Welcome to the fun

Welcome to the fun
Christmas Joy

Tuesday, 6 December 2011

Day 66 - Sick in the head

My dad has come to stay for a bit - for a bit is what I'm hoping it will be, for a bit until his girlfriend lets him move back on or he joins that monastery he keeps harping on about. I have just got to keep it together for a bit.
this is just perfect - just fabulous - because that means there are now 4 of us squeezed into a 2 bedroom house. My bedroom now looks like a Romanian flat share with a series of mattresses on the floor and me, Summer and part time dad squeezed in like sardines. Meanwhile my dad is keeping suicide at bay by re arranging my kitchen cupboards, shoe cupboard, cutlery draw - even my vibrators had been lined up into size order. 

Summer is loving the situation - its another beating heart to destroy. She takes great pride in kicking a man when he is down '' you been kicked out? your soooooo old to be kicked out? will you die alone now then?''
While he is here I decide to make him useful, he can do the school run - that will teach him - we all know that Summer is at her finest on a cold dark winters school morning - how sprightly she springs out of bed, and is washed and dressed waiting eagerly by the door, ready and raring to go! 
Summer did not disappoint - it took dad over an hour to get her dressed, he prepared her 3 different breakfast and finally off they set already 15mins late for school. Dad doesnt know where the school is, but I told him not to worry - you just head straight up the road and its on the left - Summer will show you the way. 
Problem is you have to pass 2 other primary schools on the way. Summer knows this and used it to her advantage. Apparently she went all the way into the first schools playground and into the corridor before bursting out laughing and telling granddad she was just tricking him as they were chased out for trespassing by a caretaker, then he fell for it again at the second school! By the time they actually got to her school my dad was screaming at her to stop walking into random schools and to just tell him the name of her school. She refuses and stares at him with no emotion.  Apparently it wasn't until he made the school secretary confirm that Summer was a pupil did he release her into their care. 
They have been late every day of the week so far. 

In other Summer news this morning Summer kicked up her usual fuss about being cruelly forced to go to school where she will be subjecting to such horrors as growing cress and finger painting!! - but this time she started crying and screaming that she did not want to go  saying that she felt ill and doing this fake coughy gaggy thing. Seeing that my dad could not handle a full day alone with Summer I insisted she go much to her dislike '' I will get them to send me home anyway - I will say I am ill'' 
So when I got a call 2 hrs later I knew she was up to her old tricks '' Ohhhhh Summer is poorly, she doesn't look right, she is crying, we think she should go home!" can these people not see her for the devious mentalist she is?
I send Dad to get her - telling him to take his time - and ordering him not to show her any sympathy or fun. 
I phone a bit later to make sure dad picked up the little faker on time - '' she threw up in your car  - it was like a fountain of vomit - I am literally scooping her sick out of your ashtrays, its everywhere'' 
The first thing I ask '' Is my car all right?''

The little fucker knows how to prove a point 

Friday, 18 November 2011

Day 65 - Pull the Other One

So 2 days into my new job, and I get a call from the school. 
Oh here we go again....

Lets start at the very beginning shall we.....

On Sunday Summer went next door to our patient long suffering neighbours to play football. Before I had time to light a cigarette and pour a glass of wine - she was back at my front door. 
''I've cut my foot!'' she had said matter of factly ''can I have a plaster so I can go back next door?''
The cut was more of a slice - one of those ones that leaves a flap of skin over the wound. no real blood, looks worse than it is..... So I patched her up and off she went to play. 
That was the last I saw or heard of the cut.

Fast Forward Tuesday morning. The normal mad rush of getting her lazy arse out of bed and looking vaguely presentable for school, we rush around the house hurling abuse at each other then jump in the cab. With only 10 mins before my train pulls in we sprint down the drive way to the school and the she stops. 

I look back and wave her to hurry up, as she starts to move I have a feeling that trouble lies ahead. 
She is limping. Limping like Quasimodo, like an Afghan war veteran. 
''stop it stop limping, what are you playing at, hurry up'' 
she looks up and smiles, I can read that girl like a book. 
She resumes her normal stride as we make the last 100 yards to her classroom, where on seeing her teacher the limp resumes again. ''Stop it Summer..please don't do this'' She smiles her classic cheeky smile that says  ''I will and there is nothing you can do about it''

I am surprised they waited so long to call me really - a call at 12:30pm meant that Summer must have method acted all morning without success. 

''Hello mum, its Miss Stick you nose in your business and judge you from Summers school, we have Summer here'.....well done good start. No surprises.
''We have Summer here and she is in a lot of pain with her foot'' 
in the words of Essex I think ''Oh Shut Up!!!' 
''She can barely walk and we are quite concerned about the cut, Summer thinks its infected!'' ahh yes Summer my daughter who took her medical degree aged 5 - she is the next Dougie Howser.
''To be honest we are surprised you brought her in today, we understand you are in a new job but is there no one else you could have left her with?, it is not our responsibility to look after children who come into school sick''
I hate you woman. I hate you for being sooooooo stupid as to be the only person on earth that actually believes Summer. 
''She was fine when I left her'' I say realising what and awful cliché that is, classic response of an abuser.
There is no point fighting it - I am the mum who feeds her child soggy sandwiches, who allows her to watch sexy music videos, who sends her into school maimed. 
I have no fight in me too argue - I call my neighbour to see if she can get Summer and then call back to confirm that someone cares enough about Summer to pick her up. '' does she know her neighbour?'' you stupid moron woman. ''oh and also Summer has been sat here with me and she was telling us that she watched a scary movie with her cousin Natasha - she said she was very frightened. Is this true?'' no, no this is not true she hasn't seen her cousin for at least 6 months! Summer if your foot is hurting you so much why are you telling them about horror movies - stick the knife on deeper why dont you! 

Arrrrgggghhhhh shut up woman, shut up Summer - god if you want to go into care you are going the right way about it, and the way I am feeling I might just let you go. So there it is I am back at the top of the list for shitty mothers. 

I am mad very very mad 


Thursday, 10 November 2011

Day 62 - With Gritted Teeth ...

I have been waiting for nearly 6 years now to figure out if I am going to be lumbered with and almighty huge orthodontist bill come 2019.
When Summer was born - like all children, she was born toothless - apart from that recent freak birth where some Romanian kid was born with a full set of gnashes. When she was taken out of my womb and I looked at her for the first time - I thought this girls gums don't look right - she is going to have a gap tooth at the front - actually that was the second thing I thought, the first was ''why is this kids face hairy'' - Jesus with those 2 defining features you wonder why the bonding period was strained.
Everyone told me not to be silly - how could I tell by looking at her gums that she was going to have a gap tooth. To me it was obvious, she had this ridge that came deep down in the centre and it was about a cm wide! no tooth was going to get through that - plus part time dad had a gap tooth - which he then went on to cover up with a really bad set of platinum teeth - which when done in a back street down the Old Kent Road by an Iranian refugee turned out a brassy silver - in short he has the mouth of Jaws from the James Bond Films on a good day.
When Summers teeth began to come through - my fears where confirmed. Before me was one almighty gap, please do not underestimate me when I talk about this gap, tis not a slither, tis not a crack in the door. Someone has taken the door off the hinges here!! No word of a lie this gap is a whole big tooth wide. Which I work out to be a 5mm wide actually - which is a huge amount of open mouth to have. I thought as more and more of her teeth grew the gap would get smaller - it didn't, if anything it got bigger.
Everyone who sees her would say how cute she was with her missing tooth, ''its not, its her gap'' I would have to inform them quickly. I think about people in the public eye with gaps, Madonna, Vanessa Paradis, Amy Winehouse - but there gaps are insignificant in comparison.
Part Time dad and his Jamaican lot say that in their country its believed to be a sign of Riches to come - hmmmmm well that clearly wasn't the case for PT Dad who count corned beef as a luxury meal.
I even took her to the dentist to see what he thought - he was quite optimistic, he thought I was overreacting (OK so asking for a 5 yr old to have veneers fitted is a bit much) but he was convinced that when her adult teeth come through the gap will close. He asked me bring her in for regular check ups - I reckon he is planning on retiring off the cost of those braces in 6 years time.
So I sit and wait for those sodding two front teeth to fall out, the right has been on wobble mode for about a month now. I wobble it, she wobbles it but it wont budge, every other tooth around the front two is popping out in a matter of days - when she smiles at the moment it looks like a chess board.
Yesterday when a non important lower molar fell out - a half heartedly shoved a pound under her pillow. But I told her that the tooth fairy sent me a text - saying that if she can get her front teeth out by Christmas she is in store for an extra special treat. Lets face it I need to know what those teeth are planning - in case I have to get saving!

