The Freedom Programme

I've written before about my health visitor, and how I believe she saved my life.

Shortly after I split from S's father, I visited the health visitor for a regular weigh-in/check up. She was her usual supportive self, telling me I didn't have to speak to him if I saw him, that I didn't have to let him see S, that I didn't have to take his phone calls or read his texts.

Before I left, she wrote three things in S's red book, and told me she wanted me to have done them by the next time we spoke:

1. call the police and make them aware of my situation
2. change my phone number
3. call my local children's centre and ask to join the Freedom Programme.

I thought my health visitor was batty and over-reacting to what was just a relationship breakdown.  

I hadn't been abused, I was just difficult to get on with; we had just been incompatible; I had just been hard work. 

I shouldn't change my phone number; S's father should be able to contact me (and send me abusive nastiness) whenever he wanted to. Changing my number would make him angry because I was deliberately being difficult again. 

I shouldn't call the police; that was clearly making mountains out of molehills and deliberately trying to cause trouble where there wasn't any. And there definitely wasn't any real trouble, because everything was my fault, and my responsibility, and I really should be making more of an effort to maintain communication with S's father so that he could see her, even though he wasn't paying maintenance or showing more than a passing interest now that he had replaced us with a new girlfriend and her 3 month old baby.

But I was scared of my health visitor. Not because she was nasty; she was (and still is) lovely. I was scared because I had absolutely no confidence in my ability to look after S. I didn't want to say or do anything that would make the health visitor doubt me. I saw her as a person who had the power to have my baby taken from me, and that petrified me. So I did as I was told.

The Freedom Programme is a set programme of sessions. When I started, they'd already done a few sessions but I think after speaking to me on the phone, the organiser realised I couldn't wait until the next one. I started in the middle of the programme. They didn't have a space in the creche for S, so she came with me. 

The sessions were run on a Tuesday morning, at my local children's centre, which happened to be just around the corner from where S's father worked. I felt sick sneaking in there, and was glad they had a policy of keeping the front door locked while the session was running. I was so scared I would be seen, and he would tell me off for trying to cause trouble for him. 

I walked into that first session, and I remember thinking, I shouldn't be here. I am not one of these women. I do not belong in this room. And then the group leader began talking about the character they called The Dominator, and all the ways they use to control us. This week's session was on The Sexual Controller. She gave us a handout with a list of things he will say or do to keep you in your place. I started to read it, and I felt my stomach drop. I was shaking, almost in tears. 

I wasn't making it up; I wasn't over sensitive; I didn't just bruise easily, I wasn't mad. This piece of paper read as if someone had been listening in on our conversations over the last few months. This piece of paper made me feel instantly justified in being there, and sick to my stomach with guilt that I had stayed there for so long. 

It was abuse. 

I had been in an abusive relationship. 

I had been abused. 

I did belong there after all.

I spent most of that first session crying, telling the group leader that I was scared to change my phone number, that I didn't know what to do, that I felt guilty for leaving his children. 

But I left the session feeling empowered. I left feeling positive and strong. I remember walking out of the building with S in the sling, not caring whether I was seen leaving or not. As I took my mobile from my pocket I saw several new texts, all from him. I read them, but I didn't respond. When I got home, I called the network and changed my number; it was easier than I thought. 

Then I called the police and told them what had been going on. They sent an officer round, who spent a while filling in forms and asking me specific questions about whether I felt that I was in danger, whether I had felt threatened in the past etc. As she left she suggested I buy a curtain to go over my front door, so that anyone coming to the door couldn't automatically see whether I was in. I remember saying goodbye to her, closing the door and going back to the living room, to wait. Although I had told the police I didn't want them to speak to my ex, because I was scared of repercussions, I was convinced he would somehow find out I had "told" on him and that I would be in for some trouble.

As it was, nothing happened. I continued going to the Freedom Programme. Each week we looked at a different persona that abusers will adopt in order to control: the king of the castle, the bully, the bad father, the headworker. Each week it really was as if the group leader had been watching my life, had met my ex before. She and other women in the group were telling me stories that sounded so incredibly similar to my own. The examples we were given of the things an abuser (Dominator) will say and do in order to control you were him, word for word. Seeing that it wasn't just me, that I wasn't over-sensitive or trying to cause trouble, made me realise how important it was that I stay away.

The Freedom Programme finished a year ago. 

When it finished, it was still hard. It was still a daily struggle to stay strong, to not go backwards. Every time I heard from him I started to slip a little. 

But as time went on, I grew stronger. I spoke to a few people, who told me a few things. We compared notes, compared things he had said and done. And with each conversation I grew a little stronger. With each week that passed, I grew stronger. 

I bought the book that goes with the Freedom Programme. I've found it unbelievably useful to be able to read and re-read the descriptions, the lines they come out with, the actions. And also the descriptions of what a non-abusive, reasonable man will say and do.

I will not lend you this book; I still need it. I still read parts of it from time to time, and it is still very important to me. I need to keep reminding myself, so that I never allow myself to be in that position again.

Silent Sunday 2013-09-29

Saturday is Caption Day!

Can you caption this photo?

Prepare Yourselves for a Rant

Let me just preface this post by saying: this post is not directed at anyone in particular. I am just in a ranty mood.

Here, have a photo of me.
 Couldn't think of what else I could use a photo of in this post.

I have posted a fair bit lately about being a single parent. I even made a post on my blog for the local paper about single parents. And I was interviewed (briefly) on LBC last week about the stigma of being a single parent.

Guess what, I'm a single parent. The clue is in the name, people. I write about being a single parent. And sometimes, when it's in the news, and the government are making legislation that is seemingly designed to kill us off, I get ranty and cross and I pull out my soap box and blog about it.

