He was there when she was born, but I barely noticed him. I spoke to my daughter between contractions, hushed words of reassurance, told her not to be frightened by the noise and the change. I would meet her soon. I breastfed so every feed was mine, every nappy was changed by me. I still did everything around the house, he still did nothing. I could feel myself changing. When we rowed, things were different. When he became drunk and aggressive, I responded differently. I planned.

I kept money hidden in inside coat pockets where he wouldn’t find it. Not much. Just £20 here and there. In case I needed to go and quickly. I quietly packed a bag with things for Chops, changes of clothes, nappies, a bottle with tubs of formula and a note inside the bottle on how much water should be added to give her the right milk for her age and weight. Hid the bag under piles of shoes in my wardrobe, praying he wouldn’t notice it and ask. A list of my parents phone numbers. I don’t  know why. In case someone else had to look after her I suppose. If something happened to me and my Mum wasn’t there yet, I wanted to be sure Chops would have all the practical stuff she needed immediately. I set up a life insurance policy. If anything happened to me, financially, she would be ok.

There was a story in the news at that time. A man whose wife had left him (I think, forgive my lack of detail) and he had jumped from his hotel balcony with his children in his arms. He lived. His children died.

I knew if I stayed, I could not keep her safe. Safe from the cigarette and alcohol fumes. Safe from the bailiffs knocking at the door chasing him for money he owed and had owed since before he met us. Safe from the ‘final warning’ notices that came through the letterbox every single day, because money was owed on everything. Safe from his lies, his vile temper that ran through his veins like a dark ink, poisoning everything, twisting him into someone I could never have imagined would be the father of my child. Safe from a life I did not want for her. Safe from the fact that first and foremost, before those bills came money to buy beer, cigarettes. After that money for poker on Monday nights. Then the casino sights. Then the machines in the pubs and the bookies round the corner. Then food. He had taken my bank card and spent her child benefit on more beer and fags a few days before. I had no money for napppies, for emergencies other than what I had hidden. Fortunately, I had nappies stockpiles throughout the house, as you do when you’ve a newborn. But I knew it would happen again and again.

The night before we left, he went to poker. I spoke to my Mum. Told her I had to go and that we weren’t safe. Confirmed her suspicions. The following morning I found him asleep on the living room floor. The back door swinging open in the wind, his coat and wallet- empty of course- in the garden. I told him my Dad was coming to collect us at 10 and we were going to my Mums for a night, hoping that telling him people knew and would be here to see us soon would keep us safe for long enough to get out.

I got in the car, strapped my beautiful child into her car seat, folded her pram into the boot, placed a small bag beside her on the back seat. Kissed him goodbye and left. I didn’t want him to know I would not be back. I would tell him that once I was somewhere safe.

My Dad drove away from the house and for a while, I returned to the arms of my own parents. And started again. I was lucky. I was able to keep my beautiful child and myself safe. I thank God every day that it did not end differently.

This is a huge adjustment for us. G works five days a week, leaving at 9am and usually arriving home around midnight as the restaurant is a 45 minute drive from my house. So although I’m now in a relationship and very happy with my lot, it does mean that practically, little has changed in how I run the house. I still manage things pretty much single handedly, I still work part time although that is slowly increasing, and I still spend my evenings alone, usually going to bed before G is home so that I can get up with Chops.

Having G in the house, 7 days a week, 24 hours a day is wonderful, but inevitably testing us in ways we haven’t experienced before. He is used to being in a kitchen full of blokes, food and noise all day long. I am used to having my daughter and our friends during the day, and twitter and my own thoughts in the evening… the two do not necessarily mix well. I love having him here, there’s no-one I’d rather spend my time with and god he does make me laugh and Chops adores him.

But. He’s driving me crazy. Forgive me, I know. But OH-MY-GOD I might actually smother him with a pillow at any minute. I have not had a second to myself in two weeks and I am Really not used to it. Yesterday, we had our first full scale screaming at each other “Fuck OFF!!!” “Get the fuck out of my house!” storming off to the pub and slamming doors type argument (Chops was at nursery I should add) because of dishes. Yes. Dishes. Good grief.