Sunday, 23 October 2011

Day 61 - Son of a Preacher man

‘’Ding Dong’’
Bollocks – another Saturday morning disturbed by the door bell. It should be illegal to ring on door bells before 1pm on a weekend. Not only do I have to contend with some random at the door but I have to deal with Summers obsession with answering it as quick as she can, No matter what is going on, how partially dressed we both may be she will haul ass and sprint to the open the door regardless that my nunny may be on show or that part time dad is strutting around in those ridiculous fertility killer boxer shorts.
So there it was, the door bell going off, Summer running down the stairs with just a vest on and me scrambling to find some leggings to cover my hairy legs before she exposes me. I scream at her to stop, cover up, don’t answer the sodding door!!!!
‘’who the hell is it?’’ Summer bellows through the letterbox.
Leggings, leggings where are my leggings?
‘’is you mother in?’’ I can hear a man’s voice question – god I hope she covered up
‘’she is getting dressed – is that for me?’’
God what is going on down there – she has opened the door – leggings where are my leggings
‘’it is a magazine that we are giving out, it’s for your mother, Jesus can save you, do you believe in Jesus little one’’
‘’yeah she is ok but I think Rhianna is better’’ says Summer
Sod the leggings – I’m leaving Summer to it
‘’maybe you could get your mummy?’’
‘’no.....what’s in the magazine?’’
‘’it’s about how to raise a child’’ this preacher must see the ironic situation he is in right now!! ‘’there are a lot of bad children out there – look at the rioters this summer, they were children’’
‘’ no, cha, that’s lies... the man who gave my nan the TV was huge and fat..... he wasn’t a child’’
Shhiittt leggings, leggings got to get down there
‘’and my dad was saving the burning puppy shop at the riots and he is not a child, i mean he is stupid but he is like 57 or 80 and he smokes, so he isn’t a child. Mum couldn’t go to the riots, she was sick, she did a pee in a cup and left me for 2 days, I saw fires’’
‘’is your dad home? Your mum?’’
‘’I’m coming’’ , just.... got.....  to...... squeeze.... . into.... these..... Skinny....jeans            
I get to the door panting and chaffed to see this visiting Jehovah and his petrified 10 year old son hiding behind him. Before I can say a word he thrust the parenting manual into my hand, squeezes my arm sympathetically. Grabs his son and legs it down the road.

Friday, 21 October 2011

Day 60 - Break - Fast

We keep getting busted in the morning Summer and I.
For the last month or so a mum from Summers school stops her car whenever she sees us on the morning walk to school. The problem is for the last month or so I have taken to giving Summer her breakfast on the run. Its always been a struggle to get something down her in the mornings and with her penchant tardiness. So the morning rush results in her getting a honey sandwich stuffed in her gob. This is the eaten messily in the good samaritains prestine car. "Is that a sandwich she has there for breakfast?" She asks uneasy at the sight of the sugary carby meal. Had the bread been toast I suspect I would have got away with it. If this wasn't bad enough, when summer refused her honey sandwich one morning I shoved her a cereal bar, a coco pop cereal bar in her mouth and off we trotted to school. Had this been served in a bowl with milk on top I would have definately got away with it. This time she wasn't going to hide her disgust "is that her breakfast?l she asked shocked and horrified.
"Oh no " I nervously laugh " she had something else at home"
"No I didn't mummy'
"Ssh now Summer, mummies talkng"
"Yh but your lying.,"
I can feel the judgement bearing down on me like the coco pops monkey beating my chest. I have to get away from these burning eyes, the awkward silence!
" Do u mind walking summer in so I can  jump out and catch my train" the lady pulls over and practically chucks my abusive self out the car.
I make a run for it and abandon Summer in the back of the car still eating that fucking coco pops bar. That's it now, Summer is alone to tell her the truth about me. Not just breakfast time but maybe last night when she ate 4 aero desserts!
You know if she didn't pick us up we would burn those calories, offsetting her nutrionless breakfast. So in fact it she who is damaging my child! Yeah. Hell yeah.
In Summer news she broke up a fight between the cat and the dog and then took the cat to her operating theatre upstairs where she proceeded to pull out clumps of loose hair from the cats neck with tweezers and trim the rest with nail scissors. The  Cat naturally went ape shit on Summers ass and was rewarded a can of Tuna

Sunday, 16 October 2011

Day 59 - If you go down to the woods today

I haven’t blogged for a while – and I think it’s because I don’t really have that much to moan about. Don’t get me wrong Summer is still an arse and part time dad still watches Babestation – actually he now records Babestation as Summer found out to her horror today.
Yes things have been going well for me since I turned 30.
Firstly I got a mortgage so I can stay in my mums house – it was a great feeling when we ripped the ‘For Sale’ sign down. It’s nice to have your Saturday’s back to yourself and not having to find new ways to deter people from buying your house, there are only so many times you can force a cat to pee in the hallway and Summer got so into our regular patter she began to think the house was actually haunted.
So with this newly acquired debt, comes responsibility and I have also had to take on a new job with longer hours and more stress. My friends tried to put me off, ‘’if you take this new job yeah you can pay your mortgage, get a car, and a cleaner but you will never see Summer’.....I handed my notice in there and then.
In Summer news, my friend and I took her sons and Summer to Keston Ponds for some good old fashioned wood walking round the ponds. It was delightful to see them run around the trees and jump in the stream. Not so delightful was watching Summer get stuck in a mud pool. Bare in mind there were 5 of us and only Summer the smallest one manages to find the UK’s only sinking mud spot. In a matter of seconds she was knee deep wriggling for her life. The other 2 kids were clawing at the mud trying to rescue her. I made the mistake of trying to help and ended up flat on my face .  by the end of our little wholesome walk. Summer had lost both Pugg boots to the mud and was  so soiled that she had to strip naked and walk back bare foot through the woods past families walking off there Sunday lunch wearing nothing but my leopard print snood. It looked like we had rescued  Mogli from the Jungle.

