I’m 30. Actually that isn’t true, I’m 32. I don’t really know how it happened. How I got to this age. It’s an adult age isn’t it? Coupled with the children I have, two of them and one about to start secondary school *Sobs* I really feel like I am being dragged into a middle aged rut. I don’t even know if I am middle aged? What IS thirty?
Currently I am sitting at home working on more projects than I care to count. I have a magazine to launch which I know will work but is far bigger than I am. I have a car club which I passed on to someone else to run whilst I focussed on my other projects. Now I feel redundant in my own company. I am writing a book, it’s weird really. It’s not a funny book. It’s a sensible. I am the complete opposite of sensible. Some days I read it and think “Yup, this is awesome” other days – today – I look at it and think “What is the point, its just a load of words. WHO WOULD READ THIS?”
I’m a little lost.
Can you even be a little lost? Surely if you are lost you are just lost right? Are there different levels of lost? How do you define them? Maybe you define them when you find yourself again “Ah, there is the path – I was only a little bit lost then” or “WOAH! The path is all the way over THERE? Shit I was mega lost”
Ok. I’m lost.
It’s got to be normal at this age right? A bit like the menopause is normal when you get to 50. A 30’s wobble? That’s a thing right?
I feel useless. My kids don’t really need me anymore. I used to be so cool to them. When I wasn’t cool they just NEEDED me so I was like the best thing in the world to them. Now I am like this Nerd, they ask “Why are you wearing that gay onesie mum?” or when I ask for a cuddle I get looked at like I have just asked Batman to fist-bump the Joker. I spend very little time with them because I am spending most of my time worrying about the debts I have created myself during what I refer to as my ‘successful twenties’ before pondering on how successful my twenties actually were given the amount of MESS they have left me with in my thirties. The time I do spend with them isn’t exactly great for my self esteem. My son told me three times last week that I was the WORST MOTHER IN THE WORLD. I know I’m not. I’d like to instantly show him a few of the Mum’s on the internet and then say “HEY!! I know! Why don’t you spend the week with THIS MUM and see how many Mum points I score THEN??” but I don’t, I don’t because the truth is I do sometimes feel like the worst Mother in the world.
You know what I want to do? I just want to hang out with them. I want to take Oliver karting every weekend. Do a bit of trial biking with him – actually do it not just watch. I want to take Mili out on our horses and ride through some fields and talk about boys and drinking and drugs. When I say talk about, I mean lull her into a false sense of security that she can talk to me about anything and everything. Not because I am a cool and understanding Mum. No. So I can plan out how I will prevent disaster from happening and / or be prepared for when it does. My Mum knew NOTHING about my school years because she was such a nag and worrier. I am going to be all like “Hey! Oh your seeing this boy now? GOODIE” and then I shall do my Mum research. It pays to have Pbubs in my life. I now know how to do ‘Ghost Walk’ and ‘Monkey Crawl’ and I am pretty sure there is no spotty, 15 year old, walking seed spreader who could get past me. You can see how cool I am going to be with this teenage thing right?
Of course, the reality is the kids will tell me snippets of their life and then proudly tell the universe the whole ugly contents of mine. Mili did it the other day. Well she half did it. I say half did it because only half of it was true. Firstly she hinted at a few personal objects she had ‘found’ in my PRIVATE (If you don’t have kids make the most of this word. Privacy goes out the window when you hear the pitter patter) draws. Then she told a story about me that was completely true to some new people in my life who MUST already think I am mental because, well, look at me and then just as they had bought into this whole story she was telling announced “And then I found cocaine in mummies wardrobe”
Right. Firstly, and I don’t want to go on about it because otherwise it look a bit ‘lady doth protest’ I would like to state on the record that I have never and will never do cocaine. When I was a teenager I tried speed once and my mates begged me to never do it again. Imagine? This. On speed. I didn’t drink alcohol until I was 25 years old, the fact I had a 4 and 2 year old at that time was purely coincidental I am sure. I am not into drugs. I don’t care what other people are into but I am not. So anyway imagine my shock as my 10 year old tells the world she has found cocaine in my cupboard. HOW the hell did she even know what cocaine was? What do I even do in this situation?? I mean a child wouldn’t just come up with that right? I mean there is no smoke without fire? Oh god. It was awful. Awful.
It came from school apparently. Not the cocaine. There was no cocaine. Its just the word came from school. Brilliant. So far the two most discussed things that Mili has found out in school are ‘Blowjobs and Cocaine‘ JUST the words I add. I checked. She and her mate were discussing blow jobs in the car. I initially tried to stop the discussion and explain why they shouldn’t be joking about it. But I got nowhere. So I insisted they told me what a blow job was. Mili told me it was when you BIT a boys willy. I told her that was EXACTLY what it was. Good luck with that one boys.
Anyway, the last couple of paragraphs probably highlight the fact I am a terrible Mother. Here I am moaning about my daughter knowing about blow jobs and I actually taught my own son about wanking. It was quite an accident. We were talking about sperm banks. I know that is an odd thing to talk to your child about. Its just Mili was about to have sex education and she has a rather complicated situation. You see the man who got me pregnant isn’t involved in our life. He never has been. He never will be. Mili didn’t know this until she was 8 years old. Her DAD is Miles. He had been there from birth and he raised her. So before telling her this news I decided to address what a ‘Dad’ is. I don’t like this balls about ‘biological father’ the word Father and Dad are not something you can hand out to someone that donates a sperm or forces a sperm upon you. A Dad or Father is someone who RAISES a child. Granted – there are fathers who cannot raise their children but whom desperately want to. I guess I mean that a father has to WANT to be a father and a Dad has to WORK to be a Dad. The same goes with mothers too. My point is Mili needed to be prepared for this big news and so I wanted to back it up with lots of talking about how a ‘seed’ can come from almost anywhere nowadays. It doesn’t JUST have to come from a Daddy. Which led to Oliver – whom was 5 at the time and full of questions about LIFE – asking “Where can you get a seed from?” which kind of put me on the spot and then led to me mentioning test tubes and sperm banks. “What is a sperm bank?” oh Jesus, I can feel the panic again and its already happened. “How do they get the sperm IN the bank” what does one say to that? I think I told him that men take it there and donate it like when you take old toys to oxfam and ….. this was not going well.
“But how do they get the sperm OUT”
And I’m afraid it just all went so terribly downhill from there.
Anyway, enough about the mess I am making of Motherhood and my career.
I wrote a blog a long while back. I refer to it often. It was called Three Good Things and is the last proper blog I wrote on the old website. It can’t have been more than a year ago. My three good things. To Cook, To Write and To Love. That really is all I want. It’s really really funny how a year can change things. When I wrote it I was considering only accepting TWO good things. To Cook, To Write. Love was a pain in the arse and I was totally ready to give up on it completely. Today? I have one good thing. Love. I am struggling to write and I am not getting any time to cook. The aim this year is to get the three of those thing all together all in one place and be happy.
And to find out where the hell the path is and how bloody lost I actually am.
Don’t stop. Never give up. Never look back. Hold your head up.