Milestones

I had some news this week that a friend of mines 14 year old daughter had her first real kiss. I was thrilled in the way only a close friend, but not the actual mom can be.

This got me thinking about milestones and the bitter-sweet feelings they bring with them.

Ciara has physically been an incredibly easy child to mother.

She day-time potty trained so well, and potty trained herself during the night. She wet the bed maybe two or three times, and I have never restricted her intake of liquid at all. She has trained her body and bladder very well. This was the first and only milestone I have ever felt only glad about - not having to clean shitty nappies - yay!!

Her first day of Big School (Grade 1 - 2007) was wonderful and sad. My little baby is growing up. Kitted out in her Big Girl uniform, which was too big for her, she looked so happy and nervous and excited about her new adventure. The outside of my said "Yay, look at you my big girl" but the inside of me cried just a little.

I have always bathed Ciara. For two reasons, One : I enjoyed it and Two : I didn't think she could do a proper job of it. But then she wanted to do it herself, and in the shower. Hooray, I shouted on the outside, what a big, independent girl you are. "Don't take away my bathing please" I shouted on the inside. My baby was growing up.

Ciara turned 7 in January - SEVEN. She is growing so fast, and so beautifully.

Letting go is hard to do, and on the outside my face smiles, and the encouraging and appropriate words come out, but on the inside I cry just a little for the lost joys of being needed for everything, for that little girl with the big blue eyes who saw me as flawless and amazing and capable.

Some homework from me at last...

Hello Ladies,
I am emerging from my lovely vomit hued cocoon of work and readjusting to married life to fill everyone in on the daily soap opera. I can't remember when last my life felt "normal", can't remember my last unmedicated day, can't figure out where bliss became chaos and I became a slightly shorter and less attractive version of the incredible hulk. Running the risk of offending pretty much everyone else on the planet, how is it that my "new mother" friend can complain constantly about how hard her 9 month old is, how difficult her life is since having him and how she is run ragged? She hasn't worked in just over a year, she isn't studying, she has a maid and a wealthy husband, she laughs about how incensed she is when some audacious moron visits her before 15:00 and expects her to answer the door... Yes, I am PMSing, but is she absolutely insane?
I know its all relative, or at least, the reasonable garden gnome buried deep in my concious brain does, but the selfish bad day gremlin wants to rip her head off and stab out her eyes with a highlighter.
One...Two...Three...Four...Five...Six...Seven...Eight...Nine...Ten.
Still not calm.
Rinse, Repeat?

We recently got to four, and, after giving myself a healthy pat on the back for surviving working [and as close to single as one can get while wearing a wedding ring] motherhood thus far, I had a great moment a few weeks back where I realised that we had finally escaped from the fire eating goblin known as the "terrible two's", she may still be cheeky as hell but this is about as close to human as she has gotten to date. I can have a conversation with her now, and "why" actually has a purpose beyond switching on the smoke button hidden behind mommy's ears. The darling husband has arrived home, for good this time. She is still wetting the bed, still climbing into my arms in soaked pyjamas at 3 am for snuggles. I still get pee'd on four nights out of five, she still has nightmares, she still has abandonment issues, the scientologist raised husband is still refusing to consider medication even though she bounces off the walls, sleeps 4 hours a night and literally grits her teeth so hard she has begun to grind them down out of focus frustration, but you know what? Four is fantastic, the little pyjama clad monster who begs for seven bedtime stories also sings to me on Saturday mornings to get me up, sits on my lap while I go through article ideas, tells me my label samples are beautiful, and begs me to print Marilyn Monroe Benday Dot designs on all her old clothes before I make charity drops "so the things are beautiful for those other kids"
Little miss "new mother" can have her issues, she can have her maid to take her new baby so she can sleep all day, and a husband to sleep in the spare room with snookums all night, I have a child who knows that everything I do is for her, that when mommy is a little too tired for round eight of Peter Rabbit, it's real, and all round - I think I do okay.