Friday, 30 September 2011

Day 58 - Bonkers Conkers

Today was nice. On collecting Summer from school I was presented with a surprise!
She was all sweaty when I got there , so I recoiled when she gave me a kiss- it’s essentially her fault for demanding to wear Ugg boots -sorry Pugg boots (Primark brought) leopard print leggings and a  long sleeve top on the hottest day of the year. We need to stop watching the only way is Essex.
Anyway...I am just heading out the classroom door when the after school club lady stops me. ‘’Oh yes, I need to give you this’’
Shit what is it, another medical slip, an exclusion letter, extra homework, social services letter....
‘’its a note home from her teacher’’ shit shit shitty shit.  I skulk back to collect the note that will ruin my weekend.
But neh, yeah of little faith mummy,  tis but a certificate of achievement ‘’Star of the Week’’ I have heard about these awards but thought them a fanciful piece of fiction, Summer bringing Mr Tumnus home for tea and cake was more likely .
On the back there is a hand written note from the teacher....to me... because I am her mother and I have born a star (see day 56 I told you so) Now I know how Mary felt – not my mate Mary,I mean  Jesus n Mary.
I start to read...
‘’In PE yesterday...’’ oh PE , not Star of Math or English....PE, never mind a star is a star ,more people know Usain Bolt than some Mathalete anyway.
‘’Summer worked well in the group and chose  to .....’’ I love the way her teachers always write ‘chose ‘ to  because Summer will only take part and excel in something she has chosen to do.
‘’Chose to develop a sequence of movements to create a dance’’ errrr isn’t that what dance is ??
‘’She listened very carefully to the music that was playing and kept with the tempo and the rhythm’’ Hell, she is black what you expect woman.
‘’Her dance was magnificent’’ oh do calm down dear
‘’...and told the story of a conkers experience during Autumn’’ ......ohhhh kaaayyyy then, someone picked up the hash cake at the bake sale today.
What does a conker experience during Autumn?  It sprouts, grows out of its shell, drops to the ground and then kids use it as weapons.  Shit she would have to be talented to dance that scene.
When we get home I ask her to perform this MAGNIFICENT dance. She willingly agrees.  She wants me to get involved, Stand like a tree, this I can do. I stand arms out like a tree, she stands underneath my armpit, dramatically drops to the ground in a ball. Then rolls around the floor ( a little bit too proactively if you ask me)
And now as promised many moons ago (thinking that I would never have to) I am grudgingly obliged to buy her a present as she won Star of the Week, for her ability to sexualise a conker.

Tuesday, 27 September 2011

Day 58 - I have a dream

‘’you wanna hear about my dream?’’   was the first non abusive sentence Summer spoke this morning, before that was a series of Jamaican abuse and teeth kissing for daring to wake her up for school.
‘’there was a robot with lasers and it was killing people’’
I’m not really listening we have 5 mins to get out the door ‘’thats nice put your shoes on’’
‘’he killed you, daddy and the dog...me and the cat were fine’’  I am listening now because she says this with a smile and I vividly remember hearing her laughing in her sleep last night – now I know why.
On the way to the bus stop she pauses and looks into the fog ‘’this looks just like my dream, the monster is coming mum, he has lasers for arms – everyone is going to die, people will be dead in rivers’’ The people at the bus stop shuffle away from us.
‘’what will we do when it comes for us mum?’’
‘’its ok, Dad will sort him out there is no need to worry about monsters’’  I like to bring up Part time dad in public places, I think it surprises people that one can have a mixed race child and have  relationship with the father. It makes us seem modern and cultured rather than just another statistic. They don’t need to know he is a moron
‘’don’t be stupid mummy, Daddy would just save himself and the pub’’ now people know he is a moron.
All the way to school on the bus – Summer retells her dream at the perfect volume to ensure the whole bus is listening, as more and more people engage with her the more graphic she gets until she is wriggling on the floor gurgling showing how it will sound when the laser melts her belly.
No one is amused – they all look at me in disgust  - how can this small innocent child imagine such horrific scenes.  
‘’There is blood on the roads, there are zombies eating flesh and the only way I survive is by pretending I am a robot too and I must kill and lick the blood yum yum yum ‘’  I pull her down the school path as she screams and howls as the zombies in her mind are gnawing at school caretaker – who looks at her bemused as she whispers  ‘’save yourself, save yourself ‘’ to him.
I chuck her into breakfast club and she strolls into a room full of children eating jam on toast – I admire the new reception kids and remember how that was Summer just last year.
I mention to the club leader as I head out the door –‘’ don’t entertain her if she offers to tell you about her dream’’. They know this could mean trouble, this could lead to an army of kids scared and literally wetting their pants, As I walk away I see the class turn to listen to Summer, she throws her arms up in the air to tell her tale as the assistant leaps through the air to cover her mouth.  I wont be surprised if tomorrow I get a call from the school.

Friday, 23 September 2011

Day 57 - Dear Mum

Dear Mum
Today I turned 30! I want to let you know that everything is alright. That like you said the choices I made would mean that life may be a little bit harder than they had to be – but I am doing it, despite your initial doubts.
To be honest I always thought you would be here, not for me but for Summer, like when I played that game when I was a kid, when I would leave you with my baby while I picked my husband up from the airport in the Porsche. I think you would have wanted that for me. Not this life with part time dad and Summer being cared for by strangers 8 hrs a day and me being the breadwinner. God I wish I could just leave Summer with you sometimes.
I was never going to fit the norm mum, but I think you liked that in me, a rebellious streak that you never let live yourself, my fondness for taking the wrong path, the way I always turned out ok in the end drove you insane and I still do it. And we are , we are OK. We would be better with you; Summer would probably be better behaved with you around. But she is healthy, strong and loved.. . . . . and mental, I ‘m not sure you being here would have changed that.
I think you would be proud of me, proud that I didn’t fall apart when you left, that I did things the right way as you wanted and I am glad you instilled that drive within me.  I still try and make you happy with things I do even though you’re not here.
So today I am 30 – an adult, not your baby any more. I didn’t get your card with its neat hand writing and embarrassing message, but that ok, I know you were there. I know you were the one that closed the tattoo parlour when after my third Jaeger bomb I decided to get a tattoo behind my ear tonight, the one who made me get the last train home and text to make sure Summer is ok.
I’m 30 now and it’s time that maybe I stop waiting for you to come back and save me – I still think you died to just prove a point, and stubborn as I am I proved you wrong – but you knew I would.
We still talk about you – we live in your home (thanks for that!)  I cringe when I find myself doing the same nerdy things you did for me as a child to Summer.  She moans about my cooking and singing too.
You would have really enjoyed her mum – she is nuts,
But listen I am a big girl now – so bugger off and have some fun up there, get stoned  or something radical, hell get laid by a black man!! . I’m fine. Don’t worry. You taught me well

S x 

Tuesday, 20 September 2011

Day 56 - Lunch

So we made it two weeks this school year before I get the call from the school office
‘’Hi mum, its Miss K’’ – in an instant my gut drops. Miss K only ever calls with bad news. She always starts off with the same line ‘’don’t worry Summers fine’’ you know, for once I wish she wasn’t fine. I wish the school would ring me because Summer is vomiting or running a temperature. At least then I could get a half day off work. No such luck for me – it’s always down to behaviour and I always get judged. Miss K really doesn’t like me. She has been there at the start of all my call ins to the head. She is the one who is concerned first about things like Summers erotic dancing at school and Summers insistence on running into walls to get plasters, she is the one that sees me drop Summer at school late when I am hung-over from a works party the night before (just the once).
. She is essentially the school secretary but she has been put on some half day course and transformed into parent liaison officer. Whatever that means. She has taken this extra responsibility on and with it power above her station and she is desperate to find a social services case. The easiest target so far is Summer.
‘’Summer has made a formal complaint to me’’ says Miss K – quite how a 5 yr old makes a formal complaint I don’t know. Does she do it via alphabetical flash cards or play dough animation ?
‘’She is refusing to eat her packed lunch’’  - so bloody what! make her eat it!
‘’ we here at (insert name of primary school) listen to children’’  she is reading this out of a manual. ‘’Summer is protesting about the quality of her packed lunch, the sandwich was soggy, she says the food is off and there is a funny smell in her lunch box’’ this all coming from a girl who I caught drinking washing up liquid yesterday.
Soggy sandwiches are part and parcel of school days aren’t they? – who has not had a soggy sandwich at least 10 times during their school life. I thought sandwiches were meant to be wet until I was 15!
I am smiling now at the thought of Summer protesting. Standing on a chair in the lunch hall making herself heard, demanding change, throwing her soggy sandwich to the ceiling and starting a petition. This is silly, and the school are calling me about a soggy sandwich. I wait for Miss K to crack, say how stupid  Summer is being, but she doesn’t, she is as appalled by the sandwich situation as Summer. She is taking this ‘formal’ complaint very seriously.
‘’Summer tells me that the lunchbox has been in the fridge for 2 days’’ Summer is a fucking liar and out to get me. I remind Miss K that this is not possible as she had the accused lunch box yesterday thus breaking this supposed  48hr fridge imprisonment.
‘’Summer is demanding school dinners from now on- we had to give her one today as we cant see a chid starve- you owe us £2’’ oh shut up – I now have to pay you £2 because you won’t let a child eat a soggy sandwich! And now Summer has rights to demand school dinners and you want a cheque upfront for £150 to cover the term. Tell Summer if she wants a hot meal at school she needs to get a job and then she can decide what she can and can’t have.
When I get Summer from school later she is looking sheepish, she knows she has done wrong, but she also knows she is victorious.
‘I am sorry they called you mum, I begged her not to, I told them It would make you mad’ yes Summer go on, imply that I beat you
‘’I just don’t want packed lunch anymore and this is the only way you will stop making them’’
And so I get my cheque book out and sign away a shit load of money for Summer to eat the same thing day in, day out – a tuna jacket potato.
Suffice to say on checking the lunchbox I found it empty – she had somehow managed to force herself to eat her lunch at the after school club, soggy sandwich and all.

