Welcome to the fun

Welcome to the fun
Christmas Joy

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.

Tuesday, 9 August 2011

Day 43 - Light relief from riots

The past 24hrs have been somewhat stressful.
It started with me falling down the stairs and ripping my arsehole in 2 at 7am. PT dad found me sobbing naked at the bottom step. Once placed on the sofa, Summer and PT dad left to visit Grandma in Lewisham.
I fell asleep and woke up paralysed from my back hair down. The dog was licking me and I needed to wee. PT dad and Summer werent answering the phone and I was getting worried. My back pain was such that I am not ashamed to say I pissed in a pint glass rather than climb the stairs.
Later the news tells me of riots in Lewisham and an over excited PT dad calls me to say it is just like the mother land in the 80's when the government handed them guns to protect families from rioters. Why no guns he muses? PT has been prophesising a riot ever since I have known him. And now its finaly here he is confused, why do british people fuck up there own shit? Why would they take down nandos, why cash convertors, why primark? What madness is this? I ask him to kindly come home and assist me but he says the riots have shut down london transport, besides Summer is with his mum and he is holed up in a Jamaican patty shop defending savory snacks from the youths. The Jamaican community needs him.
Meanwhile the dog has started licking my piss pint and coming over to lick me. I try and fend him off as best I can.
I am alone, basically covered in my own pee as the rioters moved closer and closer to my area. Is this how it all ends for me?
I wake up again at 5am as PT dad stumbles through the door a few patties in hand. He is devestated, the patty shop went down. He saved what he could. He tells me about the horrors he has seen and I point out that he has left our daughter in the middle of it.

I rescue Summer at 2pm the next day, she is reluctant to leave the action, she is telling me all about what she saw outside the window, bricks thrown at police, grandma turning down the offer of a Plasma TV, and a fire in a bin.

I feel calmer at home until I read racist comments about the riots on Facebook and Twitter and I wonder how much it would hurt Summer if she was old enough to hear, would it effect her, would she feel part of a feared,hated,minority. Would she lash out like the kids we see on the news after being told they are scum year after year. I find myself defending my daughters future as I reply to posts. Then Summer puts it all into perspective. "Whats dis?" Summer has looted my bedroom draw. She is holding a purple 10 inch vibrator in one hand and blue anal beads in the other. I spit my mouthfull of tea all over her. "What is dis mummy tell me" I stall, how do I handle it responsibly?
 So here I am massaging Summer with my vibrator and anal beads to prove I wasnt lying and that it is for my bad back. I cant remeber if they have been wiped down from there last outing. I am sick in my mouth a little.

Sunday, 7 August 2011

Day 42 - The Apprentice

I love that feeling on saturday morning when u wake up early, then realise you dont have to work, so can just roll over and go back to bed ...well until Summer. Wakes you anyway. This morning I woke up naturally at 9:30 unusually Summer wasnt poking me in the eyes or trying to stuff the cat in my knickers. The house was silent so I knew there was trouble occuring, I just had to seek it out. She wasnt upstairs, she wasnt watching TV or cooking a mud pie in the kitchen. Panic (my old friend) started to set in. Then I heard her voice from outside.
"You can have a shell and a bow, or just a bow. But not a shell on its own."
Then an older ladies voice "so you have to buy a bow either way"
I walk over to the window to see what the hell is going on. Then take the scene all in.
Summer has woken up, god knows what time, has gotten her self dressed, and set up a stall outside in the front garden. She has 2 tables, one table has shells (collected on the beach last weekend) and a table of hand made bows (made of ripped paper) she is modelling one in her hair. There are also a couple of illegable signs and she is sat behind her stall waiting for passing trade in desperate need of shells and bows. When the coast is clear I rush outside.
"You cant ask people for money... Its not fair Summer...how much are you asking for? "
"Fifty,hundred and twenty pounds... for this bow"
I decide that this is harmless fun, entrepenurial fun. Which is a positive sign. A step up from when she offers people a dance for a pound. I leave her to it and get on with the morning chores.
I keep an eye on her and watch as the neighbours come back and forth to her stall and applaud them for giving Summer some of there time.
After a few hours I decide its getting to cold and its time to pack up the stall. I have a look at Summers stock. The bows have all but gone, and she now has double the shells as well as a collection of nautical themed figureins .
I am confused, I cant figure out where these new exotic shells and bits and bobs have come from. I ask Summer.
"Well you said not to take their money, so they paid me in shells and now I have all these and this boat and octopus...they gave me these for the bows, which is great because the bows are a bit rubbish really and now I can sell their shells and make some real monies"
The old dears of the street either got confused or were told straight by Summer ,had gone off and gathered there shells , collected from pension walks over the years and traded them with Summer for bows made of newspaper and closer magazine. Those who didnt have shells traded in glass octopus and wooden boats.
Summer is chuffed with her booty and has displayed her swag on her bedroom floor and it looks like Brighton Beach up there. I am secretly pleased, she is showing some business acumen. Maybe there is hope after all.

