Microcosmotastic

I had a run in with my father this morning which I'm still reeling from, hence the following rant. He's known to the Little Darlings as Grumpy, strangely enough. The fact that he thinks that I don't discipline Boychild severely enough was nothing new, but today he proclaimed that I am raising a criminal. I should spend more meaningful time with him (ie, not be a working mother which is evil) and take him to more pro-social activities. I should also beat him for his transgressions. Apparently the golf lessons, tennis club and football practice don't count. I accept that I let him give up horse riding even though he was pretty good at it when Spouse called him a gayer for taking part in a girly activity once too often. In any event my badmother credentials are now official since my perfect brother and his second wife (who incidentally thinks that Jordon is a positive role model) agree that Boychild is "out of control".

Having had an hour or so to seethe and reflect while cruelly not spending time with my son as I washed, stretched back into shape, and put away newly laundered clothes, it seems to me germane that these allegations come following a week of parent bashing by the Government and other, probably childless, pundits.

Boychild has sensed some negative grandparental rumblings for a while, and he has fulfilled their proficy in ways that would impress the most eminent sociologists. He belches "Arch-Bishop" at will since it annoys Grandma, and refuses to sit still during Sunday lunch because it pisses Grumpy off. In short, he's very good at not doing as he's told, needs to learn to be seen and not heard, and would probably benefit from doing as I say and not as I do. A strikingly similar message was sent out by Mr Cameron in the Commons this week.

I feel sure that I have little, if anything to add to the debate about the causes of the breakdown of our communities. I've certainly read a number of extremely well crafted pieces in the media. What I'm struggling to express is that my sulky raction to the criticisms of my parenting abilities was to say fuck you, if it's not good enough for you, leave us alone innit, and I suspect that a similar response, in kind, will come from the inner cities.

The Secret Diary of Jojo's Mole Aged 43 and 3/4

Today will be remembered, by me at least, as badmother's first brush with the plastic surgeon's knife. Not that you can brush with a knife because that would be silly and painful, very messy and undoubtedly against the law unless you do it to yourself. But then you would probably be sectioned so equally inadvisable. I digress.

A few weeks ago a mole that I've never been fond of started growing, and as I said to the plastic surgeon, was itchy and hurty. Having been inundated with medical advice not to ignore such symptoms I saw my GP. I made the mistake of making an appointment last thing on a Friday when the said doctor's mind was clearly concentrated on the golf course rather than the patient, so she took a quick peek at the offending blemish, said there was nothing wrong with it and if I wanted my itchy hurty mole removed I would have to pay privately. I didn't resent having to pay for the procedure as much as her insinuation that I was trying to get free plastic surgery on the NHS. I tried to put this into perspective and accept that I probably give more love and better advice to clients when I'm not it a tit-twist about having to be at the office. In fact I have been known to get a bit shouty, but don't tell the SRA.

It turned out that the mole removal procedure was covered by a medical insurance policy I have courtesy of spouse's firm since the plastic surgeon was prepared to attest that it was itchy and hurty and needed to be removed. I have to pay an excess of £150 but have no idea whether this will affect my no claims bonus. A visit to the dentist costs about this and I decided that if I had an itchy huty tooth I would probably cough up, so I booked an appointment for this afternoon. On receiving notification that my insurance company would settle the bill the surgeon offered to remove all three moles on my face. Bargain. I like a bargain and who could refuse a BOGToF deal - buy one get two free? It turned out to be cheaper and less painful than a trip to the dentist, and I wholeheartedly recommend anyone with an itchy and hurty mole to go under the knife.

I'm now saving up for the boob job. I intend to turn myself into the closest human approximation to "Trigger's broom". For those of you that didn't watch Only Fools and Horses when it seemed to be funny, Trigger claimed to have owned the same broom for thirty years during which time it only had seventeen new handles and fifteen new heads.