Wednesday, 14 September 2011

Day 55 - Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star

I have become somewhat of an arsehole – a stage school mom.
I started 2 weeks ago when I joined Summer up to a performing arts school – I couldn’t afford it, but they promised to keep her every Saturday for 2 whole hours of dancing, singing and drama. All I heard was 2 whoooollllllleeee hours to myself, shopping, pampering, sleeping. All without the constant nag of Summer and her insistence on following me everywhere.
For her first session I decided to stay and peak through the window to see if she was enjoying herself, because if she wasn’t she would have just walked out, no negotiation, just off down the A2 heading home. A few other mums were there, turned out immaculately, clasping Chanel bags with pink frosted lips and highlights in their hair. I still had morning honey still stuck to my chin. I noticed how very subtly that they would try and push their way to the front to take a peer through the one small A4 window at their little stars, and then smugly turn back to the other mums and profess how wonderful ‘Shiraz’ is doing. One mother whose daughter was in the 6-8 yr old class was moaning about how her (by all accounts spoilt brat) child should be in the next class up on the account of her extraordinary talents (un noticed by me) and that the class was holding her back.  For the next 2 hours I had to listen to the most futile conversation about collagen injections ,Range Rovers, cello lessons and the difficulty in finding cheap eastern European help. I having non of the above tried to stay quiet clutching my bus pass. But they kept trying to draw me in, trying to get information on me as to what Summers talents were, what threat she might be to their own budding myley cyrus’s. I tried, I really tried not to get involved. But half hour before the class ended I cracked.
   ‘’Summer comes from a theatrical background’’ the room gasps, their botox cracks. ‘’I was in the west end as a child myself – a stint with Vanessa Redgrave as lead’’ This is true. ‘’Her father is musically blessed and was an international dancer’’ this is not true, he cant hold a tune or play a note but danced in a few music videos in his day, MC’d at a few raves.....why is this coming out of my mouth, stop, stop, stop. I can see them all pretend to be pleased and intrigued whilst snarling at me and watching Summer with one eye. ‘’Summer was doing dance earlier in the year but she was quite advanced and wasn’t being challenged’’ they all nod in agreement. Shut up, schhhhttttooooppppp. It got worse – I implied ever so slightly that my  new 4x4 was in the garage hence the bus pass. When in fact it’s been a right off sat outside my house with bricks propping it up for 6 months. What have I become, I am thinking about getting a spray tan!! It’s ok – Summer will hate it and we will never have to come back here again – they will just presume she got a scholarship to the Brits.
She loves it – she begs me to take her back, its the best thing ever. I am shitting myself as there is no way I am going to be able to magic up an Audi Q7 by next week – and what about the holiday to the Bahamas I told them I had planned thats only a month away!!!!! Bollocks me.
For the next week I obsess about keeping my own show alive, without making them find me out. Summer keeps irritating by singing this show tune over and over again (badly) ‘’Soft hands, blab la, Gold Curls bla, bla I’m not that girl’.... shhhhhh mum is trying to work out how to get an Audi. But then in dawns on me – if I cant muster these material things I shall make Summer a star, this will in the short term, leave the other mothers envying me, and in the long term score me an Audi (I would naturally take 50% as her manager). What happened next is heinous, its dreadful,....... I type the song words into google, I find the song ‘I’m not that girl’ from Wicked. I play it on repeat to Summer and make her perform it for me, over and over. I stop her midway and push her off the mock stage and show her how she should be doing it, how to punch the air, how to look longingly into the distance, never turn your back to your audience, project Summer Project!!!!! After the 14th attempt she starts to loose interest and the feeling in her legs – no worries lie down and watch mummy do it – see how its meant to be done you fool. I am prancing about the room, singing at the top of my (well ranged) voice, at one point I even let out a tear. (my god I am good) Part time dad comes up to see what the racket is and quickly turns on his heels when he sees me on my hands and knees pleading to the Dress Circle.  It gets worse though. While Summer sleeps I set the song on repeat and play it to her all,night,long....I set my alarm early and wake her up for a quick rehearsal before school – and so it goes for 5 days and 5 nights. And £125 spent on theatre tickets......
Come Saturday ladies I will dust off my 10 year old Louis Vinton bag, put my false eyelashes on, drag Summers lifeless body to the class and death stare her through that A4 small window until she performs it just how I like it.
I will then ask the teacher to put her in the class above, leave late so I can catch the bus unnoticed.
She will be a star, my girl, you just wait and see....for the first time ever I am pleased at the ridiculous middle name Part Time dad gave her... Summer Destiny will be a star.

Monday, 12 September 2011

Day 54 - Part Time Dads thoughts

''see this is the trouble with white people''
Oh god here he goes again
''dem tell you a hurricane a come a england and you just sit down pun ya backside and chat bout the weather pon de bus''
what the hell is he on about
''big hurricane a come and no body pon dis bludlart road a go board up der house, no body nah pin down there roof tile''
I swear this man still thinks he is in Jamaica.ignore, he will stop soon, watch the TV, dont look at him.
'' den when the wind come in and mash up de window, dem a just it blame pon Trevor Mc Donald''
What the fuck has Trevor got to do with a Hurricane, I just try and ignore him and ask for the remote.
''wha you tink Summer a go do?''
stop talking to me - I dont care what you think Summer will do should a hurricane come - its not coming its just windy out
''wha you tink she a go do when she find us crush up by a tree on the floor - how long you tink she would survive for''
firstly there are no trees nearby that could cush us should this hurricane come about - secondly this is actually a bloody good topic of converstaion now, how long would she survive for trapped in the house?
We start discussing this in detail.
''she a survivor man , she knows how to shit and piss'' (yeah we were all born with that natural instinct) ''she know how fi cook''  I shoot him a look of dont be ridiculous, ''how ya mean, she makes noodle, tea, dumplin, she knows how fi use the microwave....she does it all the time when she is with me, I try and keep myself to myself you know, so she fi understand how to tek care of herself''' She  is 5 (and 3/4 if you ask Summer, dont forget the 3/4) - I tell him he is an absolute moron and he shouldnt let her do things like that. He goes in to some long speech about being raised bare foot by wolves in Jamaica, sleeping under the stars bla bla bla poor old me, so you didnt have a gameboy get over it.
''If dat hurricane come, Summer will be alright man, me teach her how to survive, dats why she will eat you first when the food runs out''
I'm going to bed