Tuesday, 2 August 2011

Day 41 - Cos every little things gonna be alright

Well part time dad managed 2 weeks before loosing her.
They went to Deptford before lunch (cos kids love Deptford), he dropped her at his mums around 4, his mum has called his sister (wise move), who took Summer to the park. I turned up to collect her around 6. She wasnt there. PT dads mum invites me in and we sit for 2hrs in the hope that Summer and her aunt turns up. Her phone is off so we wait and wait, and I sit in their kitchen with her husband- its like sitting in Desmonds barber shop. They cus and they fight eachother, I have a little flirt with grandad and listen to grandma moan about "dis useless man deh" they force feed me oxtail and dumplings and I moan about her son and they both agree that they never thought their little yardie beach boy would end up with a private schooled educated white girl, with a proper job and "what an idiat dam fool" I am for agreeing to go out with him all those years ago.(I agree) I could listen to them all night, moan,cus and gossip in the middle of august with the heating on, feeding me stew. There not bothered that no one has seen or heard from Summer and her aunt for the last four hours. "She safe man (insert kiss of teeth) relax" .They dont have the same paranoia that we have. They come from an island where children play out from dawn to dusk and were part time dad used to dive for lobster before going to primary school. Summer could swim at the age of 3 because she spent a month in Jamaica and swimming lessons consisted of chucking her in the sea off a fishing boat "she soon learn man". .. She did. So I believe them that Summer is fine with family, somewhere out there and I am told to go home and someone will bring her back or maybe not, maybe she will stay at her aunts. Its cool, she safe, go home relax, take this plate of oxtail too and go on u crazy white girl.
I do, I relax, think about my night of freedom as I wait for the bus. But then I see someone I recognise, she walks over with 2 big bags of shopping, alone...shit why is she alone? Why is part time dads sister here ...alone?

Monday, 1 August 2011

Day 40 - Irratant

So the 2hr train journey back from the farm was a treat.
I expected Summer and I to fall asleep with my only worry being to make sure I woke up at the right stop.
I dont know where she gets the energy from, maybe she has a reserve pack of AA she keeps in her afro. By all accounts she should have been sparko. But instead the moment she got on that train she turned into an ape. She clambered over seats, ran up and down the train, in and out of the toilets and got stuck in the doors between carriges. I kept telling her to sit still, but she didnt listen she went on a rampage like it was the Brixton riots. I felt awful for the childless couples who tried to move carraiges subtly without making eye contact.
I could feel my chest tighten each time she disobeyed me. I was literally going to die if she didnt stop, she would probably peck at my dead corpse and use my eyeballs as marbles. She kept on and on chatting, running,jumping, swinging,flashing,climbing till I snapped and screamed "STOP, STOP u little ...."
She looked at me, I looked back waiting for her next move. Her jaw dropped, her eyes welled she flung to the ground and started crying, not even normal tears but rather the sounds of an Italian mourning widow, wailing uncontrolably at the fun she has lost.
Oh fuck! Crying is more irratating than Summer being Irratating, and now I have to listen to it for 4 more stops.
By the time we get to the front door I am twitching all over. Summer is asleep in my arms. I have just carried her and the suitcase half a mile to our home.