Guidance on parenting - Part 1

Following on from my last blog I've decided to share my thoughts under clearer headings from now on. This is the first such entry. I'd love your feedback, including suggestions for topics to cover.

The easiest topic for me to start with is the thing which has occupied most of my time for the best part of a decade now: parenting. From the moment I learned I was pregnant in March 2009 I haven't stopped learning... not all of it was useful! This is a selection of what I've learned, presented to you in the hope that you can skip some of my mistakes and also so that anyone who's not as far through the journey can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

EDIT: this is a very long blog and I have a dozen more ideas, so I've renamed this "Part 1"

1) Forget everything you think you know about pregnancy

It's pretty obvious to say that old wive's tales are occasionally right but won't apply to everyone. Nonetheless I have one example to give to show why you should take them with a healthy dose of cynicism.

Have you heard the one about bad morning sickness meaning you're having a boy? I had dreadful nausea during my first pregnancy and - sure enough - I had a boy. Then it was plain sailing during my second pregnancy then - you guessed it - I had a boy. Anecdotally I've had friends with morning sickness go on to have girls, relatives who were never sick had boys... It's all rubbish. What may be true is that your morning sickness is actually caused by the surge of testosterone given to the baby in the later part of the first trimester. Your body isn't used to having these levels of testosterone so it does what it's programmed to do with anything upsetting the ecosystem: upchucks it.

Babies of either sex have more or less testosterone than the next baby of their sex. So my first son ("M1") loves playing rugby, running, throwing himself around in the mud (what he and his school friends term "the falling down game") while my younger son ("M2") prefers playing with toys like My Little Pony & Disney Princesses and hates getting dirty. M2 also likes watching rugby and happily wrestles with his big brother while brandishing a lightsaber, but generally I'd say it's safe to assume he has a significantly lower testosterone level than M1 and that's why I wasn't nauseated.

Pregnancy myths have some truth to them but if anyone tries to tell you something as fact while you're expecting, stick your fingers in your ears and run in the other direction. Or, you know, just smile and nod politely. But don't take it seriously!

2) Birth plan, shmirth plan

When I was carrying the bump that would become known as M1, I went to a lovely ante-natal class that prepared me for every aspect of a beautiful, natural labour, birth and breast-feeding experience. By the time I wrote my birth plan, I was all set for a relaxed labour on my yoga ball followed by a water birth set to music by a band called This Will Destroy You (which is more chilled out than it sounds!)

In reality M1 started burrowing for escape at 31 weeks, causing me immense pain and false labour on an almost-weekly basis. By the time I got to full term, I was demented with the uncertainty and I'd been signed off my work, so my consultant decided to book me in for an induction at just over 39 weeks.

Instead of a non-intrusive, holistic labour, I spent 48 hours labouring in a hospital ward, attached to monitors while the three other beds in the room operated a revolving door system of women who appeared to be mooing on the other side of the curtains, while my (ex-midwife) mother-in-law sat crocheting beside me, occasionally glancing at the monitor and unhelpfully commenting "oh yes." I'm sorry Mum Gibson, you were great company, but it was a difficult few days! By the time I'd been in there for over 2 days, I'd been examined from every angle by more people than I've ever given my home phone number.

On the third afternoon I was told that, although I was in labour, I was only three centimetres dilated. I was then given the choice of staying put and waiting, going home and waiting (not on your f***ing nelly!) or having a Caesarean section. After speaking to my darling beloved, I told them I'd like a Caesarean. The final part of my birth plan packed its bags and flew out of the window I'd been staring through for 52 hours. On the following morning, three full days after I'd entered the maternity ward, I was subjected to one final degradation - being shaved by a stranger who'd just put on my surgical stockings. When I went down to theatre and my consultant asked if I'd be willing to allow her student in the operating room to shadow her, I actually uttered the words, "the more the merrier."

Having a birth plan is a good idea: it lets your medical professionals know what you're expecting, it guides them on how to care for you and it mentally prepares you for the fact that you're going to have to push that bump out of you. But someone forgot to tell me that the baby didn't read the birth plan.