Saturday, 10 September 2011

Day 53 - Doctors

So I am ill, actually ill, this time it’s not in my mind.
I put it down to either a kidney infection or pregnancy at first. The constant peeing and lower back pain. Don't be too surprised. Either way both diseases are symptoms of having had sex!
 It happened after the riots, Summer was held hostage in Deptford watching the feral youth burn pound land. Part Time dad had returned home, excited in all his black power escapades of the last 48hrs, so rather than get arrested he looted my womb instead of JD sports. This also keeps his promise to only fornicate with me bi-annually.
I wish he hadn't bothered. The pee, pain and nausea that followed led me to worry about another devil child in my belly. Part time dad would insist on naming him Riot. I'm serious, he wanted to call Summer Ice during my first trimester, and then changed his preference to Cream days before my due date when I was too weak to care. It seems Jamaicans don't have to worry about being bullied in the playground for having a stupid name. Hence his eldest brother is called Fuzzy.
But anyway I am ill, so I book a doctors appt to face this head on. The post arrives as I put down the phone and there is a letter from her, the bitch , my EX therapist. She has sent me a copy of the doctor’s letter where she tells him I am above averagely insane, and that I am a hypochondriac....today of all days when I am really ill. The doctor would have read the letter by now, noticed me on his appointments list and already decided to not care about my pains. Summer is excited about the trip to the doctors, she wants them to pull her teeth out so she can score some money from the tooth fairy. When I am called in, Summer follows. She clocks the doctor, the doctor clocks her...there is tension in the room. Seems neither of them have got over the immunisation incident 3 months ago. Summer snarls at him. "You broke my arm!"she lies
"You didn't hold still Summer"
"You’re just mean you know that, your mum doesn't love you" I ignore them both.
I tell him my symptoms, and he pretends to listen whilst keeping one eye on Summer. I spell out to him that I think I have a kidney infection or that I am P-R-E-G-N-A....
"Jesus Christ your pregnant mum" Summer squeals running around the room, now she decides to be academic! "I knew you wouldn't be just fat" . Still tension in the room. The doctor tells me I am not pregnant- he just looks me up and down- how he can do this without a test?. I insist though and 5 mins later I am peeing into a cup with Summer wondering how I am doing it so precisely. She is on her knees right in front of my vagine. Mouth open watching me perform, amazed at what is going on in the doctors toilets.
With a cup of pee in my hand and jeans round my ankles she opens the door and runs out telling everyone in reception what she just saw, and that I am pregnant. An old lady starts clapping.
The doctor is as shocked as I am to find that for once I am actually ill. Urinary infection. Ha told you!
We go home and I tell Summer to please be good and careful round me because I am ill. She says she doesn't care because I am always ill. She pats my tummy. I climb into bed, a hot shivering pee smelling mess.
"I called dad..he didn't know you were pregnant, he gave me a message for you"
Oh shit
"He wants you to have a really hot bath, drink vodka" aww that's nice, yes I need to relax,
"and something about a coat hanger...he said he would be home next month"

Wednesday, 7 September 2011

Day 52 - The Asylum (Therapy Part 3)

I’ve been dumped...dumped by my Therapist.
I thought we were getting somewhere, her dress sense was improving, she started wearing her hair down. She seemed happier ...... but apparently there is nothing more she can do for me. She just takes all of my style tips and casts me aside because she doesn’t know how to deal with me – maybe this is how Gok Wan felt when he came out to his mum.
She wants to refer me to her colleague, a specialist. Apparently she is low level, I need high level therapy. It will take 6 weeks to get on the list but in the mean time she gives me a manual – as if my mind is some kind of car engine, ‘ if you feel suicidal refer to the manual’. Yes that’s the first thing I will fucking  do, thank god Hitler never had this Northamptonshire NHS PCT manual with the happy tree chart on it, or we would all be giving Nazi salutes – god she couldn’t even give me a manual from my own local authority.
She says I wasn’t improving – that my scores are above that of the average anxiety riddled mother. She scored me?? What was the criteria? If I’d had known I was being judged I would have made more of an effort with my mental health and definitely not spoken about Thomas – the imaginary African man that disciplines Summer.
I am more pissed off that without her and her bland room and wardrobe choices – so goes with it the 1 hr I have to myself each week. A time to talk about me, no work, no Summer, no part time dad. Just me, and her. And now I am on the street clutching a manual.  Bollocks.....
Then later my dad calls and what he tells me starts to put my life into perspective.  Dad is excited, he has found out the identity of his Dads biological parents (my granddad being adopted as a young boy). He has turned into one of those nutters that sit in libraries searching out their family tree and thumbing dusty census records, to replace a sex life he once had without Viagra, and now he has found her , my great grandma.... my great grandma....... who died in a lunatic asylum in Chelsea  age 37.
  Shit the bed, I think. What the fuck could have caused her to end up in the asylum!!! Why me?.... why am I descended from a nutter?,  I now have her Victorian unhinged genes. I am her but in the 21st century. Did she kill herself? Did they crank up the electric shock therapy too high one day, and her bloomers caught alight.  I start blaming her for all my mental health issues...
‘but wait, it gets better’’ says dad.... ‘’your great granddad was a murderer’’.... OK shut up! This isn’t ‘who do you think you are’’ this is some bullshit right here. But no... turns out grandpops had a jealous streak and killed my grandmas lover. To avoid hanging he fled back to Italy. So much to digest.... but all I can think of is how I am descended from lunatics.
I look at Summer – she is seeing how far she can put her head in the dogs mouth whilst milking her nipples (the dogs nipples, not her own) she got the crazy gene alright .... and its all my fault.  For the last 5 years I blamed her craziness on the copious amounts of ganja me and part time dad used to smoke before I knew I was pregnant. But now part of me is relived that maybe this shit is hereditary and I couldn’t have prevented the way Summer is.
Maybe just maybe – my granddad was like Summer – he drove his mother to the asylum , unable to cope, his father in a paranoid jealous rage and left to cope with the monstrous child shoots his love rival..... maybe this will happen to me and part time dad, maybe Summer will push me so far that I am sectioned, and PT dad unable to cope with Summer alone and on discovering my lover (I can dream, and I still have time to acquire one ) shoots him and flees to Jamaica to avoid a 3 yr sentence for murder in the UK.
This is my family curse, every other generation shall sporn the devil child. I look at Summer, she has produced milk (from the dog, not from the fridge) I swear I see her eyes glow red.  I’m getting a head start and booking a room in the priory tomorrow, with or without a lover!

Tuesday, 6 September 2011

Day 51 - The Promise

I promise this school year I will be a better mum.
I will get Summer to bed early and wake up on time to do her hair properly.
I will make more of an effort with her school Packed Lunches, they will be  Michellen star level, not Greggs pasty level.
I will never forget her PE kit.
I will clear my work diary and go to each assembly and sports day and fight my way to the front row, I will even squeeze a tear out, so everyone can see I care.
I will ask the head teacher what she has done wrong before going into the office so I have time to prepare my shocked and dissapointed face and not burst out laughing in surprise and secret pride.
I will write to her teachers in pen and not pink felt tip.
I will make sure Summer has her knickers on each day.
I will try and talk to the other mothers....the ones that I can do without feeling the need to vomit on their Jimmy Choo's.
I will do this all. Everyday.  Honest....just not today ......, not her first day back because that totally catches you out the blue.
 I only had 6 weeks to prepare for this day.
 We woke up late, so I scraped her hair up into a lumpy pony tail, I realised that the new uniform I brought her is too small, I make her packed lunch, she wants heart cheese sandwiches, she get penis shaped ones and a box of sushi I found at the back of the fridge. I don't have her PE kit ready so I write her teacher a note in pink felt tip pen explaining. I hope she put her knickers on....... We rush out the door as I give her a pepperami and flapjack that I find in my bag for her breakfast.
-I promise tomorrow I will be a better mum.