Generally when I do this, I get:

• Supportive comments from my friends, other single mothers, or people in general who have read my blog and respect what I am doing
• Silence from people who don't give a shit either way - I respect that silence more than you realise, oh quiet ones
• Non-single parents complaining that I shouldn't make out that they have it so easy. Or that having a partner doesn't mean white picket fences and happily ever after. Or whatever else that loosely translated means: shut up, I have a hard time too and I don't want to hear about your hard time because it detracts from my pity party.

Guess which one I'll be ranting about today.

When I say that I, or people like me, have a hard time I am not saying that other people have it easy. I am not saying that my situation is any worse than anyone else's. I can't comment on your life; I have never lived it. And as Jeanette Winterson so aptly put it: we are all convinced our own situation is the worst, and I am no exception (I'm paraphrasing; I read it a long time ago, but you get my meaning).

I can't write a blog post about how hard it is to be part of a two-parent family. I can't blog about how difficult it is when your husband just doesn't appreciate everything you do around the home. I can't blog about how unfair it is that you don't get help with your nursery bill. I have no idea about that side of life. i have been a single parent since my daughter was 3 weeks old. 

I can only write what I know, and that is that being a single parent is difficult, and we get a lot of stick from both government and media, who seem to assume we are all feckless ne'erdowells who have deliberately gotten ourselves pregnant so as to gain housing/benefits/get out of work/whatever else. This is what makes me angry; this is what I am passionate about; this is what I write about.

If you feel that two-parent families are not well represented in the media, do what I'm doing - set up a blog, and write your point of view on the matter.

My sister has just had a baby. The other day she looked at me and said, very matter-of-factly, with no hint of being patronising or talking down to me, "I have no idea how you do this on your own." 

I have to say, I have no idea either. When you write it down on paper, it's a bit horrific. Especially if you know anything about my past, or the story of how I came to be a single parent in the first place. But I don't want admiration or gasping applause. I'd be lying if I said I didn't sometimes want a little recognition for how hard things can be from time to time, but I am also aware that for every negative to my situation, there is a glaring positive. The most notable has to be that I am no longer obliged to tolerate the horrendous relationship whose only good point was my daughter.

I am free, and I will take a million nights of being alone with a screaming, teething toddler and Baby Jake, over a single second in that position again.  Although that could be interpreted as seeing a silver lining around a rather large cloud, I see it as a massive positive in my life. There are the smaller things as well: I don't have to take anyone else's opinion or ideas into account. I am free to have my daughter share my bed, breastfeed as long as we both want, wear my choice of clothes, learn my choice of values and ideas. I answer to nobody. When she cries, I don't sit on the sofa arguing with someone as to whether it would constitute spoiling her to go and pick her up; I just go and do it. I know several people who do not have these particular luxuries, and I am grateful for them. I also know people who are struggling to care for children whilst coping with an abusive relationship, and I know for damn sure I am more lucky than those people. I count my blessings every single day.

BUT it does make me angry when I write these posts, and at least one parent in a relationship pipes up that they struggle financially also, or their life is not all roses, they can't afford this or that, or single parents get more help from extended family (I can assure you, I don't). 

When I was debating whether to go back to work or stay home to care for S until she was 5, I knew I was lucky to have that option: I am entitled to claim benefits until that point, if I so wish. I found it insulting though, to find couples telling me that I "should" go back to work because they had to work, because they couldn't afford for one of them to stay home and look after their child. It was fairly clear to me that what they actually meant was "if we wish to maintain our current standard of living, we both need to work. We don't want to get rid of our second car/give up our annual 2 week holiday/stop buying our clothes from Next, so we both have to work." What if, whether you worked or not, you couldn't afford even one car, you had no chance of a holiday, you couldn't afford to even peek your head around the door of Next? It's a matter of perspective, and priorities.

In a way, it's nice that not everyone has to deal with problems on such a basic level as "I think I'm going to have to call a food bank because there is nothing in the cupboard." I'm glad not everyone has this.

I'm glad not everyone lives in a block of flats whose stairs are regularly awash with piss that may or may not be human, dog shit, beer cans and other "paraphernalia."

I'm glad not everyone has had to spend an entire calendar year trying to get a roof that leaked directly into their child's bedroom repaired.

I'm glad that not everyone knows the meaning of the phrase "it's not consent if she's afraid to say no" in the way that I do.

There are some of my personal experiences that I would not wish on my worst enemy; I am glad you have no idea how this feels. I am glad your biggest problem is that your husband wasn't home in time for bed time stories this evening.

But please, for goodness' sake, when you're up there on your high horse, show some compassion and understanding for those people who would love to have your problems in exchange for their own.

The Problem with Coping

I was chatting to a friend the other day about how irritating it can be to be constantly struggling, and never offered any help. When you're a new mum, people offer to help you with things all the time, but by the time your child is a few months old, you're supposed to just be able to do it. And by the time your child is a toddler, you clearly don't need any help, with anything, ever.

I hate to be a burden to people or to put anyone out in any way; even if they are offering to help, I'll often say "oh no no, it's ok, I'm fine thanks"  - because I know how often I have offered to help someone out of politeness, and really hoped they would turn me down.

I don't want to be the person people dread visiting, in case I try and get them to fix something or take the rubbish out or help me move furniture while they're here. So I try to muddle on through as best I can.

I do my shopping in several trips, hanging bags off the handles of the buggy and dragging them across town and up the steps. When I need nappies or washing powder, I improvise. I can no longer afford to have my shopping delivered so I just end up going to the supermarket on an almost daily basis. That in itself is no mean feat, now that I'm working as well.

I wait until S is asleep to take the rubbish and recycling out, locking the door behind me and getting to and from the bins as quickly as possible.

The problem with this approach is that I look like I'm coping perfectly well on my own. It doesn't look like my life is a daily struggle to keep my head above water, so nobody offers to help. Because I don't constantly ask people to pick up washing powder or nappies for me, it doesn't occur to them to wonder how the hell I manage to get them myself.