news on sweets

no news isn't always good news, that is a fact... omg... i need happy pills... sigh... i know everybody always warns that it's difficult raising kids... but hells bells this is just ridiculous... i had no clue it could be this difficult... i feel like the baddest mommy ever... i screamed like a whore this morning... it wasn't pretty and I'm disgusted in myself... argh... tomorrow tomorrow i love you tomorrow... it's only a day away... hopefully tomorrow will be better... i keep telling myself that... that, and the fact that one of these days the kids have a holiday coming up...i just don't know how to be a decent mom at the moment... so yeah it's going like shit on that front at the moment...

other news... kay's new shrink wants to put him on Concerta... it's the newer version of Ritalin... good news?... i don't think so... i know it's the right thing to do... but giving my consent to put my 12 year old son on mind altering drugs, schedule 6 medicine... kind of freaks me out just a tiny little bit...

so there... that's my news... it sucks but I'll get there... i don't have a fucking choice do i...

The Winner

is thus Angel. For 'Raising Damien'. On account of how you other mommies haven't pulled finger. Badness, I tell you.

Angel, your blingy badges are to be designed for you this week. Keep an eye out in your email for more details.

Bad Mommies: new homework.

Topic: tell us what you and your spawn have been up to lately. News, funnies, pics, rants, eltters, anything. C'mon - this blog is far tooo quiet!!

The Baddest of a Pretty Bad Bunch

So I like to think I'm pretty bad.

I like to think I'm pretty hardcore. But a soggy, toothless smile from my 6 month old son totally melts my cold heart.

It was, as most of you know, an unplanned pregnancy. I'd previously thought I was pro-abortion. Turns out, I was mistaken. Sometimes I regret that choice. Other times not.

They say that becoming a mother teaches you patience. I say not. I'm no more patient than I was before, I've just learnt to put someone else before myself. I still have no patience for anyone else. There's none left after The Kid.

I've learnt not to sweat the small stuff. So he wants to suck his dummy? So what. Parting him from it is a problem to worry about in the future. Not today. So he wants to watch TV? So what. It gives me a bit of time to go for a smoke, have a shower. I'm okay with that.

I used to be horrified at parents who pulled funny faces and made funny noises at their babies in public. Now I dont care who sees me do it. Why? Because it makes him laugh. And that's worth all the public humiliation in the world.

My life hasn't turned out exactly the way I planned. Most of the time, I'm oaky with that. While all my friends get up in the morning and get dressed for a day in court, I get up and stay in my pjyamas. I get dressed in the afternoon, before The Boyfriend gets home. They have briefcases and business suits, I have nappy bags and playsuits. Their work day ends when they leave the office, mine begins when I put The Kid to bed, and I head upstairs to hit the textbooks and law reports.

I work on my thesis while The Kid plays at my feet. I cook dinner while reading law journal articles and playing with The Kid. I can type out notes while giving The Kid a bottle. I can change a nappy while he's on my lap. I dont mind when he vomits on my papers or chews them. My life is my baby. My friends' lives and babies are their jobs. My baby is my life, and my job.

I used to think being a stay at home mother was a cop-out.A way of getting out of working. I now know that it's the hardest work there possibly is. And there's no pay, and little recognition. One day in an entire 365day year is nowhere near enough to acknowledge what we do.

I've learnt that being a 'bad mommy' doesn't mean you dont care. Or that you're really a bad person. Sometimes it's what your kid needs. Letting them drink the bathwater, eat grass and suck the carpet is not the end of the world.

In fact, it's only the beginning. And while my kid is learning how to be a kid,

I'm learning how to be a mommy.

Albeit a bad one...

Deadline Extension

Since all you bad mothers, myself included, have failed to pull finger and enter the competition, the deadline has been moved to the last day of the month.

I know you're all waiting for other people to post examples so you can get some inspiration.

SO I'll be posting mine shortly.