See the thing is, that usually because of his job and the fact that that’s just always how its been, I get up every night when Chops wakes up (she’s a DREADFUL sleeper) and I get up and make breakfast, get us both ready for nursery/school/work/wherever we’re going and wake him about 10 minutes before we need to leave so that he has time to shower and change, then off we go. So usually I’m up about 6.30am, he’s up at 8.45ish and he’ll drop us off then go to work. At the moment, I’m Still getting up at 6.30am, getting breakfast, getting us both ready for nursery/school/work/wherever we’re going then leaving half an hour earlier because we are currently walking everywhere and Leaving Him In Bed.

I am then returning home, on Saturday for example, having finished work at 1.20am, walked home and got to bed around 2am, then got up at 7am to shower and go back to work at 7.45am. The girl I was supposed to be working with didn’t turn up for her shift because of a hangover (useless cow) so I ended up cooking the breakfasts for 12 people for 9am- all to be plated up and served together (which is Very difficult if you’ve never tried!), cleaning the pub (including vomit in the toilets), re-stocking the bar, and cleaning the 6 rooms we have in the B&B by myself. On a Saturday, this is usually a 3 person job. By the time I’d done, it was almost 2pm, and I was due to start a shift on the bar at 3 so no time to go home. So I stayed till 7.

I went home, ready to drop, to find G sat in the rocking chair playing guitar. No washing up had been done, there were still clothes waiting to be put away in piles around the house, the beds hadn’t been made and his clothes from the previous day were scattered all over the bedroom. Needless to say I was a bit cross.

I know that technically, this is ‘my’ house, not yet ‘ours’ as he doesn’t ‘officially’ live here. But he might as well, he barely spends two nights a month at the house he pays rent on. He helps me out with paying for shopping and contributes more than I do to the gas & electric (its on pre-payment so we have to top it up as and when). But still, I don’t think I’m being unfair in suggesting that if he’s well enough to be tootling around the kitchen making bread and muffins* then he’s well enough to do the washing up. Or perhaps make the bed. Or something! (*a shit-tip).

Is this just a boy thing? Or am I being neurotic about wanting things done? Is there hope or will I inevitably murder him before he makes it back to work?

Love Sara xx

Now I’m the first to admit, the frequency of this habit has increased since then. I reckon (being totally honest) that I have a glass of wine four or five nights a week. Once or twice a week that will be two glasses. And I’ll admit, that there have been times, when I’ve been feeling shitty that I’ve had way more than that. I’ll hold my hands up and admit that yes, on a few occasions I’ve gone to top up my glass and looked at the empty bottle wondering “Where did all my wine go?!”.

I often joke with my fellow twitter Mummy’s about #wineoclock and it being time to reach for the gin. But we all know that after a long day with kids, if you enjoy a glass of wine as part of what you do to relax once the kids are in bed, then sure, chink chink.

But it seems that G doesn’t think so. He often comments in a semi joking way about my drinking and does indeed call it that “my drinking”. This worries me. I know I probably drink too much, but I’m not getting drunk, I’m just having a glass of wine to relax at the end of an inevitably exhausting day. And that’s all it ever is. I don’t go out drinking more than maybe three times a year, and that will consist of a meal and yes, ok, several glasses* of wine into the evening on my birthday or whatever the rare occasions are that we’ll go out. I don’t really go out ‘with the girls’ any more. I’m a parent now and most of them haven’t had children yet. I don’t smoke, I gave that up the day I found out I was pregnant and am proud to say I haven’t had one since. Not to mention that I spent my pregnancy and months before and after with an actual alcoholic. I mean the screaming drunk, would spend our last few quid on beer even if the bills weren’t paid, or Chops needed nappies or whatever. His beer and cigarettes, and gambling came before anything. So the very suggestion that what I’m doing is even in the same room is kind of offensive. I’ll buy a bottle of wine if I can afford it. If I’m a bit skint I won’t. I spend the vast majority of my evenings alone still, although I’m now in a relationship, G’s job means that most evenings he gets home well past midnight, I wake up long enough to say hello, have a quick cuddle and fall back to sleep. So that glass of wine is part of my ‘grown up time’. While I’m allowed to chill out while my baby sleeps.

So honestly, although I know that yes, its alcohol and no, I should cut down because, with alcohol any amount is too much isn’t it? I know this, but I feel like he thinks I’m doing something wrong and I just don’t think I am. I have my child in the house and I need to be absolutely alert in case she needs me. I never push those boundaries. I feel that as an adult, if I want a glass of wine it should be my decision.