Tuesday, 30 August 2011

Day 50 - Go The Fuck To Sleep

Ahhh work, sweet blissful, unnagging , non feet touching work. Work, we had one week apart –But  I had to give part time dad a break from babysitting from the couch this Summer holiday. I regret it – I should never have left you work.
My week off with Summer was meant to be a time for us to bond – to explore new places, lay down memories, stop part time dad from killing her.
 In reality it was a week from hell. Summer out of routine -not that we ever really had one- but 8 hrs of school a day goes some way to creating a stable environment for her. No money in the account, no batteries for the Wii , resulted in me zoning out a lot and picturing Summer as some sort of Tom and Jerry character that I could put in a Cannon and shoot across Bromley’s sky line, or hit repeatedly with a hammer until little tweety birds circled around her dazed and confused head. To top it off it rained.  Un-stimulated and Hyperactive I watched her climb the walls for 13 hrs a day.  I listened to her talk – I timed her once – 3 hrs of non stop chatting to herself, to me , to the dog, the TV.... when she ran out of real words she just simply made them up. Words,words, words, 3 hours non stop.
But the worst came at night time. Part time dad had seemed to convert Summer to the Jamaican time zone that he still lives by after 15 yrs in the UK. Under his watchful eye (insert sarcasm) Summer would rise around 10-11am share a drink of juice with him on the couch – straight from the carton and they would start a Disney channel marathon. Summer, helping part time dad out when ‘Handy Manny’ had a difficult question. Maybe around lunch time PT dad would choose to dress her in her very best velour tracksuit for an outing to the chicken shop or to meet other desperate Jamaican Dads lumbered with kids in the park.  After this, maybe a spot of Dancehall music and practice of gang signs.  They would then stay up and watch Disney, now on repeat until the early hours of the morning. Both of them giggling at the same Hannah Montanna Joke they had seen that morning.
So when it was my turn to take over care – I was at first happy with the unexpected lie in – a chance to get up early and do some work while the house was quiet. I was not however  prepared for bedtime – She simple laughed in the face of 8pm, stuck her fingers up at 9pm, told 10pm to kiss her butt and so it went some nights until 1am!!!!!!!! Hyper unwilling to sleep with plenty of words (mostly Jamaican having spent 4 weeks with her dad) So there I would be for 4hrs a night trying to get this 4ft yardie girl to go the fuck to sleep.  I tried songs, books, lights off, lights on, creeping out, yelled back in, shouting, rocking, crying – ‘Go the fuck to sleep’  There were times when I would fall asleep at the side of the bed, waking up to find her downstairs blowing bubbles. Then be subjected to more words. She tried every excuse, I am tired, I am thirsty, I need my teddy from downstairs , I need Beanie Man on the stereo.  The best one was when she convinced herself that there was bed bugs ‘’oh mummy there bugging me’’ she said as they scratched ‘’these bugs are buggering me’’ this made me laugh, so she said ‘buggering me’’ on repeat  loudly whilst jumping up and down on her bed, I made sure all the windows were shut, should the neighbours decide to call the police again.
We have one more week before school – and its down to part time dad to get her back into her old sleeping pattern – which is only mildly less irritating than the sleepless week I have just had. He has no chance unless he cracks open a ganja bong in her room.
I clearly don’t have the answer when it comes to techniques to putting a little Rasta to bed – but there is a tool I use to stop me from turning those cartoon day dreams to reality – I put the hammer down and reach for a book called ‘Go The Fuck To Sleep’’ by Adam Mansbach . A short book that looks like a kids bed time book with great illustration that is strictly for Adults, it makes me laugh, stops child battery and lets me know that other parents may just hate their kid too – just a little bit – if your honest at bedtime.
‘’All nursery kids are in dreamland, the froggie has made his last leap...Hell no, you can’t go to the bathroom, you know where you can go? The fuck to sleep’’
Every mum needs a copy!

Wednesday, 24 August 2011

Day 49 - Therapy Part 2

Today was my second Therapy session and I arrive ten minutes late without my ‘therapy homework’
As I check myself in, my therapist appears at the top of the stars. Dressed a lot better than last week, a beaming smile, waving at my eagerly.
I can tell this woman likes me, I reckon my sessions are the most fun she has all week. I am the funniest mental health patient she has.
‘You may notice some changes to the room!’’ she tells me excitedly. Hmmmm she has updated her wardrobe from green peace chic and addressed my issues with the poorly decorated room.  Is she reading my blog?
‘’like it?’’ errr I can’t notice anything different but she looks really pleased, why is she seeking my approval.....someone’s got issues.
She goes down her list of questions as she does at the start of every session, How’s Summer? Done anything spontaneous? Are you happy? Are you suicidal?
‘ahh the chairs’ I say ‘you moved the chairs....and you have a picture of a brain on the wall, amazing, I am no longer suicidal’
She looks confused and scribbles.
She wants me to talk about my last panic attack. I tell her it was dwarf induced. I watched a documentary on a dwarf who said he is getting water on the brain and left untreated he could die. I identified with his symptoms of headaches, dizziness and head swelling and convinced myself  that I had’ dwarf water on the brain disease’. Every time I say dwarf I giggle. She does not; she takes dwarfs very seriously, clearly.
I tell her how I spent an hour in front of the bathroom mirror convinced my head was getting bigger and bigger. ‘’was it?’’ she asks open mouthed again taking this far too seriously, I am talking about dwarves women.....laugh
‘’yes my head swelled and my arms started to get smaller and smaller’’ she is clearly upset for me and writes more on her notepad.
‘’how did you stop the panic?’’ she asks
‘’I told myself at 16 stone plus and 5ft 8, I am not a dwarf and do not have a dwarf head’’
‘’good, good she says, it’s good that you can see you are not a dwarf’’ she ticks a box.
God I have 30 more minutes left of this. This woman does not get me at all.
 We move on from dwarves and talk about Summer. I tell her we have some time together this week with me being off work, she likes this, she asks what we have planned. I tell her that a possible trip to Chessington is on the cards, she makes me say it again without the word possible and say definitely. ‘’I will definitely take Summer to Chessington ....maybe, if I have the money’’ she humphs and scribbles.  I tell her about the Tampon day and Thomas. She doesn’t find this funny either. ‘’Do you think becoming Thomas is more than just a game?’’  Oh god, maybe telling a therapist that occasionally I use the voice of an African man to discipline my child is not the best move. I may leave here in a straight jacket.
‘’Do you think Thomas is the real parent in you trying to get out and take charge at home’’ hmmmm I sit and think.....No
‘’No it is just soooo much fun talkin in an afrikhan accent mannnnnn’ (please read that again in intimidating African tones)
She looks shocked, she scribbles, she tells me my time is up.
‘but......’ I protest, I want to explain that I am just joking around, shit don’t let me talking African to you be the last words I say before next week!!!
‘’We will deal with this next week’ she says

