Irish Hospital Prepared to Forcibly Perform a C-Section on Non-Consenting Woman

Irish Hospital Prepared to Forcibly Perform a C-Section on Non-Consenting Woman.

Slippage

Slippage. I suppose thats a good way to describe it. That slowly sinking in feeling, no, realization that actually you have little worth beyond putting food on the table and yelling at people to put clean clothes on.

Nearly 16 years of back breaking hands on motherhood and I feel like little more than a glorified, if even that, slave.

The house is a mess. Why? Because I didnt clean it.

It’s 8pm and there’s no dinner. Why? Because I didnt make it.

The kids are late for school. Why? Because I didnt force myself out of bed at 5:30 to force them out of bed at 6:00 to get ready without spending an hour playing video games.

And after weeks of beating myself up for not doing the above things well enough or often enough I finally get fed up because hey, I am taking care of an infant and trying to build my own business as well, and have a go at the husband and adolescent children for their complicitness. (What? I gotta hold your hand to feed the flaming cats?) Suddenly, I am no longer lovely,wonderful,amazing mumsy- but an awful, hateful mother who does nothing but yell at them.

I feel guilty. Usless. A terrible wife and mother. I think and think of new ways to manage the family completely on my own, to avoid any bad feeling. I get inspired, I will do A! And B! And C!

But then the baby is crying again, she wants a feed or just doesnt want to be put down. The bank account is empty again and I cant buy the kids new shoes. I am exhausted and fall asleep nursing the baby, only to wake and discover half the day is gone. I feel lazy and useless.

More and more I feel it, slippage. I no longer feel like the driven, aspiring mother, working through the rough patch on her way to a bright future for her and her family.

I feel my dreams slipping through my fingers, like fine silk, so perfect, so wonderful, so close but I cant quite grasp it.

I buy my daughter a £6.99 pair of horse riding gloves and have to ask if they have any cheaper ones. They don’t and I realize this one minor purchase equals over 5% of our weekly income. I feel like a fraud standing there, next to Ms. Range Rover with her stylishly muddy wellies and perfect hair. My trainers are just muddy. My hair is a mess. My daughter is pointing at Harry Hill riding helmets and excitedly asking about back protectors. I am nearly in tears as I nod and smile. It cost £15 for her to go riding that day. And £6.99 for the gloves!

She is glad for the gloves and hugs me tight.

A few hours later she is unkind to her brother and when I am cross with her about it, I am once again the awful mother who hates my daughter.

I am tired and feel beaten, no longer up to this battle. I take the crying baby and go to bed, sure that closing the door and retreating into the cool darkness will make everything else dissapear, will make it stop slipping.

2012 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The new Boeing 787 Dreamliner can carry about 250 passengers. This blog was viewed about 1,100 times in 2012. If it were a Dreamliner, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Overheard

Devon, 14: So, if I can create my own reality, then when there is a zombie apocalypse all the food in the store cupboard will turn into AK47’s. Plus, at my cadet sqaudron we have gas masks and loads of number 8 rifles and I’m going to buy lots of tomato soup, even though I don’t like it, because that stuff lasts forever.

Me- Devon, please could you stop telling your sister who is prone to nightmares and sleepless nights all about zombie apocalypses?

Devon: Oh. (looks at his 11yr old sister) Maybe they’ll be NICE zombies?

——————————————————————————–

Devon,14: (in the kitchen making his lunch) If your name is Devon, clap your hands
“clap, clap”
If you’re makin’ some beans, clap your hands
“clap, clap”
If you’re trying to get some brown sugar for the beans out of the jar while making beans and clapping your hands, clap your hands.
*silence*
If you’re really cool, clap your hands
“clap, clap”

—————————————————————-

Olivia, 11- Stop it, Devon.
Stop it, Devon.
Stop it, Devon.
Stop it, Devon.
Stop it, Devon.
Stop it, DEVON.
Stop it, Devon.
Stop it, Devon.
Stop it, Devon.
Stop it, Devon

A renewed sense of joy and purpose. Or, not.

Traditionally, women who are experiencing a, perhaps, less than pleasant, pregnancy find themselves taking solace in the prize at the end. The beautiful baby.

However, instead of feeling a renewed sense of purpose and joy at this thought, I instead find myself thinking
“Really? I mean, that’s nice and all, and I want the baby, but, you know, I’ve got three of those already. You got anything else to sweeten the deal- a pile of cash or an all inclusive trip to Jamaica?”