I appreciate that some people find the concept of plastic surgery to be wrong. I blow a raspberry in your general direction. If you don't like something on TV then switch off, and if you don't like cosmetic surgery, shut the fuck up and don't have any.

Polly Perfect and the SamCamGlam Clan

I've allowed myself to become embroiled in a dispute at the school gate. It isn't pretty. Over the course of this year a clique of mothers of a certain type has emerged. Before this I considered myself to be a friend of one of the said clique who, like me, was not adverse to a spot of irresponsible drinking, smoking and the liberal use of expletives. Then Polly Perfect got her jewel encrusted, regularly professionally manicured, nails into her. Polly changes her BMW sports cars and Chelsea Tractors about as frequently as I buy new shoes. I have wondered whether she tells her spouse when he returns from work in the Gulf States "what, this old car - I've had it for ages - you never notice me - sob" as I do to spouse when his eyes turn skyward and accuses me of buying new footwear.

In any event, I've been sufficiently irritated about giving a shit that Polly Perfect clearly doesn't consider me yummy mummy material, that I've only very recently shared my feelings with another reject. It turns out she feels exactly the same way so I consider my churlishness to be vindicated and I'm prepared to share it with you.

Polly decided recently that her charitable act of the year would be to invite some of the slummy mummies to an end of term meal at a smart restaurant in town. She probably considered the mothers that actually have to work for a fucking living don't ordinarily get to visit such establishments and would kneel down and worship at the shrine of scrummy yummy mummyness. However, she has standards to maintain, and clearly undertook a vetting procedure. The slummy mummies that have professional occupations passed, and the blue collar workers remained in exile. The clear injustice was exacerbated by the claim that the reason that only certain individuals were chosen was because Polly wanted the evening to be "more intimate". I found this as lame as a duck, and not just a metaphorical lame duck either; a duck that that's just stepped on a roadside bomb in Afghanistan.

This afternoon, with the back of another slummy mummy invitee, we rebelled and said we didn't wanna play. Instead of going out for posh nosh we're spending the said evening crawling pubs, smoking like a boy-racers first set of low profile tyres, and maybe taking in a curry before taking it out again in the back of a taxi. What really fucked me off though was that when we informed Polly Perfect that we wouldn't be joining them, she beamed her smile spa'd super straight gnashers at me. I overcame the breathtaking urge to remove them. Plastic Poo-tangs.

I've just shared the debarcle with spouse. He said: "mothers-care, fathers-don't-give-a-fuck."

I would like to acknowledge the assistance of my buddy Sam for the slummy mummy label which I wholeheartedly embrace, and Anna for Plastic Poo-tangs, cause that's what they are. xxx

It's been a bad day which I insist on sharing with you. I have manflu, and have managed to have two encounters with traffic wardens during the course of a cold day spent in an office heated by two light bulbs the boss man considers are heaters. I toyed with the idea of coming in late, but on account of the fact that I've forgotten the colour of my desk over the last two weeks thought better of it. The law of sod dictated that the computers were down until 11.30 am. During the computer crash I had spotted a traffic warden eyeing up my badly parked car (I told my passenger he could walk to the pavement from here), and placated the warden by promising sincerely not to attempt parallel parking in future since I'm just a girl.

By the time I left the office to collect the Little Darlings from school my normal, barely adequate psychic defences were hardly monitoring on my Giveashitometer. When I rocked up customarily late at the school there were no free parking spaces parallel or otherwise on account of a nearby building site which helpfully placed no parking bollards where I normally abandon my car. Since I was anticipating a quick turnaround I parked right next to the school gates on zig-zags. I know it's a sin which has been depicted on tv ads as an invitation for children to throw themselves in the path of oncoming vehicles. It was a case of finding a legal space, being late and incurring the wrath of the Head of the Juniors, or take a chance. My Giveashitometer was, by this time, flat lining so I took the latter course of action.