What do you think? All #wineoclock jokes aside, how much is too much? Does your partner drink? If not, does he/she disapprove if you have a glass of wine in the evening?

And if I’m not allowed my wine the what the bloody hell do I call my blog?!

Sara xx

But we’re not going to be having another baby in the next year, or even trying, so I reckon I’ve got at least 18 months before I need to think about being off again. And I’m determined to use it. I still want to be a teacher, that’s what I’ve always wanted to be, so I’m applying for the new School Direct course which is replacing the GTP at a school in the next town over. I’m working on my application at the moment and it’s tough, just doing the application form is testing me, but I’ve nothing to loose so I’m giving it my all.

Having learnt my lesson about putting all my eggs in one basket, I will be casting my net a little wider this time. I’ve sent off two applications for different jobs, one for a Website Content Editor and one for an admin assistant at the uni near me. What I have noticed though is that there’s a vicious circle waiting to pull me in with all this job stuff. It goes like this:

1. Chops is in full throes of the Terrible Twos right now. She is Hard Work.

2. As part of this, she isn’t sleeping through the night, and I have been getting in with her every night to make sure G gets some rest as he works 14 hour days and is now recovering from an operation.

3. By the time bedtime finally rolls around, I am so shattered from spending my day being beaten into submission by a will-full two year old that all I want to do is lie on my bed drinking wine through a straw.

4. This makes filling out job applications in a manner which would make me seem professional, qualified, mature, hard-working and all that other dross they want fairly difficult. I can barely spell my own name by 8pm most nights.

5. As such, I don’t feel motivated to fill applications out, get very little done, and resultingly become immersed in how fed up I am with not having a job which stimulates my brain , gets me out of the house during reasonable office hours, does not involve cleaning urinals on a Sunday morning and most importantly: Pays The BIlls!

So there lies my mission. Find job, avoid vicious circle, don’t kill G while he’s off work for the next 6 weeks and campaign against toddler dictatorships. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Sara xx

In November, I received a Facebook message from the head of department in a school I did some work experience at in 2011, asking me if I was working and saying that although she couldn’t say too much at this stage there may be an opportunity coming up that she thought I’d be perfect for- would I be interested?

I couldn’t believe it. I called her and enthused that Yes, of course I would be delighted, as long as I could find suitable childcare for Chops as in November she was still at home with me every day. I said I’d look into it and would be in touch. Over the next week, I contacted and made enquiries to every nursery in my area, and visited the ones who had vacancies. I contacted my local council to enquire about two year old nursery funding for Chops, discovered that I qualified, and by the end of another week, had secured a place at a private local nursery where two of my friends have their children, I’d had glowing recommendations about them and Chops would have children she already knew there which would help her settle. I contacted my friend/mentor in the school and told her that I’d managed to arrange childcare and to let me know what would come next.

For a while nothing happened. We spoke a couple of times a week, she assured me that she was pushing the head to contact me as the head had asked was there anyone she thought would be particularly suitable for the position- she had recommended me. But of course this is a school. With hundreds of staff and thousands of pupils and the local council to consider when it comes to getting anything done! I know that and was patient. Then after the Christmas break, I got a text, with the headteachers secretary’s number, asking me to call and make an appointment for interview.

I made the appointment and set about preparing. I had been reading everything I could get my hands on since that first conversation in November, arming myself with PGCE text books, teaching guides with advice ‘Becoming An Amazing Teacher’, preparing for teaching interviews, behaviour management, revision guides to ensure I was up to speed with the curriculum. I should mention here for those who don’t know- I am not yet qualified as a teacher. I hold a 2:1 in English from Chester University, but with Chops arriving, I haven’t yet been in a position to complete my PGCE. So an opportunity like this, within a school, in a teaching capacity, but didn’t require me to be fully qualified and would gain invaluable experience was perfect. I threw myself into it, determined that I would be able to hold my own at interview as well as anyone with Qualified Teacher Status- in so far as possible.