Sunday, 21 August 2011

Day 47 - Mummy's little secret

I wonder what Summer will think when if one day she finds the picture from the party I went to the other night.
There was a photo booth, a free bar and a gay man. The result was 4 passport size photos of me and a semi naked gay guy in compromising positions. The pictures are like a series of stills from one of the most confusing, potentially vomit in mouth porn films ‘big girls on gay guys’. The first sees me pulling his trousers down with my teeth, the second I am peeking into his boxers, the third, he is naked bent over as I grab his hair from behind, the last picture has us in fits of giggles.
Mums aren’t meant to do that type of thing right?
 my mum was  an angel, she was this sexless, homely women. The worst it got growing up was when she called me at the age of 18 to tell me she had drunk a Bacardi Breezer and couldn’t feel her nose.
  My mum cooked and cleaned, never swore, had a strong moral compass, lived her  life for her children forsaking relationships, nights out on the piss and hangovers.  She was pretty much everything that I am not.
That was what I thought my mum’s life was, up until a month after she passed away my brother and I had to clean out her house. Doing a job like that is one of the most depressing things you can do, deciding what things to keep and what to chuck into a skip or give to charity. I was downstairs whilst my brother went though mums room with a bin bag in hand.  The house was unusually silent, and very few words had been spoken that day. Whilst eyeing up some china tea sets wondering what they were worth on ebay. I heard a scream, a thump and banging from my mums room. Shit, she is alive and hiding the cupboard all along, this was all probably one of mums lessons. ‘see I told you you couldn’t live without me, you two have gone about this all wrong , where is your list?, don’t let your sister near the expensive items, she will sell it for crack’’ my mum was convinced I was a crack addict from when she came to visit my flat one day and found a candle stuck to a plate.  This was apparently the sign of a junkie along with a ‘suspicious’ roll of tin foil in the kitchen.
Anyway – upstairs the banging continued and I shouted up to my brother who was now screaming and laughing at the same time. I climbed the stairs to see my brother collapsed on the floor in hysterics whilst a rampant rabbit bounced along the floor out of control. He had been clearing out her bedside table (or looking for cash) and had come across mum’s ‘personal items’. Seeing the opportunity to have a little fun, I grabbed the rabbit and took to beating him round the head with it as he gagged and screamed up and down the landing. Then like children finding their dads first porn magazine and wondering what the crusty stuff is on the pages – we went back to the draw and drew gasps at its contents. The draw was an Aladdin cave of toys and lingerie that put an Ann Summers store to shame.  
As the house search continued, so did the story of my mum’s secret life, a quite active life it seemed, of romance,  lovers, proposals, gifts, cards and letters from men I never knew existed.  I wanted to give this woman a high five.  My mum was a player.
Would I have wanted to know all this when she was alive? Probably not. Sometimes mums need to keep their ‘other’ lives a secret so I won’t be ripping up the pictures  from my night with a gay guy in a photo booth, but I will be putting them in a box, a box of horrors for Summer to discover one day when I am long gone, and I hope it scares the shit out of her!!!!

Tuesday, 16 August 2011

Day 46 - Therapy

So last week I met my new Therapist - I am saying this without sounding like an absolute Cunt you understand. Apparently I have health anxiety,obsessional thought disorder (like OCD but with thoughts and no soap) and a form of post traumatic stress. Trust me I am not as mental as I sound and valium does a great job. Turns out it is all my mothers fault  - very freudian.
  My GP having met Summer suggested I go and talk through my issues with someone who has more time, and gives a shit. Summer and the GP arent friends since her last booster jab when Summer exclaimed after jab one of three in a row '' Are you serious man! what is wrong with you bruv?!! dont touch me, I swear. you best leave me'' as she barricaded herself under his desk.
But they decide that I need therapy and not her.
 I am in this badly decorated room, sat next to a box of man sized tissues. The therapist is young, looks like she eats a raw veg diet and from her reactions to my comments is clearly childless.
''Are you feeling happy today'' - yes
''Are you suicidal today'' - can you be happy and suicidal? - no, no I am not suicidal, As you know I have a fear of death, the last thing I am going to do is gas myself in a car. no matter how many times Summer says I should try it.
''Do you think your scared of dying because it means leaving Summer'' errrr no, actually at times that would be a positive, the thought of sleeping for eternity without Summers foot up my vagina is quite appealing
''have you and Summer done some positive bonding this week?
 do I tell her about the vibrator massage incident? ''Not much I have been tired, we went to the park at the weekend but that's about it''
she screws up her face and scribbles, ''thats a shame, did you not want to go out anywhere else?, we could set you a goal for next week, you should take her to Lego Land or Chessington or maybe have some of her friends round, or the Zoo''
Yes thats fabulous, youre a genius, I am cured, I should go to bloody Lego land. I have worked my arse of all week to the point of exhaustion, I have no money in the bank, and you want me to drive to fucking Windsor to get wallet raped by a bunch of plastic figures.
''No thanks''
''you should try being more spontaneous'' -you should try having a kid and being a working mum
''tell me do you feel anxious around Summer ?'' yes ! who doesnt? I am on constant flight or fight mode around the girl, do you know what it is like having your tits grabbed at any given moment, the fact that she can talk for 3hrs straight and when she runs out of real words she just makes them up, words, words words, do you know what its like being touched constantly by her feet, her launching at you for no reason, her randomly farting on you, throwing piss at you for god sake, piss!,you think that behaviour creates and air of calm!!! do you!!!!!!!!!! do you wonder why I have to breathe into a paper bag three times a day!!!!!
She starts scribbling again- she says maybe when I resolve my issue,s my parenting experience will be improved. but what if your issues are the child.
She sets me a long term goal - ''why not have a party for Summers Birthday and invite her whole class'' why not fuck off , sure her whole class, all 30 of them and the Per Una cunting mothers whom I just frigging love. I will take 5 of them without there parents to like McDonalds or something and expect some decent presents in return.
I have homework, therapy homework,'Go on do something spontaneous with Summer'' ok I will throw piss at her for a change.

Monday, 15 August 2011

Day 45 - touch me, touch me I wanna feel ur body

Summer has an annoying little habit: she wont stop touching me.
If Summer is in touching distance, she will touch me, preferably with her feet. At the dinner table her foot will have to rest on mine. On the sofa her foot has to touch me. If I move, she moves her foot back. This is constant. I am always touched by her foot. This may sound like just a small annoyance. But think. Imagine being constantly touched in your own home for the last 5 yrs by a foot. With no escape. Touch, touch, clamy little foot touch. You move it moves, touch, touch, untill you just want to slap it away. But that would only anger the foot, make the foot sad and then you have to sooth the foot and promise never to push the foot away again. Like the foot version of Ike and Tina Turner.
Sometimes the foot realy wants to get right in there with the touch. Foot likes to wiggle its way in under seated bums. Which when foot get excited sometimes ends with a toe up my arse!
In bed foot likes to get comfy, again foot enjoys squeezing in between sleeping legs, which is why knickers must always be worn, heaven forbid she should miss her target.
Touch touch a poke prod and foot touch. If I move rooms she comes following... bringing both feet. Your saying I am cruel now, that she is just showing me love. I feel like a comforter, a soggy blanket to suck on. But for feet to stroke, snuggle and touch, constantly touch. She is a tactil girl. A grab of the boobs tells me she is excited to see me, A belly wobble tells me I'm comfortable, A kiss tells me she loves me. The foot touch tells me she owns me. Everytime its a way of controlling me, a way to make me weaker "i either sit here close to you, touching you or you let me go out and steal cats" its cats everytime. I remeber how much I loved cuddles with mum as a kid, we spent hours snuggling on the couch, I also remember the rejection when at 16 she pushed me aside and denied me the snuggles. It scarred me. I dont want to reject Summer but there is more to the foot touch than she is letting on. She has big plans for the foot. You mark my words. Imagine it, touch touch, proding, touch, sticky,potentialy wee'd on touch, touch, touch