And dont forget to read Angel's below.

Pull yourselves together.

Do you need more incentive?

And the Honour of Best Bad Mommy for 2008 goes to…

~~you can hear a mouse fart as a hush settles over the millions of watchers~~
~~the camera zooms in on the presenters dazzling smile~~

…can I have the envelope please…?

~~dramatic drum rolls in the background as Matt opens the envelope, smiling~~

…no surprise here ladies and gentlebloggers- the award goes to Angel, for “Raising Damien”!!!

~~naturally the crowd goes insane with applause and whistles~~
~~flowers are thrown and the paparazzi go bananas and balloons drop from the ceiling as I walk up the aisle~~
~~looking exquisite of course in a shimmering amethyst Versace gown, diamonds at my throat, fingers, ears, in my hair…~~

And then my boss asks me a question, boorishly ripping me from my own personal unreality.
Damn and blast.

Ahem. Okay, so I have my own little daydreams- admit it- we all do! You know the ones right?
Where my darling Damien is an “A” student and all round sports-kid and has an almost too long list of bestest best friends and gets invited to all the parties and then graduates summa cum laude from a prestigious varsity and make pots of money and the cover of “Time” magazine and writes a bestseller about his spectacular childhood.
Yes those ones.
I have them… still… though mostly now the daydreams are few and far between as I face the actuality of my 17 year old son’s abilities and issues whilst we make realistic plans. And I must admit that I still hope that by some miracle Damien will go to varsity and graduate and live comfortably and happily...
So what makes me a Bad Mommy I hear you ask? What makes me deserving of the “title” and the bloggy bling badge that’s up for grabs?
I’ll enlighten you shall I.

My darling Damien is invited back to friends houses over and over again, and nine times out of ten I get exemplary feedback when he’s been somewhere. The other time is “normal” hi-jinx that he is quickly forgiven for. He remembers his manners and saves all his worst for me.
Our shrink told me- officially- that I have NOT screwed him up entirely, despite my hard put upon child not being allowed to drink alcohol, drive, smoke cigarettes or have sex until he is legally allowed to.
If I pick him up and have to park over the road from the school or wherever, Damien gets ragged on good naturedly by his friends because he crosses the road at a zebra crossing- even if he has to walk a little out of his way to get to the crossing in order to get to my car.
He will hug me spontaneously, out of his own, for no apparent reason.
The principals and teachers of every school he has ever attended have all been issued with my cellphone number and email addresses so that I can be immediately contacted should they need to do so... and I am instantly recognised by all the staff! It drives Damien bananas when I am so uncool as to join the PTA and attend school meetings and parent teacher nights.
My darling Damien will put a highly sought over PS2 game or DVD back on the shelf if he turns it over and the age restriction is higher than he is allowed. He’ll pull a face- but he’ll put it back.
Damien loves to read. Years of bedtime stories and dragging him off to the library have paid off! Asterix and Obelix, Garfield, Harry Potter, magazines, Goosebumps, Terry Pratchett… and more recently Steven King.
He says he loves me.
My darling Damien is a medicated ADHDer. I was in denial for a long time- to his detriment- but he’s medicated and private schooled and treated and therapy’d now and I spare no expense when it comes to his treatment no matter what flak I get for it from those who hear me speak about his ADHD.
My darling Damien is always seeing things he knows others will like and it makes me all pink- fluffy-heart-like inside when he says things like “Sister B would love that!” “Sister C would love one of those...” “da Bruvva has always wanted that!” “Granny needs one of these.” “Nephew M likes those.”
My darling Damien knows me so well… if his granny darling takes him shopping for my birthday or Christmas or something he knows exactly what he wants to get and he knows exactly what I like.
And no I am not delusional- I know a lot of what he does is only because I am watching- I am pointedly not including his experimentation and bad habits in my list of “achievements” here, okay?

Now vote for me.

Happy [Bad] Mothers' Day!