3) Babies also don't read "What To Expect When You're Expecting"

When I had M1, my partner had just started a new job and getting any kind of leave was very difficult. I was very fortunate that during the first few weeks my lovely, above-mentioned mother-in-law and most of my own family took holidays - or gave up their pre-existing holidays - to come over and run after me. Recovering from major surgery and breastfeeding a very hungry baby who's losing weight a little too quickly is rather difficult. Having a veritable village of helpers around me made a world of difference. I'll never be able to repay the soup-making, bottle-washing, endless laundry and general awesomeness of my little team.

Nonetheless, there were many times when I wanted to sit M1 down and read him appropriate chapters of the baby books to show him where he was going wrong. "You're not meant to feed for only 10 minutes at a time, once every 40 minutes," I cried hopelessly.

"You're supposed to nap now, it says so right here," I wailed.

"Why isn't your poop the right colour?"

"Don't sleep now, I'm meant to wind you first!"

"Wake up, I need to feed you."

"Don't lie that way, the book says it'll deform your skull."

"Don't look at me like that, it's not my fault!!!!"

It took me until week five to realise that the little pudding was starving, I simply wasn't producing enough milk to feed his appetite - an appetite that has thrived for over seven years since that realisation. When I finally gave him bottled milk (to complement what I could offer him myself) he devoured the whole thing in jig time and began putting on a pound per week for the next several weeks!

When M2 came along - also by Caesarean - I'd already decided not to breastfeed. This was for a variety of reasons, which I am happy to elaborate upon but have not been happy to receive criticism about from total strangers online.

To any new or expectant mother, I say, read all the books, take all the advice, then do what suits you and your baby. But you first. Your baby will be okay with bottle feeding. You, however, do nothing for yourself or your baby by suffering endlessly and driving yourself to the brink of exhaustion.

To anyone who has strong opinions on the "breast is best" debate, I plead, don't force those opinions down the throats of women who are already overwhelmed, bombarded with data and statistics and opinions and advice. If you're asked for your opinion, offer it, but do it nicely: calmly, clearly and with measured tones. Don't say that breastfeeding advocates are militants. Don't say that powdered milk is poison. It's not true and it's incredibly damaging to vulnerable women's psyches. Everyone agrees that breast is best, but let's keep the rhetoric on a simmer. Girl power.

4) Other parents are your new best friends

It doesn't matter how good your friendships are, no one wants to hear about your sleepless nights or cracked bits. Unless they're also currently Lansinoh's best customer. And if you don't know what that is, consider yourself lucky and go on about your day. Please don't Google it.

I'm afraid this lesson took me much too long to learn. I did make a few lovely "mummy friends" in the early days, but mostly on a one-to-one basis. One such friend was in a very similar situation to myself - challenging kids, lack of confidence - and she was trying her best to work, like me, but not keeping up with it very well, also like me. Our kids were only months apart, they adored each other and Gill & I became fast friends over shared frustrations and a fondness for a large glass of something strong at the end of the day. We remain firm bosom buddies to this day - more on this later.

I did go to Bookbug story sessions in the library once or twice when M1 was wee, but I'm afraid that when M2 came along my depression took over and he was two years old before I started attending toddler groups - largely to keep Gill company. Mine eyes, dear reader, blew wide. Here was a collection of women and some brave men who faced an identical dilemma to mine: one or more children below school age, too many hours in the day and not enough money to afford a drinking problem. Among the brigade of childminders with gangs of toddlers in tow were mums struggling to fill the days for their precious darlings or those who craved adult company beyond the presenters of CBeebies. I befriended the mums, I networked with the childminders, I watched my children develop friendships that would last a lifetime or a playtime. Crucially, my children learned how to form friendships, while I learned to embrace the ridiculous notion of asking an adult, "please can we be friends?"