Interview day arrived and I sat sweating in reception. I was escorted up to the heads office and offered a cup of tea- I don’t take sugar but none the less I politely drank the tea with two sugars I was given. We discussed the needs of the school, what was going on in the department and how I might be able to help. We discussed my long term aspirations and what training the school might be able to provide me with come September. She explained that unfortunately, as this post was covering an absence the whole thing was a little uncertain as someone could return to work at any point. So they offered to apply for my CRB certificate and we would see what was happening when that came back, as that could take months. In the meantime, I offered to come in on the days when Chops had nursery, on a voluntary basis to assist where I could, observe lessons, perhaps do some marking and so on.

So the following Tuesday, I arrived at the school, suited and booted, was provided a badge to wear around the premises and got stuck in. After two days I made spoke to the department and asked them to let me know which of their classes might benefit from having an extra pair of hands in the room. I developed a great relationship with the other teachers and became increasingly involved with the lessons, and felt that when my CRB came back I would confidently hit the ground running. As it happened, after just two weeks I had my certificate. I text my mentor, she replied excitedly and we both joked and chatted about me joining the school properly. The next day she text again saying that she had passed on the new to the head who had said she’d be in touch. School was cancelled the following Tuesday so Thursday was my next opportunity. During morning registration I nipped up to the Heads office with my CRB certificate and handed it to the Heads secretary “Oh we don’t need that, they’ve been in touch, we have our copy now.” she told me. “But, I do need you to fill out one of these for me-” and handed me an application form. “I’ve already done an application form” I explained. “No, you’ve done a supply teacher application, we need one of these from you as well.”

Ok. I said. Off I went to my lessons, and at home that evening sat down to fill it out. I didn’t have a reference number of or a job description to tailor my responses towards, I hadn’t been given one. So I opted to look on the website, to check if there was anything on there I could use. To my surprise, on the website, was an advert for a teacher of English, starting September. No-one had mentioned it, but I reasoned that it was my own fault for assuming they would and not checking the site often enough. Noting the closing date, I realised I would need to get my application form in the next day if I wanted to be considered for this role. I worked into the night, got up and finished it the next morning and headed to the school to hand it in.

By Monday, it had been 5 weeks since my interview and almost 3 weeks since my CRB had been returned. I had been volunteering two days a week and the head of the department seemed confident about me being in school full time after the February half term. But this was the last week before half term, and I would only be in one day that week- I had to go to my paid job on the Tuesday, I had been losing work to volunteer and financially, things were tight. I was trying not to worry though, I felt confident it was temporary. But by mid week I was nervous. I needed to know where I stood. I didn’t want to be pushy but this had been going on for moths now and I was struggling for money as a result. I had to bite the bullet. I needed to call and find out.

So, I rang and asked to speak to the head, who was unavailable. I spoke to her secretary asking firstly, whether my application would be considered for the post advertised on the website. No, she said, because I’m not qualified. Fair enough. So I explained that, I didn’t want to appear impatient or pushy, but that I did need to know how we would be progressing so that I could make arrangements with Chops’ nursery and my current job.

“I’m sorry Sara, but as far as I’m aware, I don’t think there actually is a position available at the moment… I’m very sorry if you’ve been lead to believe otherwise.”

I was speechless. Literally speechless. She went on to explain that things had changed since I’d been contacted, a substitute teacher had agreed to stay till the end of the year and someone else would shortly be returning from maternity leave and there simply wasn’t anything available right now. Despite the fact that I had been covering lessons that there were no staff for and working with a number of supply teachers who were being brought in to cover absences. Despite the head of department being besides herself trying to get lessons covered and frustrated that I was there, willing to help but she couldn’t assign me to anything properly. Despite the fact that they’d brought me in for an interview, arranged me to get a CRB done, discussed training options and career development and just last week put an application form in my hand and told me they needed me to complete it. I was of course, she enthused, more than welcome to continue doing my work experience two days a week. I’ll bet. I thought bitterly. I’m doing the job but you won’t fucking pay me for it.

I said goodbye, asked her to make sure they let me know if anything did become available and thanked her for clarifying. Then put the phone down and cried and cried and cried. Sat at the bar, in an empty pub, at 2 o’clock in the afternoon, in a job I’d been so excited to be moving on from and watched the possibility I’d been clinging to evaporate.

Moral of the story: Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. The basket might not exist.

