? To let someone spread hot wax on my genital area, stick a strip of cotton on to the hot wax then pull it off, bringing all the hair in that area with it would be considered a torturous thing by some. I've been doing it for years now and I book the next appointment automatically. Then I remembered. My pubes are ugly in the extreme. They are not curly, thick and lustrous in a very 1970's porn film style. (If they were, I would ROCK that look) What they are, if left to their own devices is like spider legs or mouse whiskers. Sparse, straight and with no respect for a bikini line.
While I'm on the subject of my foof and the related area, the last time I was at the midwife's she wrote in my notes '2/5'. 'Two fifths?' I questioned 'What does that mean?' So the midwife explained that having examined me she could only feel two fifths of the baby's head, the rest being in my pelvis. I relayed this to my husband later on when he came home from work over our tea of lasagna (the lasagna isn't important).
Later still, while in bed we embarked on a bit of sexy time. After a very valiant effort on both our parts - fighting back heartburn while giving a rather excellent blow job anyone? My husband owned up to the fact that he couldn't carry on because the baby was 'too close'
So now I have a new reason as to why I cant wait for the baby to arrive to add to my ever increasing list. See if you can spot the new one.
- I'll be able to pick things up off the floor again
- Bad back and hips will get better
- I won't need to piss every five minutes
- Heartburn will become a thing of the past
- Hello again to pate and soft cheese
- ALCOHOL
- A return to some hot and dirty sex - fucking get in (so to speak)
Thursday, 25 August 2011
Wednesday, 3 August 2011
Summer holidays.
Crying is a funny thing isn't it? You feel certain emotions and your eyes leak all over the place. If its particularly good cry there will be snot and hiccups involved as well. Some people never cry, others can turn tears on and off like a tap and use them as a weapon. For me, whether I like it or not, they just tag along with certain emotions - extreme happiness, sadness, fear, and frustration and without so much as a warning, along come the tears.
Two weeks ago my boy's school broke up for the summer holidays and myself and his dad were waiting at the gate for him to come out. For my son, it was more than just his last day of term, it was his last day ever at this school as he moves down south with his dad at the end of the summer and will start a new school there. (see previous post) As he came across the playground there was a big group of boys around him patting him on the back, wishing him good luck and telling him they were going to miss him. I could see by my son that he wanted to cry but he held it together until all his friends were gone and he was just with me and his dad. Then he had a bit of a cry before pulling himself together and getting on with the rest of his day, which for him was going off down south with his dad for the first three weeks of the summer break.
Whenever my boy goes away, the first few days for me are a bit rough. I miss him like you would miss your right arm. This time it was amplified because firstly I am treating his holiday as a practise run for when he moves away and secondly I couldn't get the image of him walking across the playground for the last time out of my head and it would break my heart all over again. At random moments it would replay in my mind, if you saw me walking the dog, you may of been wondering why I was gurning and it would be because I would be desperately trying to stop the tears coming out of my eyes. I developed a coping mechanism, I would think about my boy being away and having finished school in the shower and have a good old sob there so it was all out of my system.
As the days passed my teary moments became much less, which was good because there is nothing worse than being sat in work looking like your goldfish has just died. Many millions of years ago, I was a student nurse and I learnt about the five stages of grieving, now eye leakage isn't an actual stage, but acceptance is and every time my boy goes away I feel like I go through a mini grieving process that is something like this:
-Sadness
-More sadness
-Lost and lonely
-Getting back in to a routine
-Acceptance
Feeling much better I decided I was at acceptance and all was better with the world and my tear ducts could have a well deserved rest.
This weekend, my husband an I did something we very rarely do, we ventured beyond our small town and headed for the big city that is Carlisle for a day out. No grand plans beyond Homebase, Shanghai Shanghai and a mooch round the shops. My other half hates DIY and gets a bit tetchy when hungry so things got a bit tense in Homebase as we discussed a variety of green shades for the baby's room. Decisions were made quickly* and paint was bought so that we could head to the all you can eat chinese buffet mecca that is Shanghai Shanghai. I did in fact eat all I could. I apparently did it all wrong by having too many noodles. 'Noodles are your bulk items. You should leave those and just have the meat stuff.' 'But I like the noodles.' 'You wont be able to fit as much in.' Which I promptly proved to be incorrect by finishing off my not one, but two plates that had been heavily laden with carbohydrates with eleven pineapple fritters. A new record for me.
We wandered into the city** centre and generally pottered around. I spent too much money on make up but the thought of it made me giddy with happiness, proving that not very deep down I am a shallow girl who likes shoes, handbags and pretty, shiny, new make-up that will make me BEAUTIFUL I tell you. We browsed Waterstones, me looking for Grace Dent's book How To Leave Twitter and as it turned out the other half was looking at a complete and illustrated guide to all the weapons used in Star Wars, apparently a very good reference guide he tells me. I ended up in the children's section and was picking out things my boy would like. See with his dad its all about computer games and films, with me it's all about the books. From The Big Hungry Caterpillar and Spot the Dog, through to the Gruffalo and The Tiger Who Came to Tea we have progressed to Roald Dahl, Diary of a Wimpy Kid and Charlie Higson's series about zombies. And while I was looking at a Harry Potter Cludo set it suddenly hit me. What if I lose track of what the boy does and doesn't like? What if I end up like one of those embarrassing parents who don't get their kids? You know, when you buy them something, thinking they'll love it and they look at it with a bemused expression on their face, smile, say thank you, put the item down and NEVER look at it again. Rationally, I know this is remote, but as I stood in the bookshop, the sadness of my boy moving away threatened to floor me. I gurned a bit, took some deep breaths, moved out of the children's section and ended up looking at Manga comics. I didn't tell my other half a Cludo set had knocked the wind out of my sails, I asked him to tell me about the laser rifle he was reading about instead and as we headed out in to the sunshine I remembered something about the stages of grieving, which is that they are not linear and you can move backwards and forwards from stage to stage. I just have to accept that things will come out of nowhere that will push me back to sadness and that I will cope and get through it, because it is just a stage, and move on.
