And So we made Cock Cakes.

January 16, 2012 By 12 Comments

Fact is, I’m a rubbish parent. Or, The Smalls have absolutely no interest in my parenting skills AT ALL. That’s not to say that I don’t try, because I do try.

Sometimes.

Anyhow, both Smalls had some cookery utensil stuff for Christmas, really nice stuff, and uh, bought by me and The Mr (what were we thinking? He doesn’t bake {EVER} and I end up being really OCD. Good one.) thinking they could be encouraged in the kitchen. Obviously, Noah has been hounding my ass desperate to do some cooking since he found the boxes hidden behind the sofa. No amount of train track would distract the boy.

Dammit.

So we got home from school and started baking. Roughly 30 minutes before they were due to sit down for their tea. Because you know, I just love to make shit really easy, right? I ran backwards and forwards with the ingredients while they pretty much “got stuck in”.

The Smalls adding "vital ingredients"

I was obviously delighted when Isaac chose this moment to bring on his cold a step further, bringing Facial Orifice Fluid to the table. How I love that boy. Lovely.

Anyway, I took a step back and tried my damndest to not step in with the perfection, or the general spattering of muffin mix up the walls. Do you KNOW how frigging difficult that is? Yes I’m well aware I should have rolled up their sleeves and the rest of it, but that’s not the point.

Crap everywhere. But you know, they’re kids and they enjoyed themselves, right?

They WILL be beautiful. Oh yes they will.

That’s the point, right? They got the mixture in the cases, and all was good. That was all that mattered.

Only, when I peeked in on the cakes to see how they were doing, I can’t say I didn’t feel a little violated. I’m glad The Smalls are too young to understand…well…I’m just glad they’re too young. Because when I saw THESE, I could do nothing but raise one hell of a fucking eyebrow.

Cock Cakes. Yes really.

I reeeeeeally want to declare them works of art. Instead, my brain could only think “Cock Cakes”. I just don’t even know. Twitter offered up all number of reasons for this occurrence. To be honest? I don’t care.

A miracle happened in our house. Cock Cakes. Some miracles just don’t need explaining.

Stumpy, Tubby and "The Horse"

Stumpy, Tubby and "The Horse"


Filed Under: Uncategorized

Silent Sunday

January 8, 2012 By 7 Comments

~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~
Silent Sunday

Filed Under: Silent Sunday

Dear So and So…The 4 Year Old’s Birthday Edition

January 6, 2012 By 9 Comments

Dear Noah

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!! Hope you have a WONDERFUL day and enjoy your Gruffalo cake, ok?

Love you more than I like to let on.

Mommy xxxxxx

PS I didn’t make the cake. Your mother isn’t that awesome I’m afraid. Sorry son. x

~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~

Dear Funny Boy

Me: Ahhh Noah you’re such a big boy I can barely pick you up anymore!

N: Is that because I’m growing up to be big, Mommy?

Me: Yes. Growing up to be big and very strong!

N: So it’s not long and I can pick YOU up then Mommy!

Me: Strangely, Noah, I don’t doubt that for a second…

Yours,

The Shrinking One

~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~

Dear Appreciative Boy

You amaze me in that when I asked you what you wanted for your birthday, you didn’t say the numerous large toys you’d seen in Toys R Us humongous, including the ride-in Lightening McQueen car, or the freaking huge Lego City police station, or the massive pretend kitchen station for all your play food. Instead you asked for the teeny tiny shopping till to go with the play food you had for Christmas.

You amaze me in that when I asked you what you wanted for your birthday dinner, you said you wanted birthday cake for pudding, and maybe some toast or some porridge for your main course, rather than just asking for cake. Or McDonalds. Or more cake. And when I asked “are you sure?”, you changed your mind and asked for rice, pancetta, peas, sweetcorn, egg and prawns. Because you know Isaac likes it too.

You’re pretty cool like that, you know? Try not to change that too much, too soon.

Thankful, Mom xx

~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~

Dear Chatty Boy

I am so pleased you can speak. And not just speak words, but hold full on conversations with grown adults, and somehow stand your ground (I love seeing their faces when you blow them away by saying something they would expect from a 6 or 7 year old. Keep doing that, ok?) perfectly well. I love that you can almost perfectly articulate the whole story of The Gruffalo with very little help, and that you encourage your brother to join in.

Sometimes, just sometimes, Mommy would like more than 3 seconds to process everything you’ve just said, because sometimes it’s like riding with the Spanish Inquisition all packed up into one little person. Sometimes, just sometimes, give me maybe 10, maybe even 15 seconds at a time, because Mommy is getting older and slower while you are getting older and quicker.

Refusing to wear earplugs, Mom xx

~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~

Dear Big Small

I’m really glad you’re turning 4 and not turning 14 today, because frankly, I am not ready for the stream of girls to be knocking on my door. Please don’t break their hearts too much, I don’t want horny girls crying their eyes out on my doorstep, mkay?

For a four year old, you’re annoyingly good looking.

Stay cute.

Mommy xxxxx

~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~

Dear Caring Boy

I do hope your brother grows up to be as concerned and caring and aware as you when he turns 4. I don’t know how you do it, but it sure is something.