Sometimes, I look up and think, "why can't you see I'm struggling? Why don't you want to help me?"

The problem, my friend says, is that I look like I'm coping. Because I'm not in a heap on the floor, snotting on people's shoes and asking for help with every little thing, they assume I don't want a hand with anything at all. It's not that I'm not coping; just sometimes, it would be nice to have a little help with it.

This is not just about being a single mother, though being single does make things harder. Life as a parent generally, can be tough at times. And people seem to forget how hard their own struggle has been.

Review: The Turtlemeter

Meet the Turtlemeter.

He's cute, isn't he. A cute little bath toy, right?

He is also a bath thermometer! There's a clever little sensor in the base of the turtle, and when it's in contact with water the display lights up and tells you the temperature of it.

I love the idea of this. It's a lovely bath toy, first off. S loved playing with him (she especially enjoyed biting his head, and throwing him into the water from as high as possible in order to make a monumental splash!). It's also really handy - I'm a terrible one for just randomly running the bath and not checking how hot or cold it is - so I end up in danger of either scalding or freezing my child!

The display is in Fahrenheit, which is not ideal if you think in Celsius - but seriously, who can remember what temperature the bath is supposed to be any way? This thing is completely idiot proof though - if the water is too hot, the display glows red. If it's too cold, it glows blue. As you can see from the photo, I got a gold (green!) star and ran the bath at the right temperature - the display glowed green!

The Turtlemeter costs £9.99 from Amazon; it's probably a good idea for a baby a little younger than S, perhaps for a first-time parent where they're not sure or confident about bath temperatures. And as baby grows, they can use it as a bath toy as well. S loves our turtle!

Disclaimer: I received a Turtlemeter for free in return for writing this review, but that was not dependent on my writing a favourable review. All words and opinions are my own.

#SSAmazingAchievements: Climbing!!

This week, S has mostly been scaring the living crap out of me.

She has learned how to climb. And she wants to try out her new-found skill on everything. She climbs onto furniture in seconds, then casually sits there giving herself a clap, or reading a book. 

On the one hand, I'm really proud and pleased that she's mastered this clever new skill, and seems completely fearless (Despite faceplanting the floor on more than one occasion during her escapades). On the other hand: "oh-em-effing-gee, my kid is on top of something and is likely to fall down and hurt herself and I reallllllly don't want her to hurt herself, like, ever!"

You see the predicament in which I find myself?

For the most part, I let her carry on and explore. She likes to sit quietly on the foot stool and read my books, and is learning how to get herself down without incident. The cardboard box in the bedroom is harmless enough because it's not so far off the ground. 

I figure both are good practise for when I finally get my bed put back onto its frame; perhaps she won't end up falling off it head first if she's already fallen off something smaller a couple of times.

When she climbs up onto the zebra like she is in the picture, I try to look impressed, as she clearly is very impressed with herself.

And as for the table... I moved the beanbag away from it so that she couldn't climb up again... That should be ok until she learns she can move the beanbag herself.

It really is true what they say: just when you think you've got it down, you know where you are and what you're doing and how the day will go... they just go ahead and learn some new mischief you had not planned for.

It's fantastic, isn't it!

Wordless Wednesday: Our Week in Instagrams

I decided this week to show more photos, and to have them a little larger... let me know what you think...

Travelling Light

Is it even possible to travel light once you have a child?

I have to say, I push the concept to its limits... usually because I'm so forgetful, and often neglect to bring spare nappies, clean muslins, spare outfits with me.

But what if you're going further afield? How do you manage to travel light then?

When I go on holiday, I read a lot. I find the best way to travel light in that respect is to use an e-reader. I'm addicted to my Kindle, and since getting it I've found a whole lot more space in my suitcase for other things.

Another clever way of saving space when travelling is to take these with you: Zuuk shoes are kind of like an outdoor slipper, so they're great for plodding about a camp site, or to the beach.

And then, for your glam evenings out, you can pack a couple of pairs of foldable ballet pumps. I like the Coco Rose ones, because they come with their own little pouch to store them in.

Back when I was a regular gym-goer, I discovered the joy that is travel towels - they take up so much less space than a normal towel, and dry out twice as fast as well. A genius invention, and a must when travelling anywhere.

Of course, my favourite way to travel light is to go somewhere very hot, so that you just need fewer clothes in your suitcase! Now that I have S though, I'm not so sure how that's going to work out!

Disclaimer: This is a sponsored post, and I received some compensation for writing it.

Learning to Manage my Time

I am a single mother.

I work part time.

On one of my days off, I work in a second job that also takes up a fair amount of time in the evenings.

I am studying for a degree through Open University.

I'm learning to crochet so that I can make S a minion hat for Christmas. 

I maintain this, and another blog.

I spend an offensive amount of time on social media.

Every now and then, I consider the prospect of housework.

Just lately, it's become increasingly clear to me that if I wish to continue with all the frivolities I do outside of motherhood, I'm going to need to be more organised with my time.

I am a champion procrastinator. If there was an award for time wasting, that baby would be mine - but I would put off going to pick it up for a few weeks. Many's the evening I've come downstairs after putting S to bed, just sat down quickly "to check my emails" - and ended up hurriedly doing the washing up at 9pm.

On Saturday morning I was talking to a friend on the phone, and she said, 

you strike me as the sort of person who needs a list each morning in order to achieve what needs to be done...

She was right, and I decided I should probably start doing that. I started right then:

S ended up having a three-hour nap on Saturday morning, and I managed to sort all my washing, and clear everything off the green sofa. I was on a roll! I started clearing other over-crowded surfaces in my living room, and made a to-do list for Sunday:

I was a little more optimistic with this list but I told myself there would be no sitting about faffing on Facebook until I'd completed my list. 