Making friends as an adult is a strange experience. Essentially, you sit quietly watching the parents while pretending to be monitoring your little dears, pick someone who looks friendly, then sidle up to them and strike up a conversation. My favourite opener is, "which one's yours?" It came naturally and it lets people talk about their kids instead of themselves. The hardest part is how you get out of the conversation: you've either decided they're not likely to become a friend, in which case you just excuse yourself by going for a cup of tea; or alternatively, you enjoy the chat and want to befriend them. That's the bit where you choose to let it develop over a few weeks of toddler sessions but risk them not coming back ever again (which happened to me) or you try to get a method of contact... without sounding like a lunatic. I'm afraid that one's on you, reader. Good luck!

5) Repeat after me: this too shall pass

The hardest and the best part of parenting is that everything passes so quickly.

Oh, how I wish for those baby smells again, for the chunky little legs of M1 while I was bathing him and the long slim fingers of M2 wrapped around mine. Oh, how I'm glad to be far removed from sleepless nights, food fights, cries over wind... But I detest the hilarity over loud farting! Would I rather they still had wind and couldn't pass gas to relieve their stomachs? Of course not. Do I foresee a time when farting won't be hysterically funny? Sadly, no.

There are moments that you wish you could preserve in amber when your children are young. Within the first year of M1's life I'd taken thousands of photographs and videos in an attempt to capture his little sounds and expressions. He was only 50 weeks old when M2 came along and I continued my photography binge with gusto. When I got my new laptop as M2 turned four, I had 12,000 items in my iPhoto account. As each year has gone by, I've realised that nothing can replace the actual feeling of witnessing your child's "first" anything and one photo to record the event is sufficient. But I sometimes wish the clock would slow down ever so slightly.

That said, I wish daily that this stage would hurry up, bugger off and take its friends with it. Whether it be teething, weaning, sleep training, potty training, fears, shyness, tantrums or obstinance, all of the worst elements of raising kids have eventually f***ed off. Some linger on, like foul smells you can't wash away, but the majority disappear as quickly as they came. Most of the time I didn't even notice - the good and the bad. When M2 was little he couldn't say the letter "Y," instead using the letter "N." Thus, he would frequently ask for a "nogurt" after he'd finished his (self-imposed) "noga pwactiss." A small, naughty part of me didn't correct him when he'd make these little errors yet somehow he learned the way to ask for "you" to do something and the habit was gone. But I hadn't noticed. One day I told him I'd fetch his nogurt and he turned around - disgusted - and insisted, "Mummy! It's YOGURT! Yah, yyyogurt!" with indignant emphasis on the Y. I stood stunned in the doorway, staring at my baby and I burst into unbidden tears. He raced over and grabbed me round the knees saying he didn't mean to shout at me and I had to explain to him that his mother is an idiot.

M2 was also the one who just wouldn't go to sleep on his own. Since M1 started walking (at 51 weeks, when I had just come home with a 1 week old M2) he has sped everywhere as fast as his little legs could carry him. When he had nowhere to go, he ran anyway - in circles, to fetch more toys, to find someone to play with. He has boundless energy but he uses all of it and he desperately needs his sleep when bedtime rolls around. M2 was a different story.

I have a photograph of M2 when he was about 6 months old. The photo is taken from my pillow, while I was lying down, with M2 on my stomach. He's sitting upright, but in the way that babies do when they've only just learned how to sit by themselves - all of his weight was leaning forward and his tummy was being cradled by the basket of his folded legs. It's very clearly the middle of the night in the photo, only the softest light from my bedside lamp fills the room. M2 is looking down at me, all gums and slevers (a good Scottish word for "drool") and he's grinning. Not smiling sweetly, but grinning the milky grin of a baby who knows he's driving his mother batty. His face screams "I know it's the middle of the night, mummy, but isn't it fun to be awake!"

For the first few years of his life, M2 needed either my husband or I to stay in his bedroom with him for upwards of an hour. A movement too soon would rouse him and the whole bedtime process was for naught. Neither of us felt able to go out at night for the first few months of his life and even once we did start taking it in turns to have the odd night out we'd feel horribly guilty for leaving the other one to face this tiny terror's wrath alone.