I know I’m supposed to see my GP about this but let me explain: I’ve recently finished having weekly counselling sessions and emotionally, I feel in a much stronger place than I have been in a long while. There have been some let downs in terms of trying to get back into work lately, but after a couple of days licking my wounds and feeling disappointed and angry, I reckon I’ve come back fighting and got on with finding out what’s next for me. Of course I was upset… I talked the ears off my family and boyfriend and counsellor for a while but I didn’t fall into the pit of self worthlessness and despair that I’ve gotten stuck in before. After my last session I felt good. Not overly confident and ready to take on the world exactly but… calm. Content.

I decided that I felt ready to reduce my medication; I started on 20mg a day of citalopram in October 2011, increased to 40mg after 6 weeks or so. Then when those were clearly not helping (they made my mood swings so frequent and extreme it frightened me) I asked to try something else and started on 50mg of sertraline a day. Wonderful stuff. Did exactly what I needed it to. I made an appointment to see my GP, then realised in the middle of last week- Oh… I’ve forgotten to take my tablet *Checks packet* … For FIVE DAYS!?!. Holy Crap.

I thought back over the last few days and analysed how I’d been feeling… moody yes but no crying or wishing I were dead or couldn’t cope with caring for my child. Feeling fairly hopeless but mainly coinciding with Chops’ bedtime when I’m exhausted have lost my voice and am battered and bruised from warring with an almost three year old since 6am. Nothing out of the ordinary or that had prompted me to think “Have I forgotten my tablet today?”.  So I made a decision. Rather than have accidentally gone 5 days ithout, then start taking my normal dosage again, then carry on with a lower dose based on my GP’s recommendations- surely that wasn’t going to do me much good? Seeing as I felt ok, I’d just carry on not taking them.

I know this may seen drastically irresponsible and a Really Bad Idea I also have back up right now: on Tuesday G had surgery on his back and he will be at home with me so I can make sure he doesn’t get stuck on the toilet or anything like that for the next 6 weeks. So for 6 weeks, I have the emotional support of my best friend available to me at all times, someone to talk to if I’m feeling glum and someone to help out with Chops (verbally if not physically). So as long as he doesn’t drive me crazy (geddit hahahahahhahahahaha) and, y’know, I end up killing him it’s all good.

And so far it has been. I feel ok. Not awesome, Chops is not sleeping through at the moment so I’m shattered and a bit cranky, but ok. I’ll let you know I guess.

Oh and thanks for reading. I’ve done that thing where I abandon my blog for ages again haven’t I? Sorry. But thanks for being so lovely and supportive (especially you Rach) about my writing. Everyone loves a bit of praise don’t they?

** I feel I should add here that how I have gone about this is most certainly not what the doctor ordered: I have so far been lucky that I feel good having come off my meds but many people find it really hard. I’d definitely recommend you see your doctor if you’re thinking of coming off yours. Do as I say not as I do. **

We talked as we do, about Chops and his relationship with her. We’ve talked about the possibility of him adopting her if such a thing can be done.And I asked him, hesitantly, “If we were to get married, and I got hit by a bus, would you look after Chops?” His answer nearly killed me. He looked at me and said, “Well, I’d look after you first, seeing as you know, you’ve just been hit by a bus!”. I laughed and laughed and laughed. I still am. I realised last night, alongside a few realisations that have been coming to me recently that despite when I’m with G, I feel the way I did when I was with my boyfriend when I was 18. Before I went to uni, we had a long summer together, we both had jobs but still lived with parents. We had little if any responsibility. We went out several times a week, we drank, danced, went to gigs, slumped over McDonalds breakfasts the following day. We would get in the car at any time of day or night and drive, drive anywhere. Often to the beach- 2 hours from where we lived, even in the middle of the night. We laughed all day long.

I realised that G has become this to me. Even though now, my life could not be more different. My 2 year old daughter sleeps in the next room, I have a house to keep on top of, I’m looking for full time work, I’m struggling with depression and anxiety, I have survived an abusive relationship… all of which have changed me from the frankly, cocky girl with pink hair I was at 18 into someone else. But I laugh with him. I laugh and realise that actually… you really can fall in love with your best friend.

I realised while we lay together laughing as we do every night that the girl with pink hair who knew how to laugh and make the most of her life is still me. With him I feel like her again, but a new version of her who can take things in her stride the 18 year old one could never have imagined. Sometimes it feels like just the opposite of that. Sometimes it feels like I’m drowning. But I have my Chops, my princess, my darling girl, who has saved me from the floods. And now, with G, it feels like actually, I might just be able to stay afloat in this ocean.