Guess what? S and I went for a long walk in the morning, and spent the afternoon wandering around the Cathedral with my sisters. But by 7pm I had ticked off everything on the list. Well, sort of. What I actually did was clear the dining table and decide to move it across the room to swap places with a different table, throw a load of stuff out, clean the floor under both tables, rearrange a lot of the larger items of S's toys... as well as everything else on the list. 

It turns out, I'm approximately 100% more productive when I actually physically write a list of what I need to do. 

And I feel happier, more relaxed and more... like I've done something with my day - instead of sitting here, surrounded by crap and thinking "tomorrow I really should get on and do this... and this, and this and that..."

From now on, I will be making lists. Lots and lots of lists.

What do you do in order to maintain productivity? How do you keep on top of everything you're aiming to get done by the end of the day? Do you have any clever tips you'd like to pass on?

Magic Moments: Dear Zoo...

Aaaaages ago, when S was still too small to pick books up by herself, someone on Facebook was selling a pop-up copy of Dear Zoo. I bought it, thinking I could keep it for when S was older. I have a nice pile of books "for when S is older" in the corner of the room.

A little while back, when I acquired a nice shelving unit for S's toys, I put some of the books on the shelf. Dear Zoo ended up standing on a shelf, hidden almost completely by soft toys. It stayed there for a good few months while S was so busy playing with everything else, she didn't anything there.

Last Tuesday afternoon, I wandered into nursery to pick S up, and found her sitting in the book area, reading a small copy of Dear Zoo... I vaguely remembered that we had a copy of that somewhere at home, and thought perhaps I'd hunt it down next time I sorted through her toys. Then I promptly forgot, and went about my daily life.

Wednesday was our day off together, and because S has been rather poorly lately (and I wasn't feeling my best) we spent most of the day at home. She happily played with her toys while I pottered about, occasionally joining in with the playing. Towards the end of the afternoon, I noticed she was playing with a book... It was Dear Zoo.

On Thursday, she spent her time before and after nursery demanding that I read her Dear Zoo. We read it in my chair at the table, on the sofa, on the play mats, on the other sofa.

On Friday, more of the same.

Ditto for Saturday.

On Saturday evening when we went upstairs for bed, Dear Zoo came with us and we read it three times before bed.

On Sunday morning we read it together, and then S sat and read it herself. Then she demanded I strap her into the old buggy (currently in the bedroom for when S can't sleep; she can be rocked back and forth and sleep more upright to help with her cough), and she sat there and read Dear Zoo while I had a shower.

On Sunday evening after bath time, she read Dear Zoo while I put her nappy and babygro on. Then we read it together. Then she read it again. And then she had to have it in the cot with her when she went to bed.

This is what I found when I went up to check on her later:

For those that can't tell, the book next to Tigger is... yep, you guessed it. Dear Zoo.

This is a big deal for me because although S has enjoyed many books before, and there are other books she's attached to or enjoys reading, they have all been books I have chosen for her. When we go to the library, I pick out some books while she enjoys pulling them all off the shelf. If we buy a book, it's usually me choosing some while she sits in the pushchair or sling and enjoys looking around or playing with the book attached to the pushchair (it makes a noise). 

This book is the first one she's clearly just decided she loves. She reads it at nursery, and then she comes home and reads it here. I didn't try to get her to read it, or even put it in front of her - she went looking for it.

Silent Sunday 2013-09-22

Saturday is Caption Day.

Gingerbread: Make it Work for Single Parents.

A while back I wrote a post called The Benefits Trap, with the idea of showing people how difficult it can be to get off benefits and back into work. It seemed to be well received; people seemed to appreciate what I was saying. And then someone commented on another post I'd written that showed an example of someone trying to get off benefits. They seemed angry with me, accusing me of promoting being on benefits, and telling me "everything you own has been paid for by me..."

Leaving aside the fact this person was incorrect in most of what they were saying (they were clearly unaware, for example, that until my breakdown I was in a reasonably well-paid job, and that I do in fact have a job now as well), what was said bothered me because it seems that these things are what a lot of people think. 

They see me: single mother, lives in a council flat, walking around with a buggy in the middle of the day (I only work 3 days a week), and they think: benefits scrounger. Lives the high life with a flatscreen telly while I work my fingers to the bone to pay for it.

The fact of the matter is: yes, I do claim benefits. My childcare bill swallows my monthly income whole, and if I want any chance of surviving, I need to accept help from the state. That doesn't mean I'm happy about it, or that I'm not doing what I can to get myself into a position where I don't need to do it for the rest of my life.

There is also an issue here that's not often discussed when the media bangs on about feckless single parents living off the government. How easy do you think it is for a single parent to find a job? How easily did you find your job? I was very lucky in that when I returned to work, my boss allowed me to tell him which days and hours I would work. How many employers do you think are like that? 

If you don't have a child, and you want a job, you can look in the local paper, send your CV out, whatever. You can arrange an interview for whenever is convenient, and wander off on your merry way to impress them with your mad skillz in whatever it is you are interviewing for.

Imagine being a single parent looking for work. You need to find a part-time job that pays more than minimum wage. It needs to be (for argument's sake) only from 9-3 on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays because you've already spoken to the nursery, and those are the only days they have available. You can't work weekends, because nurseries don't open on weekends and you don't have family locally with whom you could leave your child every single weekend for a whole day while you go to work. When you've found this Holy Grail of jobs that fits in with your childcare arrangements, you have to think about what you'll do when your child is ill. It's a well-known fact that when a child starts nursery, whatever age they are, they will catch every bug and cold and ear infection under the sun. In my first month back at work, I spent more time at home with a poorly S than I did at my desk. How do you think a new employer will view that situation? Do you think you will last out your probation period if you're never at work because your child has caught yet another bug?

And does any of this mean you are stupid, incapable of work? Does it mean your degree, your professional qualifications, your on-job training, your years of knowledge and experience are somehow null and void? Does being a single parent automatically mean you are only capable of menial, low-paid jobs? No. Does it mean that's all that's on offer to you? Usually, yes.