* Perhaps too quickly as we seem to have ended up with lime geen and a shade of yellow brighter than the sun for an accent wall.
** Carlisle is like the smallest city in the world. It's city centre is probably smaller than your high street. In fact it feels odd calling it a city. Hang on.......*Googles 'is Carlisle a city?'* Yes, it is a city. Still feels odd calling it that though.
Two weeks ago my boy's school broke up for the summer holidays and myself and his dad were waiting at the gate for him to come out. For my son, it was more than just his last day of term, it was his last day ever at this school as he moves down south with his dad at the end of the summer and will start a new school there. (see previous post) As he came across the playground there was a big group of boys around him patting him on the back, wishing him good luck and telling him they were going to miss him. I could see by my son that he wanted to cry but he held it together until all his friends were gone and he was just with me and his dad. Then he had a bit of a cry before pulling himself together and getting on with the rest of his day, which for him was going off down south with his dad for the first three weeks of the summer break.
Whenever my boy goes away, the first few days for me are a bit rough. I miss him like you would miss your right arm. This time it was amplified because firstly I am treating his holiday as a practise run for when he moves away and secondly I couldn't get the image of him walking across the playground for the last time out of my head and it would break my heart all over again. At random moments it would replay in my mind, if you saw me walking the dog, you may of been wondering why I was gurning and it would be because I would be desperately trying to stop the tears coming out of my eyes. I developed a coping mechanism, I would think about my boy being away and having finished school in the shower and have a good old sob there so it was all out of my system.
As the days passed my teary moments became much less, which was good because there is nothing worse than being sat in work looking like your goldfish has just died. Many millions of years ago, I was a student nurse and I learnt about the five stages of grieving, now eye leakage isn't an actual stage, but acceptance is and every time my boy goes away I feel like I go through a mini grieving process that is something like this:
-Sadness
-More sadness
-Lost and lonely
-Getting back in to a routine
-Acceptance
Feeling much better I decided I was at acceptance and all was better with the world and my tear ducts could have a well deserved rest.
This weekend, my husband an I did something we very rarely do, we ventured beyond our small town and headed for the big city that is Carlisle for a day out. No grand plans beyond Homebase, Shanghai Shanghai and a mooch round the shops. My other half hates DIY and gets a bit tetchy when hungry so things got a bit tense in Homebase as we discussed a variety of green shades for the baby's room. Decisions were made quickly* and paint was bought so that we could head to the all you can eat chinese buffet mecca that is Shanghai Shanghai. I did in fact eat all I could. I apparently did it all wrong by having too many noodles. 'Noodles are your bulk items. You should leave those and just have the meat stuff.' 'But I like the noodles.' 'You wont be able to fit as much in.' Which I promptly proved to be incorrect by finishing off my not one, but two plates that had been heavily laden with carbohydrates with eleven pineapple fritters. A new record for me.
We wandered into the city** centre and generally pottered around. I spent too much money on make up but the thought of it made me giddy with happiness, proving that not very deep down I am a shallow girl who likes shoes, handbags and pretty, shiny, new make-up that will make me BEAUTIFUL I tell you. We browsed Waterstones, me looking for Grace Dent's book How To Leave Twitter and as it turned out the other half was looking at a complete and illustrated guide to all the weapons used in Star Wars, apparently a very good reference guide he tells me. I ended up in the children's section and was picking out things my boy would like. See with his dad its all about computer games and films, with me it's all about the books. From The Big Hungry Caterpillar and Spot the Dog, through to the Gruffalo and The Tiger Who Came to Tea we have progressed to Roald Dahl, Diary of a Wimpy Kid and Charlie Higson's series about zombies. And while I was looking at a Harry Potter Cludo set it suddenly hit me. What if I lose track of what the boy does and doesn't like? What if I end up like one of those embarrassing parents who don't get their kids? You know, when you buy them something, thinking they'll love it and they look at it with a bemused expression on their face, smile, say thank you, put the item down and NEVER look at it again. Rationally, I know this is remote, but as I stood in the bookshop, the sadness of my boy moving away threatened to floor me. I gurned a bit, took some deep breaths, moved out of the children's section and ended up looking at Manga comics. I didn't tell my other half a Cludo set had knocked the wind out of my sails, I asked him to tell me about the laser rifle he was reading about instead and as we headed out in to the sunshine I remembered something about the stages of grieving, which is that they are not linear and you can move backwards and forwards from stage to stage. I just have to accept that things will come out of nowhere that will push me back to sadness and that I will cope and get through it, because it is just a stage, and move on.
* Perhaps too quickly as we seem to have ended up with lime geen and a shade of yellow brighter than the sun for an accent wall.
** Carlisle is like the smallest city in the world. It's city centre is probably smaller than your high street. In fact it feels odd calling it a city. Hang on.......*Googles 'is Carlisle a city?'* Yes, it is a city. Still feels odd calling it that though.
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