So when I go to work, I put on a mask. A happy smiling mask. Sometimes, I think that doing this can actually do more harm than good, but the fact that it is necessary remains. I wonder if we all do this and to what extent? Are there any jobs out there where you don’t have to adopt a persona just to earn a crust? I suppose even if you’re a celebrity of sorts and ‘being you’ is what you’re known for for whatever reason, that ‘you’ that’s being presented to the world isn’t really genuine. It’s just the parts that the public want to know. Why is that? Why is so much of just managing and doing our jobs based on being someone we’re actually not?

It’s not just work either. It seems sometimes as though, for every person I am, every role I take on in my life- mother, girlfriend, daughter, sister, friend, employee, blogger, tweeter, whatever, I have a different mask and never the twain shall meet. It’s no wonder we’re all so messed up really, life is just an ongoing masquerade ball isn’t it?

But for now, I am honoured. I never knew that just watching someone growing could be so enchanting. While I was lying on the sofa earlier today feeling sorry for myself, Chops dug a sachet of Calpol out of my handbag and brought it too me, “Here you go Mummy! It’s your medicine!” She gave me a big cuddle and said “Are you feeling better now Mummy?”.

For all my complaining, for all the times I moan about being tired and how bloody hard it is being a parent- a single parent at that- let me say now: My Daughter, is a miracle. I am blessed to know her and I thank God for her every day.

Saying ‘Cheese!!’ at Chester Zoo this summer.

My sister was in with her boyfriend, but here’s the thing. I love my sister, she is my best friend in the world. But she is also 22, an ex-model, blonde, size 6, and one of those girls that people fall in love with the second they meet her. She’s always been the far more outgoing, popular one of the two of us and that’s fine, everyone is different. But sometimes, I cannot help but compare myself with her. Because, compared with my sister, I am the older, fatter, ugly sister. Next to her, I feel like a failure. See things are going pretty well for her work wise, she’s been in her job that she started as a Christmas temp for two years and has had 3 promotions in that time into management. I, however, am still doing part time bar work at 27 just to hold it together. I know I shouldn’t compare myself, we’re very different people.

But when you fall into that dark place in your head, its kind of hard not to. All I could think was that I’m a failure. I’m only 27 and I’ve wasted my life. If not for Chops, I might as well be dead. Looking after her is the only thing I can do and I don’t honestly think I do the greatest job in the world at that. This thought popped into my head that I’m always going to be just average if that. I thought, looking at my beautiful, talented sister, that when I get married she’ll be my Maid of Honour and she’ll be stood beside me all day. I was thinking “She’s going to have to wear a burqa”. Because on that day, when the bride is meant to be the centre of attention, when you’re not supposed to upstage that woman, I’ll be stood next to my sister. Who even if she rolled out of bed with a hangover, 2 hours sleep, didn’t do her hair and wore no make up, would still outshine me by a million miles. I know how that sounds. That part is only a physical comparison. But it opens the door to all sorts of other thoughts.

In my current job I’m surrounded by staff who are between 18 and 21 and who look at me like I’m their Aunt or something. I’m not really ‘friends’ with any of the new staff and most of the staff who worked there when I started have left- they’ve moved on and I’m still stuck in a rut. On Friday, while we worked, everyone was chatting as usual, but while I was stood there, the other four members of staff started making plans to go out after work and bought a round of shots. I wasn’t included in the discussion. Not in a malicious way mind, I wasn’t being left out because they didn’t want me there- it just didn’t occur to them. See, I’m a ‘Grown Up’. I have a child, a steady relationship, they assumed (correctly) that I wouldn’t want to go out dancing at 2am and drinking cheap vokda and sambucas. I don’t resent not being invited of course, I wouldn’t have gone to the club they were heading for and I’d much rather go home to my wonderful child and boyfriend. But it did make me realise that perhaps, this feeling isn’t going to get better.

It’s time to move on. Chops has been in nursery for a month now and she is really enjoying it. It’s time to start seriously thinking about what comes next for me. Whether that will come in the shape of a full time job or a different part time job in a different industry I don’t know, but I think that my current job is making me feel bad about myself.