Gingerbread currently have a campaign running called Make it Work for Single Parents. Their goal is to get 250,000 more single parents into work before 2020, and they have been campaigning for changes that will allow that to happen.

Contrary to the picture the media portrays, and to what a lot of people seem to think, the majority of single parents are not sitting at home in their grubby dressing gowns, smoking fags and watching Jeremy Kyle. 

The majority of single parents are scouring the jobs pages of the local paper, looking for that mythical job that will help them get back into working life again. 

The majority of single parents hate to be seen as spongers living off other people's taxes. 

The majority of single parents want to claim benefits as a hand up, not a hand out. 

Wordless Wednesday: Our Week in Instagram

Review: Crawlerz Babygro

Those lovely people at Crawlerz kindly sent S and I a "Safety Romper" to try out, which was nice.

What is a safety romper?

I hear you cry...

The best way to explain that is to tell you about most evenings, before S learned to walk. 

S was relatively late with her walking. And I have laminate flooring in 90% of my house. In the day time, she would just play on her play mats. In the evenings though, I would take her upstairs and put her into a sleepsuit, and then she would happily crawl off to play with her toys on the other side of the room and... splat. Her legs slid out from under her, and she face-planted the floor. Every. Single. Time. 

Suddenly the decision to purchase laminate flooring for the entire place didn't seem such a fabulous idea.

Most sleepsuits for 9 months and upwards have grips on the soles of the feet. Some have them from 6 months.

Crawlerz sleepsuits have grips all the way up the legs. Here's a picture of S in her Crawlerz sleepsuit:

S is 17 months old now, but a lot of her clothes are still 9-12 months because she is quite small for her age. The sleepsuit she's wearing in this picture is 9-12 months, as they only go up to 12 months. It fits her perfectly though, and even though she's walking now, there's still a fair amount of crawling to be done on any given evening.

I think this is a really clever idea. I love them, and wish I'd found them when S was still crawling so that we could have had full use out of it!

One thing I don't like is that their website is split into "Boys Range" and "Girls Range" - the sort of thing that infuriates me so much I purposefully buy S clothes from the boys' range whenever I see these categorisations. They do have a white, unisex option though.

This is the best photo I could get to show off the pattern on the legs; the paw prints are the same rubbery sort of material you'd get on the feet of other sleepsuits.

The best part? At the moment they have a sale on. They would normally be £19.99, but they're currently reduced to £9.99. For me, £19.99 is a little steep because I'm on a fairly tight budget these days - but I do think I would have asked for one of these as a Christmas or Easter present if I'd known about them before. 

Disclaimer: I was given a Crawlerz sleepsuit free of charge in exchange for writing this review. That was not dependent on my writing a favourable review though; all words and opinions are my own.

Thinking About Christians.

I think these days, the church, and "Christians" tend to have a reputation for being a bit judgemental, a bit holier-than-thou, a bit unpleasant to encounter. The media, government and recent stories regarding women's roles and gay marriage in the church haven't done much for their reputation. When I posted yesterday about going to church, someone commented on my Facebook post saying I should join a community group whose purpose wasn't to brainwash children instead.

I have to say though, my experience does not live up to this bad reputation.

On the day I split up with S's father, there was a knock on the door - the post man had a parcel to deliver. The post man happened to be a man who had run a church youth group I attended briefly when I was 15. He remembered me; we chatted in my living room for a while, and I told him what I was up to these days: "well, I've just had a baby, and now her father's left me so I guess I'm a single mum..." After he left, he found me on Facebook and sent a message saying he wanted to help me if he could.

Within a week a friend of his from church had come round and painted a wall and ceiling upstairs that had been damaged by water leaking through the roof. I had offers of help with carpet laying and all sorts, and one evening when I was paranoid S was ill because she was so sleepy and wouldn't wake up, the post man even drove us to the hospital and waited while a nurse checked S over. All of this from what can have been no longer than a summer attending his youth group.

Before I had my breakdown, I used to go to the gym every morning. At that time of day, you always see the same faces and two of the faces I saw were Mary and Hugh. They weren't a couple, just people who knew each other. They were both close to retirement age, and not at the gym to pump iron or whatever; just to keep active. As I too became a familiar face, they both made a point of always saying hello to me. When Hugh arrived in the mornings he would always make a point of coming over to whichever piece of equipment I was on, and having a brief chat. Nothing deep and meaningful, just "hi, how are you today" pleasantries. Later, at the end of my workout, I would do my stretches on one of the mats next to Mary as she went through a series of exercises she seemed to do every single day. I gathered they were both Christians, purely because they mentioned church from time to time.

When I started to get sick, I was signed off work for a while but I tried to keep up my gym routine. Mary noticed that I was arriving at the gym later in the mornings now, often just getting to the changing rooms as she was getting ready to leave. She mentioned it, and I told her I'd been signed off work with stress. I don't know what I expected from her, a middle-aged Christian who puts across an air of simplicity but is actually extremely intelligent and caring, but what I got was the single best piece of advice anyone has ever given me: "Be kind to yourself, Vicky." I still see Mary all the time; she works in an office at the end of my street. She is always smiling, always says hello. When we both have time, we will stop for a chat. She is always positive, always encouraging. I always leave a conversation with her feeling incredibly positive and grounded. 

And as for Hugh, I bumped into him in town a few months after S was born. He seemed genuinely pleased to see me, and we had a brief catch-up. He told me he was retired now, and enjoying doing a lot of volunteer work for the church and various other community projects. He gave me his card and said he hoped we would stay in touch. 