Sunday, 14 August 2011

Day 44 - I got my hair did

When you cant get a comb through Summers hair without it breaking, you know its time to get the proffesionals in.
As there are no afro hair dressers in our local area, we trek down to the ghettos of Deptford early on a Sunday morning. We reach at 10am and the market is already buzzing. Summer is well known on the market due to it being part time dads local hang out. As we make our way to the hair shop she is greeted by stoned rastas dancing to the music in their minds and muslim grocers give her apples and mangoes as we pass.Everyone here knows Summers name. The closer we get to the salon the more nervous she gets. We both know what lies in store. A total arse kicking to her head by an angry Jamaican hairdresser who should have been in church rather than "fixing dis pickney head" Summer gets pulled and yanked around the shop floor, her hair braided so tight -it looks like she is chinese.
She is scared, but not as scared as me. There are 2 times when I feel incredibly white and out of my depth, in the patty shop and at the afro hairdressers.
From the moment I walk in a row of black women look me up and down, look at Summers wild mane and then openly kiss their teeth at me. The hairdresser rolls her eyes and inspects Summers hair. Its like when someone brings a matted puppy to Rolf Harris in animal hospital. Tears well up in their eyes. A team of them armed with greese and afro combs begin the assault on Summers head. And then someone cracks. "I'm not sure we are gonna get through dis hair" they always say this, they always make me feel bad - and then they always manage to fix her hair. I know what they're thinking when they see me helplessly hand over my daughter for grooming ''If your gonna have a baby with a black man, at least have the decency to be able to do her hair'' but listen, I didnt know it would be so hard, she didnt pop out of my womb holding a copy of Black Hair magazine, there was no instruction manual. It's not like I have'nt tried either. No matter how much greese I put on her head its still dry an hour later, no matter how many times I fight Summer to comb out her head a minute later she does a head stand and her head is one big dreadlock. I have had tutorials from part time dads mum and friends, but I just cant do it.
At the hair shop, even customers are coming up now to have a look and a comb, I am sat helpless feeling ashamed, playing with my phone. Summer is crying. The Jamaican ladies fuss round her and throw me cursing looks. This is not the friendly atmosphere of Desmonds, there is no crazy antics from Pork Pie to break up the tension - It takes a chinese lady selling hooky DVD's to stop their relentless assult on Summers head.
We have been in the hair salon for nearly 2 hours now , I am tired scared and hungry, Summer has convinced them to plait in some blonde streaks. They ask me to go to the hair shop on the market to buy the hair and some more black hair utensils. I hate the hair shop - Its like shopping in LIDL, its products you have never seen before, rows and rows of different greese, hair, clips, weave all from different countries around the world. I don't know really what I am meant to be getting, but am pleased to get away from the angry hairdresser. Whilst scanning the shelves I see the holy grail of black hair (well to a white mum anyway) its a box on the top shelf, the product picture is of a beautiful young black girl whose hair is long and straight, smooth glossy hair accesorised with pink clips, this girl looks really happy and pleased with herself, she doesnt look like the type of girl whoose mum gets judged at the hair salon. It doesnt look like a girl who has to wake up 30mins early just so her mum can tie her hair in a ponytail, this girl doesnt have to wear a showercap in the sand pit at school.......why ?? because this girls mum has done something radical and taboo, she has allowed her daughters hair to be relaxed (chemically straightened). I wish I could reach that box - but I can't, I would have to ask for help and no doubt the customers in the shop would judge me and call the black hair social services, because its believed that relaxing a childs hair is equal to commiting puppy rape in the black community. It's says on the box that it is perfectly safe and I reckon there are a tone of  girls out there in America living the 'So Soft, So Easy' hair dream. But I am not allowed the dream. I gather 3 of everything I was sent to get because I am not sure what it is that I was really meant to be getting.
When I  enter back the salon, Summers hair is practically done, she looks like she has had a face lift too - she is swisshing her new long tame plaited hair around. I hand over the bag, the hairdresser looks in and laughs and shows the contents to the customers, who all laugh too. One of them even comes up and hugs me. 'You have a recipt?'
'Yes' I wisper ... ''well take it the bludcart back cah you nah buy noting right'' she chuckles. 'besides her head is fix now anyway, we tink it best you just leave us to it for a while' yeah leave you to it so you can cuss me freely!!!
I dont blame them though, 3 hrs in the hair salon and it costs £20!!! amazing value from the black community. I walk Summer back down the market, the Rastas wolf whistle Summer as she puts on a little dance show for them, whipping her new hair around her head like a crazed stripper. As we walk past the hair shop I see the poster of the 'So Soft, So Easy' girl, she is still looking smug. I'm coming back for you Easy girl, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but oneday I will take you home with me.

Thursday, 11 August 2011

Day 44 - Summer the Racist

So the riots are still with us, nearing on 6 days and the longest stint of work some of the looters have had. But things for me have taken a nasty twist. I fear the riots wont be looked back on as the London Riots but the Race Riots.
I called part time dad last night to tell him to come home after news reported the EDL en route to where he was in Lewisham.
"Who dat den?" -well there kind of like my dad, times ten and my dad actually killing you not just joking.
Of course part time dad knows that racism is still rife, he has been stopped uand searched more times than Bob Marley has had a spliff. But after reading peoples Social Newtorking status updates I am disturbed that some of my peers are effectively racist. To blame the riots on blacks and asians is in my opinion both hugely inaccurate and racist. My opinion is that the rioters are from bad,deprived communities, less advantaged areas where they know what us white middle class think of them. If you live in an area where you are told you are scum, a chav, a criminal,benefit claiming waste of space. If you have heard that all your life, your going to grow up angry and more than likely join the stereotype. But all of this ranting (and not enough funny jokes) comes down to fears for Summer who is mixed race, I cant ever understand how she will feel when oneday a boy she fancies turns her down cos he wont date black girls, or she is deemed a trouble maker from the colour of her skin,not because she actually is a little shit. Or when she is a famous actress, she wont be on the cover of magazines because black cover girls dont sell magazines in the UK.
 How can I help her? I cant even relate! I have had a white middle class get out of Jail card all my life, jesus I went to court with 21 points on my lisence, cried a little and got told not to do it again and drove off into the sunset (at 60 mph) I have been told I can achieve anything and belived it. Summer is raised in the same area with the same oppurtunities but I fear she wont feel the freedom I feel everyday.
At the age of 3 she already experienced racism. We were in the park and she had toddled off to play, when an argument started between Summer and some African kids. I pull Summer to one side where she tells me "I hate black people".....woooahhhhh I was not expecting to deal with that one today! I take her to the bench, and explained how that is a terrible thing to say, that her daddy, nan and grandad are black, shit 80 percent of the people in your life are Black. And Summer you are a bit black like daddy and a bit white like mummy, youre a  special mix of us both - she looks at me with disgust "im not black" yes your are a bit, like a half "im not black" you bloody well are if that nose is anything to go by. "Im the same colour as you" shit you got me there, i do have a beautiful olive tone to my skin! She is holding her arm out to me and its the same colour "im white like you mummy see" she said with tears in her eyes
 This went on for a few months , and I was shitting myself that at any given moment she woud announce a hatred for black people - and you know who gets the blame - the parents, I spent time and money getting her a mix of ethnicaly diverse books and games - but she wouldnt budge, she didnt like black people and that was that.
It was one morning on our way to nursery that I found out the root cause of Summers racism. As we walked uo the path to her idilic nursery she says '' I hope that Black teacher isnt in today''.....jesus christ on a bicycle, girl are you trying to get be beaten up!!! I coudnt risk it so I told the 'black ' teacher what Summer had said - she took it well and sat me down to explain that everything was fine. That there was a new girl from Iceland in Summers class, Rundwig (what a name!!) who Summer had taken a shine to - except little Rundwig was a huge chubby faced aryian racist who told Summer (in between biting her I also found out) that she hates black people. Summer completely oblivious to race and colour chose to please her and happily agree to hate black people too. I saw Rundwig and her mum in a park oneday after school - they treated us like we had the black AIDS or something - so I tripped her little brat of a daughter up when she wasnt looking. Summer is a lot more confident in who she is now, but I do wish we could have kept that innocence for a little longer. It's one of many trials she will have to face as a mixed race girl in UK where we arent as advanced as we think we are.
Part Time dad came home last night buzzing and proud that he took part in a PEACEFUL (thats in capitals as it seems racists can't read) protest. He and 50 other men of varying races walked towards the EDL to show that they were not scared and that the Lewisham community did not want them or need them. ''how did the police know that you werent rioters and trouble makers?''
''cos we chanted, dis is a peacful protest, dis is a peacful protest and de feds were kris'' OK so the slogan needs work but the sentiment was there.
Well done PT Dad, Well done son.