I am delighted to inform you that for quite some time now M2 has been a great sleeper, easy to put to bed and a very happy long-lier. However I don't have a clue when this happened. The memories are so distant now that it could be anything between two and four years ago. But if you'd seen me back then, or especially if you'd seen my husband (who, as a working father, wanted to have bedtimes as "daddy time"), you would have seen two exhausted and fed up people with no end in sight.

6) Repeat again: this too shall pass

Walking around like a zombie, or like a pin cushion for sadistic nurses, or as cracked and dry as a sandal in the Sahara; all of these things combine to make you feel less than human. In the beginning you focus so totally on the little human that came out of you that you forget to be a person yourself. For a lot of new parents, the first few months are solely about not breaking the creature that the hospital let you take with no instructions. Even a Kinder egg comes with a warning label, but human children have no set text. Concentrating on not killing small people takes up a huge volume of brain power and parents often neglect tasks that would previously have been second nature: brushing your teeth, washing your hair, even changing your pants can sometimes go forgotten when a tiny Hitler is screaming violently from the baby monitor.

M2 turned six in November and has been at school for 18 months... I now have makeup on most days, my hair is always brushed and often presentable enough to be left out of a ponytail, I get my nails painted professionally once every two to three weeks and I never leave the house in yesterday's underwear. I have health problems which mean my sleeping pattern is a little chaotic, so success isn't guaranteed but it's regular.

I can see friends during the day whenever I please and I even have standing dinner plans with Gill (from earlier thoughts on toddler groups) and our friend Mandie. I met Mandie when M2 started going to a dance class. Mandie was a childminder who brought the whole gaggle of children in her care along so the dancers among them could attend class when they were with her. This also meant that Mandie brought entertainment & snacks and therefore her little group was of great interest to M1, who came along while his brother was settling in. Mandie has the most generous and warm nature and instantly invited M1 to join them. Before long, M2 was asking if we could arrive early so he'd have time to play with them as well.

A year or so later when Gill was trying again to get back to work, I recommended Mandie as her childminder. It would suit Gill's little girl better, who was intimidated by the big nursery environment, and it was a lovely, warm, family home so her older son wouldn't feel babied. I'm delighted to say that it was not only a perfect match for Gill's kids, but it also created a friendship circle between the three of us. We used to grab a hurried coffee between nursery drop-offs and school pick-ups and toddlers and so on... But when Gill moved to a town 15 minutes over the hill from Mandie and me, it separated us just enough that daytime get-togethers as a threesome became more challenging. Damn you, Gill!

Truthfully, it was a stroke of genius on Gill's part: we are now forced - forced, I tell you - to meet up in the evening, usually in the local curry buffet. The coffee has been swapped for wine and the food bill rarely exceeds the drinks bill. It's brilliant! But three years ago if you'd told any of the three of us that we'd be going out regularly at night together and coming home drunk - to the embarrassment of Gill's poor husband who has dropped me home in some terrible states while Gill slumbers in the back seat - we would have laughed squarely in your face. One of the times we went out, I even had "pre-drinks" at Mandie's house while she finished getting ready. Imagine!

Parenting is full of cliches - "it's one of the most challenging and most rewarding things you'll ever do" springs to mind - but most of them come from a good heart. All of the above tips aren't new. I haven't tried to reinvent the wheel (cliche klaxon!) but I am giving honest advice to anyone who's reading this blog. If you're a new parent or even a would-be parent, embrace the good bits and try really really hard to grit your teeth through the hard bits. It is worth it, honest. If you're an old hand at parenting, I hope this blog has made you giggle, but feel free to pass on the advice to friends at the start of their journey. If you're a parent who's further on than me, please tell me when they start using initiative in the morning to get ready for school - soon? - because I'm fed up of shouting "SOCKS! NOW!" at small people who don't seem to care. And if you're a non-parent, determined never to have kids, I say "well done" and "good for you" and all of that sort of thing. I hope you've had a right good laugh at what a shower of pillocks we all are for voluntarily subjecting ourselves to this, the slowest form of torture known to humanity. Try not to be too smug in your clean car, on your exotic holidays, in your white- or cream-coloured homes. The rest of us are trying very hard not to be jealous.