Both Mary and Hugh seem entirely devoid of ego. When we were attending the gym together, Mary was studying hard to finish her Open University degree, while training on the treadmill with weights in a backpack so as prepare herself for a trekking holiday she was hoping to take. She showed no pride in her many accomplishments; she was just doing what she did. At that time Hugh was working for the MoD; as far as I could tell he had been involved with the services for a while in one way or another. Occasionally one would get a glimpse of Hugh the business man, as he complained to the gym that the lack of hot water was not acceptable. I think I saw that twice, in over a year of seeing him almost every morning. Every morning he would come over to me, say good morning, ask how I was, maybe ask about something I'd told him about the last time we spoke. We would compare notes on the exercises we'd been given by our personal trainers and laugh about how neither of us could do the balancing moves they always had us attempting. They both made a point of coming over to me and saying "wow, you're really getting better at that exercise aren't you" or "wow I could never do that" or compliment me on how much weight I'd lost or something else. 

These are the Christians I have encountered in my life, and these are the sort of people I want S to have in her life. 

Magic Moments: Train Wheels

If you follow my Facebook or Twitter feeds, you may have noticed that S is teething at the moment. She's grumpy, she's dribbling, she's crying, she's clinging to me. It's not much fun, and not a lot is being done.

The other morning I was trying desperately to sort out my online banking before we left for nursery. I'd given her breakfast and got her dressed, wiped her nose about a gazillion times, and put her on the play mats with a wooden train puzzle.

For the umpteenth time, I came back to the laptop to try and login to my bank account, and for the umpteenth time, S ended up at my feet... But this time, she didn't whine or try to climb up on my lap or snot on my knees.

I grabbed my chance, and carried on paying my bill, expecting an inconsolable bout of Teething Scream any second. When I finished and looked down, this is what I saw:

This is S sitting on the floor, practically under my chair, playing with the wooden wheels from her 3D train puzzle. She spent a good ten minutes putting the middle of the wheel into the outer rim, then taking it out, and putting it back in again.

And I spent a good ten minutes watching.

Thinking About Church.

Since S was born, I've been thinking about going to church. Not because I'm terribly religious - I still have no real clue where I stand on the matter to be honest - but because I want her to feel part of a community, and to have the option of religion there for her if she chooses it. And because I think it might be good for me as well.

Before I returned to work, we attended a baby and toddler group run by one of the churches in town. It was great fun, and always had lots of ladies from the church who were happy to sit on the floor and play with toys while the mums got a cup of tea and some home made cake. At Christmas we went to their children's Christmas party in the church, and although S was only 8 months old and slept through most of it, I enjoyed it.The vicar made a point of coming up to chat to me because he'd not seen my face before, and every single person I met there was lovely. No judgement, no face-pulling, no cold-shoulder or cliquiness like you can find at a lot of parent/toddler groups. Since then, more than one person has recommended that particular church to me as being very inclusive and welcoming. Looking back, I remember seeing a family at the party that many might find odd, since the son had an interesting hair cut, an unusual (not "cool") name, and a father who wore makeup and dressed as a woman. Nobody batted an eyelid; they were there for the Christmas party, the same as everyone else.

This morning, as I was wandering about town with S out of sheer despair as to how to keep her from screaming at the top of her lungs, we bumped into a friend. I say friend; she's someone I barely know, but find I really get on with, and whenever we bump into each other we spend ages chattering while our children sit in their pushchairs whining to go home. Any way, I asked her what she was up to, and she said they were just on their way home from church. She said she wasn't really sure where she stood on the whole religion/church thing, but that she'd found a local church she really liked, and that really welcomed children. She mentioned that in this church, several of the pews had been removed to make a play area for children, so that the parents could sit around them and join in with the service while children sat in the middle and played with all sorts of wonderful toys in the middle. It wasn't cold or stuffy or unfriendly or judgemental, in fact children were encouraged to join the service and nobody minded them playing happily.

Guess what: it was the same church I'd been thinking about going to.

I tend to think that things happen for a reason, and that sometimes your life just pushes you in a certain direction. At the moment that's happening in two areas of my life; things just keep happening which seem to support a certain outcome. So I might just take S to church next Sunday.

Silent Sunday 2013-09-15

Saturday is Caption Day!

Review: Dribblies Bib

The lovely people at Dribblies asked me if I'd like to review one of their bibs.
I have a messy toddler, so of course I said yes!

This is what S looks like when she eats yoghurt.
It's not just the yoghurt you can see that's the problem. She has also developed a rather marvellous habit where she sucks some drink from her cup, then spits it out, all down her front. You can't see it, but in this picture her t shirt, trousers and bib are all soaked.

This is S eating baked beans in her new Dribblies bib.
What you can't see in this picture, is that the bib has a bit at the bottom that catches stray beans.
And spat-out liquid. and yoghurt...

I think in this photo she's made more mess than in the first one. The difference is, I can just take it off her, wipe the excess into the bin, and then wash it in the sink.
No matter how messy she's been, how much drink she's spat down herself, how determined my little pickle is to make a mess - I can just take the bib off, and her clothes are usually fairly unscathed.

You can get bibs like the Dribblies bib from most highstreet baby shops. But look closely at the photo. Hang on, here's a close-up...

There's a cotton lining around the edge of the neck line, so it doesn't dig in and irritate their neck.

Another thing you can't see is that it's rollable. In that you can roll it up and shove it in your changing bag if you're off out somewhere. This is really good as you don't have to sit there in a restaurant, trying to pick the least-messy food on the menu. Order the spag bol; let them chuck it all round the room at the other diners, safe in the knowledge that at the end of the meal, you can wipe their hands and face, put the bib in a bag and walk away unscathed. In this situation you are likely to be wearing more spag bol than your child.

The bib is BPA and Phthalate free.
It's also apparently dishwasher safe - which I have not tried out as I do not have a dishwasher.

We are loving our Dribblies bib, and S has certainly been enjoying eating all sorts of messy, gloopy food in order to test it out.