On account of how it's a day for us, I hope you all got spoiled. Hope your rotten, ungrateful snot-nosed children remembered and made you feel special.

I thought it would be time we all did some homework again. But something different. Something a little more exciting. Something with a promise of reward, at the end of the day. So, I propose a

'Baddest Mommy of Them All' competition.

How it works:

1. Write a post describing why you think you are the baddest of them all.

2. We will then hold a poll. Once everyone has submitted their entry-posts. The deadline is Friday the 16th of May.

3. Readers can vote, based on each contributors' post, at the end of the week as to whom they think is the baddest of them all. So email all your friends and solicit votes on your own blog.

4. The results will be revealed.

5. The winner will get a custom-made 'Baddest Mommy on The Blog' badge for their personal blog, and will have a permanent custom-made pretty button-badge linked to their blog, displayed on The Bad Mommy Blog.

Rules:

1. You cannot vote for yourself, but you must nominate yourself.

2. You dont have to be a Bad Mommy Blog contributor to participate, so you can post an entry on your blog, and then email me at cheapthrills [at] webmail [dot] co [dot] za. Your entry will be posted as a guest blogpost on this blog, and you will be added to the poll so readers can vote for you. If a non-Bad-Mommy-Blog-contributor wins, she will be invited to be a permanent contributor to the blog.

3. There are no limits to badness! Anything goes...

So, go forth, and be BAD!

Ten Reasons Why I Want to Raise My Child In South Africa

With all the hoohah and constant questioning of my choices (Why don't you go to the UK? You know, it's safer there...) and the occasional self-questioning (am I a bad parent for staying here when I could go to allegedly safer countries to raise my child?), I thought it time i list a few reasons why, currently - maybe not forever, but right now, I choose to raise my child in South Africa.

1. She was born with a fair skin. Playing daily in the sunshine has given her a beautiful complexion that's full of life. Quite literally, sun-kissed.

2. Every day she comes home dirty from school, and is not afraid of sand or grass. I have had kids from 'other places' come to visit and yell at the idea of getting their hands dirty with mud.

3. She goes to school with kids of every colour of the rainbow. They all get the same snotty noses, the same scrapes on the knees, and they hold hands with each other. They have absolutely no interest in whether or not their grandparents or parents once upon a time were not allowed to do this.

4. She understands three languages. She's not even three yet. Yes, she can't speak them all, but she can understand all three.

5. There is noise and joy and emotional honesty in the way we live. When we as a nation are happy, we celebrate. When we are sad, we are sad together. Does anything else really matter? At least we are together in the queue for petrol and/or torches.

6. At the age of less than three, she does not lead a sheltered life. She already comprehends the fact that there are people who have money and people who do not have money in the world. And that, where we can do a little bit to help, we do. For this reason, she has no issue in sorting out her old toys and clothes with me, to be passed on people who need them more. And I quote "Mommy, make a box for Gladys' baby, she needs my old shoes. I am too big for them". (yeah, i know, I die daily with that sentence construction)

7. She's not afraid to dream. Our country was founded on dreams. And we ran on a dream for a long time. Now we're trying to keep it alive in reality. We'll get there, I'm sure.

8. She's not afraid of the dark, thanks to loadshedding. ;-)

9. When she runs through the park, she's not afraid of falling over, but just of losing her turn on the swing.

10. Being a single parent in a crazy world is not easy. But it's the choice I made. And in a world where women are fast becoming primary breadwinners, and the nuclear family is quickly becoming a myth, I am learning that it truly does take a village to raise a child. Nobody understands the notion of community better than a South African. And my village blesses me daily.

My Darling Boy

You are driving me insane.

You're breaking rules and laws and I don't know what to do to how to handle it.

I want to curl up and go to sleep... or ignore everything that's going on and pretend it never happened.

Letting you carry on and do what you like regardless would be so much easier than trying to fix it or change your behaviour.

I can't do this alone my darling Damien, you need to pull finger too.