Cue second Nazi in a traffic warden's uniform. Boychild came out first and ran to the car after throwing his bag at me. He came back a few moments later and told me there was a man in a hat that was writing my number plate down. I ran back around the corner to the warden, and through gritted teeth asked him politely not to give me a ticket. He said since I'd parked on zig-zags rather then double yellows he had no choice but to give me a ticket with a patronising, if a little gleeful, "more than my jobs worth" way. Jack, observing, asked me not to swear in front of his friends who were watching. I stifled my initial reaction enquire what's it like to have a job with no fucking prospects, and instead suggested that his contribution to the community would be far better served by stopping the self appointed traffic warden bully boy builders blocking a number of parking spaces that I would have otherwise utilized (even though it would have involved another crack at parallel parking). While he could be at that, he could also suggest to them that driving oversized forklift trucks at speed down a narrow road with a school on one side and a nursery on the other might be a more auspicious use of his valuable time than slapping tickets on cars. But he does't get paid commission for that now does he? The gradually rising and more hysterical tone of my voice during this one way conversation (badmother code: never let a man -especially your husband and son- get a word in edgeways if you can avoid it) had drawn a crowd, a band of similarly angered mothers. I believe he sensed he was outnumbered, and muttered ok ok ok while backing down the road to the building site.

As I was shoehorning the twins into the car he returned, and in a very manly voice, loud enough for all the mums to hear said that he had given the foreman at the building site a jolly good talking to. There's nothing more pleasing that gaining the moral high ground than evading another packing fine.

Boychild and the Toilet Door

I'm going to try and revive this thing. I haven't written anything half decent in over a year and I'm missing the therapy. I'm amazed that there have been visitors during my absence, although I suspect that most visits are from people searching for the "real" badmother. I'm a fraud. But still bad, very very bad.

I find that writing helps me to keep a perspective on issues. I've recently become embroiled in a dispute at the school involving Boychild. My approach to motherhood has always been less is more in a very lazy way, but this current dispute has been challenging anything resembling a maternal instict that I may have, and my role as a lawyer in the criminal justice system. Boychild, now aged seven, stands charged with locking a toilet door, climbing over the said door leaving it locked. The punishment for this offence was, loss of privilages, namely no breaktime for a week. The evidence: Emily (his teacher's step-daughter) saw the back of the culpret's head leaving the scene of the crime and pointed the finger at Boychild.

My objections are that he has not had the opportunity of defending himself against the allegation; cross-examining the only witness; or testing the dodgy identification evidence by way of a line up of all the usual suspects. Actually, there was another witness. The head of the juniors illicited a criminal profile from the psychologist that is twin two. She gave testamony to the effect that Boychild is a pathological liar. The prosecution rests. Judge, jury and executioner then pronounced Boychild's guilt and sentenced him accordingly.

I wouldn't admit this to anyone else but the teacher concerned scares the crap out me me. We have crossed swords in the past, strangely enough about Boychild. She won. I dealt with this by bitching about her at the school gates, and was pleased to learn that most of the mothers admitted that they wouldn't have even taken her on. I took this as a moral, if phyrric, victory. On this occasion I decided to write a polite note suggesting that it was a tad unfair to inflict what can only be described as a manifestly excessive sentence on the basis of evidence that wouldn't even stand up in the kangaroo court that is the prison governor's adjudication. The sentence was suspended, and she gave me her best basilisk when I collected the kidlets. I take some pride in my abilities in the filthy look department, but this woman is a genuine basilisk in teachers, lounge-wear, clothing. I therefore decided that discretion is the better part of valour and refused to be drawn into further conflict.

Today events took a turn for the worse after the successful appeal against sentence. Twin two, no doubt feeling a tad guilty about batting for the prosecution, "had words" with Emily. I fear she overheard me talking about the matter with spouse, and I said something along the lines of "Emily needs to learn that nobody likes a grass". In any event, she received a caution for using threatening or abusive words or behaviour in the playground. I hope this marks the end of Boychild's first, though probably not last, brush with summary justice.