The bibs come in four beautiful, bright colours and cost a grand total of £3.50 each.
We have numerous material bibs; the last lot I bought was 3 for about £4 I think. But they're all stained with food spillages, and as I mentioned above - if anything liquid is spilled on them, it goes straight through to the clothing underneath. Also if they pull on over the head, then removing them usually means a new type of hair gel is deposited in S's hair on the way up. Plus these days, one of the cloth bibs is probably only good for one or two wears before it needs to be put through the wash - so you need to have a fair few of them stashed in order to not run out.
So although you might think £3.50 is a bit steep for one bib, none of the problems I've just listed is an issue with a Dribblies bib. It doesn't stain, it catches spillages without soaking them up, you don't cover your child in what they've spilled when you remove it, and if you don't fancy doing the washing up between meals you can just rinse it under the tap! (obviously I only tried that for the purposes of this review, and under normal circumstances I wash up everything, immediately after it is used) If you're into being green, there's the added bonus of not putting umpteen bibs through the washing machine every week - you're filling the sink or running the dishwasher any way, and it's not like it takes up much space in either!

Disclaimer: I was provided with a free Dribblies bib in exchange for writing this review. That was not dependent on my writing a favourable review though, and all words and opinions are my own.

Why I Love Coconut Oil

I love coconut oil. I use it every day, for all sorts of everything

In the Bath - S gets dry skin, or sensitive skin, or eczema, or something. The GP wasn't too sure what it was, he just gave us a big tub of cream, and some emollient for the bath. The list of ingredients in both was fairly long, and since S likes to drink her bath water, I wasn't too keen on putting a bunch of chemicals in there. So I decided to give the coconut oil a try. It seems to be working a treat!

Arm pits - Remember that epilator I was sent to review? Well I started using it on my arm pits. It's great for not having stubbly arm pits, but not so great for not having ingrown hairs. I've found that if I rub some coconut oil in before bed time, it makes it easier to use the epilator in the morning, but also (so far) I've not had any ingrown hairs! Genius.

Hair - Shhh, don't tell anyone but I bleach my hair. I know, it's hard to tell, right? This means I end up with a lot of dry hair, split ends and general nastiness. The night before I intend to wash my hair, I rub a some coconut oil into the ends of my hair. If I've forgotten to do that (I am pretty sketchy), I rub a little of it into the ends of my hair after washing it - instead of any of this expensive, new-fangled stuff. As long as you don't put so much in that it makes your hair greasy, it can work wonders. And instead of spending a fortune on post hair masks, just whack a whole load of coconut oil on your hair, rub it in really well and then put a shower cap on for a couple of hours. Works a treat, and probably costs less than a pound.

My Skin - I tend to suffer with dry skin in the winter months, and it can be itchy and horrible. I used to go through all sorts of body moisturisers which I would slather on after a bath or shower each morning. Now I've found that if I put a pot of coconut oil into the shower, it'll heat up to liquid while I'm showering. Then, before I get out or even reach for a towel, I rub the coconut oil into my body.  Instant baby soft skin, at a fraction of the cost of all these body butters and creams I was piling up.

Make-up Remover - I am very lazy with make-up. I can't be doing with all these posh make-up removers. If I'm wearing waterproof mascara, I'll make the effort to use a proper remover. The rest of the time, I just rub some coconut oil into my face, then wipe it off with some cotton wool. Make-up remover and moisturiser in one. Despite being oil, it doesn't give me spots either, which is handy.

Cooking - Any time you would normally use olive oil, sunflower oil, vegetable oil - any kind of oil - you can use coconut oil instead. For stir-frys and pancake making, greasing tins, but also in recipes. I've been experimenting with using coconut oil instead of half the butter in a brownie recipe. Because coconut oil is more liquid at room temperature than butter, it gives the brownies a much more gooey texture - which is always a win. You can also use it in salad dressings, though this works better in warmer weather because coconut oil can be somewhat solid in the cold.

Food - Since I discovered how to make oaty pancakes for breakfast, we've had them pretty much every morning. Before serving them up to S, I spread a thin layer of coconut oil on them. This makes them deliciously gooey, as if I'd spread masses of butter on them, but it's healthier - and when her food is smeared all over her face I know it's actually doing some good for the eczema she sometimes gets there! 

With Vitamins - This probably sounds a bit odd to most people. I've spoken before about the supplements I take. Whenever I remember, I also take a spoonful of coconut oil with the vitamins. This apparently helps your body to absorb the vitamins etc. It also has about a million other proposed benefits when taken regularly - helping with depression, digestion, links to symptoms of autism and arthritis, for allergy symptoms, yeast infections, even mental alertness.

A word on which coconut oil I use

I buy two or three different kinds of coconut oil.

The Asian supermarket in town does a large, cheap tub of it which I use for cooking - but it tastes a bit soapy so I don't use it for anything where I would normally taste it, or on my skin/hair. It costs about £4 and lasts for ages.

Tesco have coconut oil on the shelf next to the cooking oils now, which is handy. It costs around £7. I either buy it from there or the health food shop. I use this one for taking with vitamins, and anywhere food-related that I can't use the soapy-tasting one. I also use it if I'm putting it directly onto S's skin.

Superdrug do a tub of coconut oil in their hair aisle, for a couple of pounds. This one has a bit of perfume added and is not fit for consumption, but I use it on my hair, in S's bath, etc. It lives in the bathroom, and I buy 3 or 4 at a time because I go through them so quickly.

You might well balk at the cost of coconut oil, if you were adding it onto your regular weekly shop. But when you consider all the things it can replace  it actually doesn't work out so expensive. You can stop buying olive oil or sunflower oil, poncy hair conditioning treatments, body moisturisers, bath oils, make up removal lotions. It can be used in coffee or tea instead of milk (though I find that's something of an acquired taste) or spread on bread instead of butter. You can use it mixed with other things to make toothpaste or natural deodorant. And its proposed benefits are huge.

What are you waiting for? Go and buy some!