In awe, Your Mother x

~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~

Dear Amazing Boy

Keep being amazing, ok? Keep on building your train tracks now you’ve learnt to do them. Keep asking if Isaac is ok and if there’s anything you can do for him. Keep cuddling your friends and asking them what’s wrong when you see them crying. Keep saying those lovely things and telling me that you miss and love your friends and family when you haven’t seen them in a while (even if it’s barely been a day). Keep going with your insatiable thirst for knowledge.

Please keep being amazing.

Love, the proudest mom you will ever meet. x

Noah's train track. Which he made.

Noah's train track. Which he made. By himself.

~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~≈~

Dear readers

Go say hi to Miss Kat, because I’m sure it’s been a while since you were over there, yes?


Filed Under: actual happy times, birthday, Dear So and So, Noah

Fight or Flight (Or just throw up)

January 4, 2012 By 3 Comments

So. I entered some of my images into a wedding photography competition.

At the time, it seemed like a BRILLIANT idea. A bit of recognition! A chance to gauge if I’m actually good at what I’m doing! Hell, I might even build up some new contacts from it! How exciting!!!!!!!

Truth be told, I’m nervous as hell. Every time I think about it now, my head starts hurting, my heart starts pounding, I can’t breathe, and I catch my innards rising rather quickly to my mouth in a really unpleasant fashion.

Yes, I have a mild panic attack.

The exact same panic attacks I used to have when I performed solos on my cello. The exact same panic attacks I had before, when it atually got so bad, I couldn’t actually maintain the contact between my bow and the strings. The exact same panic attacks which resulted in going to hypnotherapy in a desperate attempt to be able to make it through solo performances.

I didn’t think I’d ever have to endure them again. Yet stupidly (in a face-palm fashion), it makes perfect sense that I would have to endure them now. Exposing myself for the world to judge me, to be rejected by someone who doesn’t agree with my work, my efforts, to have someone turn around and say “…meh…your pic is alright, but this OTHER work of art here is an absolute MASTERPIECE omg I must FRAME IT and hang it up in the west wing bathroom of my mansion!”

And that’s ok! Everyone has different opinions, obviously. It would be weird if we all liked the same thing. And when I asked people to go and check out the competition, I asked that people actually vote for the one they like, not just vote for me. I’ve already looked at one of my entries, and there are several that I prefer way more than mine. WAY MORE than mine. In fact, I find myself wondering what the hell I was thinking submitting that particular image.

Pathetically, I find myself making really lame excuses. I’ve only been doing this for 2 years. So what? You’ve had time to learn. I’m totally self taught. And? You have the internet, right? It was about time I entered a competition. Really? Says who? You didn’t have to enter. My arse needed to be kicked into gear. What – by entering a competition? There are better ways.

I’m very nervous. Not nervous about winning, I never expect to win. I’m not nervous about not winning, I can deal with that. I’m nervous about being up there in front of people I don’t know who can just as happily point and laugh at my work any time they like. It’s different when it’s a photo shoot, people have chosen my work. That’s always an honour and very flattering. This? Well I’m forcing my work under the nose of innocents. Expecting people to look at my work and then make a decision, and silently hope they make a decision in my favour.

That feels a bit weird.

I think I need to figure out what the hell is going on with my brain. Why do this to myself when it makes me feel like this. It’s amazing enough that I put myself up for this in the first place; I half wonder if I had rum in a glass in front of me when I did it (I’m pretty sure I didn’t) or maybe I was being distracted by The Smalls at the time (they were already in bed, I seem to recall). I also need to stop wanting throw up last night’s dinner every time I so much as think about it all. If I’m going to ask people to at least check out the competition, I need to stop being such a damn pussy about it. It’s almost a piece of cake when doing it under the guise of JMP. Now I just need to transfer that mask over to me, and then remove it, and then, um, still be just as semi-confident.

Not entirely sure how to do that.

Filed Under: assvice, neurosis, photography, pimping myself rotten, Ultimate Stresssss

For @TheBloggess and anyone who ever fought the fight against depression

January 3, 2012 By 16 Comments

Every so often, I sink.

Every so often, I think I’m done.

Every so often, I hurt myself.

Every so often, I die a little more inside.

Every so often, I give up the fight.

Every so often, I see someone else fighting.

Every so often, I see someone else surviving.

Every so often, I see someone else living.

Every so often, I close my eyes, cry tears so hard they’re virtually ripped from my bare soul, force myself to take another breath; to not die; to not simply stop existing; to not be consumed by a vastness so great, I don’t know if there is anything that could ever encompass it…

Every so often, I fight.

Silver Ribbon - Depression Awareness

In light of The Bloggess’ most recent post, I couldn’t help but create this. In light of so many people dying from what she talks about, from what I’ve talked about, I created this.

Jenny says,

I hope to one day I see a sea of people all wearing silver ribbons as a sign that they understand the secret battle and that they celebrate the victories made each day as we individually pull ourselves up out of our foxholes to see our scars heal, and to remember what the sun looks like.

Me? I hope one day that this battle is less secret. I hope one day this battle sees more victories. I hope we pull ourselves up and pull each other up. I hope our scars heal in the sun.

I hope to fight, survive and live.


RIBBON CODE, should you wish to use the ribbon above:

”Depression


Filed Under: Uncategorized
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