While Boychild continues to maintain his innocence I believe that he is in a win win situation. He has either, as a friend observed, learnt that life isn't fair, a worthy lesson, if he was wrongly convicted. Alternatively if he were guilty he has learnt the value of remaining silent. And if anyone has learnt anything about this tawdry affair, and I think we have people, it is that toilet pranks have transcended the modern age of sophisticated computer games and the like; and that teachers still struggle to see the funny side of life.

One new follower and I've only posted one new thing in almost a year. Must try harder. Thanks for following. I'll write again soon. Mwahhhh

Bad Mother is Back!

Ok, I've tried to ignore this thing, but since I stopped writing in the summer when I suffered a complete sense of humour meltdown, I can't stop myself from thinking about things I could write about if I could be arsed. It turns out I'm depressed. I prefer to think of myself as bi-polar, but with a distinct lack of manic episodes. It sounds so much more glamorous than depressed. Depression is just so damn common. When I've shared this terrible secret with close friends, they've invariably said that they've been popping anti-depressants for years. So I've decided to get over myself, and return to writing therapy. I doubt there are any readers left out there, but this is my blog and I'll write if I want to.

In the last hour I've experienced one of the worst bad mother moments: a public one. I had to face my aversion public transport and take the Little Darlings home from school on the bus. Did you know that buses do not ordinarily have a first class section??? Spouse needed the car for an out of town meeting, and I am still carless. I knew it would be painful since they are unable to sit still for at least an hour after they finish school, and can only communicate at a rate of decibels that would rival a 1970s Iron Maiden concert. We climbed to the upper deck and as they ran to the back of the bus, I chose a seat at the front, putting as much distance between us as possible. Before we had got a hundred yards they invented the game of bus-surfing. This involved trying unsuccessfully to balance on the seats as the bus careered round corners on the county lanes. I immediately sensed that they were irritating everyone, so I summoned my most scathing - can't you control your children- look at a woman approximately the same age as me, on the other side of the aisle. Sadly my attempt to disclaim them failed, and I was forced to try to chastise them. That failed too.

The next tactic was to try my hand at diversion. Pointing out interesting cows or trees in the landscape around us never worked with my Little Darlings, who would respond with "and, what's your point?". All I had to hand was my ipod. I gave it to Jack since he's the circus leader, and turned on his favourite song. Some years ago during a tortuously long car journey to the South of France, when Boychild (Latin name, jackus satanicus) misbehaved (approximately every 4.6 minutes) Spouse put on I Can't Decide by the Scissor Sisters, with the refreshing lyric "I can decide whether you should live or die; Oh you'll probably go to heaven; Don't you hang your head and cry..." He loved it of course. I smiled smugly at the bus load of Primark bag carrying, Croydon face-lift wearing mums in control of their little darlings who had to suffer the anguish that is the tone deaf Boychild screeching along to the ipod.

I believe that Boychild derives his ability to invent new games like bus-surfing from his father. During the course of our relationship Spouse has invented a delicious new drink by mixing champagne with orange juice, and was devastated to learn that bucks fizz already existed. Before we were married and on holiday, again in France, in a house infested with mice that insisted on eating everything and crapping everywhere, he invented a mouse-trap like no other. It involved a mouse sized walkway fashioned out of a french stick that the vermin had helpfully hollowed out, leading to the open top of one of those plastic barrels of surrender monkey urine that the French palm off on stupid English visitors that should know that you get what you pay for. He placed a lump of cheese at the opening of the barrel, with the intent that Michelle Mouse would fall into the undrinkable substance and promptly drown, or possibly disintegrate in the fumes. To ensure that none of the critters missed out on the fun, he placed a sign "Fromage this way" at the bottom of the walkway. It didn't work of course, and we ended up with a conventional poisoning, but the mouse-trap made an interesting centre-piece on the kitchen table. In fact Spouse probably missed out on the Turner Prize. On reflection though, I'm surprised that he didn't suggest converting it into a fun game for children that involved compiling a heath robinson mouse-trap...