Review: The Running Mat

I don't watch Dragons' Den. I never got into it, and I'm fairly sure it's on past my bed time. The fact the Running Mat was on Dragons' Den a while back had no bearing on my jumping up and down screeching "Me! Me! Let me review it!" when the opportunity came up. I was doing that because it sounded like an awesome idea, and I was a bit irritated I'd not thought of it.

A few months ago, I did a free week of Simon Anderson Fitness Training Bootcamp. I was advised to bring a towel for all the exercises we had to do on the ground. It rained. Even when it wasn't raining, the grass was wet. Bootcamp was in a park on the other side of town, so I pushed S home in the buggy with wet, muddy hands, and muddy prints on my knees and bum.

I debated bringing my bright pink rubber yoga mat to the park with me, but I didn't want to look like some prissy girl who was scared of getting a bit muddy. But I am some prissy girl who's scared of getting a bit muddy. The pink yoga mat was a bit big for me to stick under the buggy and walk across town for about an hour though.

This is me testing out the Running Mat:

Yeah, I know I look cool, and so do all the people who passed me in the park on their way to work, as I ponced about having my photo taken in running kit and sun glasses at 8am.

In case you've not realised, the Running Mat is a mat that you can fold up and clip around your waist. You run to where you're going, unclip it, unfold it, put it on the floor, and Bob's yer uncle. No more wet, muddy hands/back/knees at Bootcamp.

Here's how it works. See the shiny silvery part? It's waterproof, so you don't get wet.

For people who do bootcamp - or just exercise outside on a regular basis - this is a simple yet genius invention. If you drive to bootcamp, or you're not as prissy about getting wet and muddy as I am, you might see it as less of an investment.

I love my Running Mat, and since I go to the park to work out with my sister every week, it's become something that's used as often as my trainers and the goofy look on my face.

The mat is £19.95 including delivery - so again, good if you're going to use it regularly and appreciate its water/mud-proofing abilities; not so good if you don't mind getting wet and muddy as part of your workout, or you only workout once a month.

#SSAmazingAchievements: Building Blocks!

Unless you spend a lot of time with children, you don't really appreciate how much of a big deal it is when a child actually reaches the point where they can pick up some building blocks and stack them on top of each other.

S has been fiddling about with her blocks for weeks; she had four plastic ones that came as part of another toy, and was experimenting with stacking them. Unable to resist, I bought her a pull-along cart with 20 or so coloured wooden blocks. Mostly, she just threw them around the play mats.

Eventually I got sick of finding them and putting them away in the box every evening, or tripping over them (or standing on them!), or finding them in my shoes or in the kitchen or on the sofa. So I put them in the box and just sort of hid them in the corner. 

The last couple of days, she's found them - but she's only taken about 6 of them out of the box. I noticed this morning while I was running about trying to get ready for work, that she was happily sitting on the mats, stacking the blocks up neatly. Once she'd succeeded in stacking them, she would gleefully knock them all down, then put her hands to her face and say "oh no!"

This evening after tea, she went straight back to the mats and started stacking the blocks again. I have to say, it was a real lesson in tenacity and patience to watch her stack three, accidentally knock them over whilst reaching for another - and just happily start from scratch. Again, and again, and again.

It sounds stupid but I am so incredibly proud of my little S that she managed to stack six whole blocks on top of each other... before giving herself a little clap and knocking them down with a great big grin!

Wordless Wednesday: Our Week in Instagram

Review: Maxi Dress

I'll let you in on a secret: I'm a short arse. I spend my summers green with jealousy, looking at all my taller friends with their gorgeous, comfortable-yet-stylish maxi dresses that don't sweep the floor as they walk. I scuttle up to people asking them, "Where did you get your dress? Do they do it in short-person size?"

When I received an email asking if I'd like to review a maxi dress from Damart, I wasn't sure I wanted to bother. I didn't want another crushing moment where I try on a dress, wander about the house in it for a couple of hours and realise it's just not practical to try and walk about town in it, since I can't cope with proper heels.

When I looked at the site, I was intrigued by the patterned design. I've heard patterns + maxi dresses = hiding a multitude of sins. And if there's one thing I definitely have, it's a multitude of sins. So I decided to give it a go. Then they contacted me to say they were dreadfully sorry but the printed dress was out of stock, and did I want to try the black one instead. I reluctantly agreed...

And then it arrived!

 LOOK! Look how you can see my FEET at the bottom of the dress! Look how skinny it makes me look! (I am NOT skinny in real life!) Look how happy I am wearing my new dress.

Add caption

The photos on the website do not do this dress justice. Neither do these photos, taken by my ever-so-glamorous assistant (my sister).

The neckline: low enough to show good cleavage, but not so low as to be slutty or too revealing for work or somewhere a little high-brow

The length: I am 5'2" and as you can see from the photos, it is the perfect length for me. The model on the website is probably a more "average" height, and it comes to sort of mid calf-length on her.

The details: There is an empire line that doesn't creep up to half-way up my boobs, like the empire lines on most clothes do (I have big boobs, it happens a lot). There is slight gathering just below the shoulders that gives the dress a lovely shape.

The back: Sorry, you can't see it. Forgot about that in the photos. It's a full back, the same as wearing a t shirt/tank top.

The range: The dress comes in black, navy or black and white print, sizes 12-22. At the moment some of them are out of stock though.

The price: It was £35, but is now "from" £14!! I was in the bottom group for maths, but even I know that's less than half price. The prices do vary depending on the colour and size you select, but the most expensive combination I found was £17 - so still an absolute steal.

The verdict: I am in love with this dress. The only down side of it is that it arrived so late in the summer. I can't wait to wear it next year though! It's "dressy" enough to wear for an evening out, but also smart enough to wear in the daytime, out shopping or even to work.

Yeah, I'm an idiot.

Disclaimer: I was provided with this dress free of charge, in exchange for a review. However, getting the freebie was not dependent on my writing a favourable review. All words and opinions are my own.