I think, perhaps, I’m in for a long trip to October…

Overheard

While the eldest children are making pumpkin pie in the kitchen…

Devon (14)- “WHAT! WHY are you biting my sleeve?”

Olivia (11)- *laughs hysterically* “I don’t know!”

Devon- “You can’t just go around biting other peoples sleeves!”

Olivia- “Well, you can’t just go around biting other peoples wrists!”

Devon- “I don’t.”

Slightly maniacal laughter from both follows

Mom- (from the other room) “Have you two been drinking?”

Adjusting (or not)

I find it difficult to get used to this place. The next door neighbor is a single mum with three young kids, and from my point of view the kids are out of control, the whole family constantly screaming at each other (and worse on occasion). Though her youngest and mine rarely play together- the pervasiveness of their life is starting to affect my kids. Rafe, who is normally incredibly good natured, has started screaming at me. I have long learned how to handle that type of behaviour and can nip it in the bud with a stern word of warning, but it disturbs me just the same. My daughter,11, occasionally plays with the other girls on the street, and afterwards she is belligerent, demanding and snotty. Trying to manage these new behaviours is demanding as they are not part of my kids normal makeup, and are the result of influence. I find that I have to be even more strict than usual and can’t let them get away with it for a second. My eldest is son is thankfully not yet affected, he is not allowed to hang out with the few boys his age on the street as I know they smoke and drink. He’d like to go to the skatepark but the kids there are nasty little cretins and Dev finds that instead of just being able to play, he has to spend his whole time arguing or standing up for himself. Never mind that he is bigger than the kids and could easily lay them out if he decided to let them have it, that’s not in his genetic makeup and I think they see that.

The nights are difficult. Though we are fairly tucked away, our road is some sort of bus through-fare and they come and go at all hours. People come and go all night as well, usually loud and drunkenly. The dogs of the neighbourhood wake me up early every morning with collective howling and barking. During the day the street is full of kids, normally just playing, but when the neighbor kids are about you can be sure their mother will turn up soon and they will all start screaming again, usually just outside our windows. The little one, only 6, will inevitably start crying and there will be more screaming and I end up pacing the floor, wondering what I can do and usually just taking my kids to the park so they don’t have to listen to it anymore. Once I could hear her sobbing through the walls with occasional screaming at the kids and I gathered up all my courage and went over to ask if I could help, maybe by taking her kids to the park or something, she pretended not to be there, and when I pressed said she was fine, thank you.

Her behaviour disturbs me, especially as I worry about her kids, and the effect on mine, and initially I was very judgemental about her. I softened though when I remembered being a single mother for 8 years with two kids, one of which would later be diagnosed with a “social communication disorder”, which just means he screamed a lot as a kid, and occasionally jumped out of moving cars on busy roads because he couldn’t control his anger. It took me a few years to get the hang of this parenting stuff, and I remember being so hard on my son for silly things. I want to help my new neighbour, but she clearly does not want my help. She struts around the neighbourhood, wine class in hand, screaming at her kids or sobbing about some transgression to the adolescent girls that make up her entourage. I find myself less sympathetic and understanding and more irritated and disgusted. When the screaming starts I twitch the curtains, worried she will strike one of the children and knowing that if, when, it happens I will not be able to stay out of it anymore. My family knows this, and while I don’t think they would truly want me to stand back if she were beating them, I know they want me to be quiet, mind my own business, not get involved. I feel embarrassed that they feel this way, that I am some big mouth always getting involved in things that they don’t think concern me. I feel ashamed of them, too. We once came across a man and a woman fighting in the back of the van at a red light. We could see him punching her, could see the blood on her face and clothes. Instinctively I got out of the car, started to shout at them but was dragged back in by the sounds of my family shouting at me. I knew it could end up with me being hurt and didn’t want my kids to see that, so I got back in, and called the police instead. I thought perhaps I had taught my kids an important lesson that night, but now I wonder. Could it be that I am raising kids, and am married to a man, who can stand back and do nothing while others are hurt or treated badly and worse, believe that is better somehow than getting involved?

I long for our detached house in the tiny little cul-de-sac, where the cats could sleep all day on the road outside without ever being disturbed, where the nights were mostly silent and the only noise on a Sunday morning are the church bells in town, which I opened my windows wide to, so that we could hear them better, especially in the winter, when they chime Christmas carols.

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