Peace and love.

FG xx

Sock it to me

So, dear reader, we've been on a long ramble over the past eleven blogs, but where has it led us?

Do you feel enriched for reading these musings? Do you nod along as you read or quietly debate me in your mind? Have I grown in the last 2 months of writing? Have I matured as a writer or as a person?

As I start this, my twelfth blog, I have no title - the first time I've begun a blog without knowing what it's about. That's probably because I was talking to a friend this morning about my writing process and how I approach my blogs, so my mind is filled with too many ideas and only one line to give this post a name.

On the one hand, I want to tell you all that I've previously tried my hand at writing poetry and I still do - I recently crafted a little rhyme for friends who have become parents. I've also written a more non-traditional musing on depression, which was quite dark but lyrical. But then I think that's all very poncey and decide not to mention it(!)

I was also considering the content of the blogs - have they been too political, too personal, not personal enough, too whiny? Am I writing about fun stuff or am I discussing the grand issues facing the world today. Looking at the statistics (which I mentioned in a previous post as being decidedly unhelpful) I see no pattern in content versus audience response. So that's no use.

Coincidentally, the person I was talking to was involved in the group where my music debuted (as mentioned in my first entry), so I was thinking again about the name of the blog - FeeGee's Ramblin' Prose. So far, that's what I've provided. Caveat emptor - these are my ramblings! They take no overarching shape or style. They are just the brain farts I have at 2am, mostly. This one is a 2pm effort, but it's rare that I have time to think during the day.

Where has all of this navel-gazing got me? I think the main thing I've learned is that I definitely enjoy writing and want to pursue it further. Which was rather the point of starting the whole thing; to dip my toe in the water. What shape should the writing now take? Shall I craft some fiction and see how it reads? Should I share my poetry and risk alienating my lovely readers? Should I keep blogging but narrow myself down to one or two subjects? Which subjects?

I'm not really any further forward for the exercise. And it's just occurred to me that this is what today's entry is about: what do YOU want? You, the person reading these words, right now, in your head. You're probably looking at your phone or maybe a laptop. Did you just look over your shoulder to see if I was watching you? (I'm not. I'm about to go pick up the kids from school, plus an extra one for fun. Who doesn't love a play date?)

What have you enjoyed reading? Have you read every entry? Do you wait for the next one? Do you only click through when you can be arsed? What has stuck with you? Can you remember old posts without going back through them? Have I written something that resonated with YOU? What was it?

I don't think I've ever written more questions in one place.

I'm going to keep writing as I am for now, but I really want your feedback. Go back through the blogs if you have time - remind yourself which ones struck you and what made you skim past. Tell me. Tell me the truth. There's no point in me writing if no one is enjoying it.

So be honest. Don't be brutal, 'cause there's no need for that! Just be true. Have you read or have you skimmed? What's working? Sock it to me. There. I've just typed in the name of this blog. But I'm going to leave the rest of this one unedited. If it reads poorly, I can only apologise. But if I'm asking you to be honest, I'll be honest too: I edit what I write. I do allow myself to ramble because that was the whole point, but normally I go back and clean it up. This entry is laid bare, warts and all. Sock it to me.

Peace.

FG x

Getting on with it

Before I begin this entry, I have to thank everyone who got in touch after my last post, you're all just lovely.

Anyway, regular readers should know a fair bit now of who I am and why I write. However I can't write all the time or you'd all be sick of me(!) so I do other things too. A lot of things tire me out quite quickly so I've been scaling back on activities, especially where walking is concerned, as a lot of my problems are in my joints.

For all that I said I've been cleared of my depression, I've still been feeling pretty fed up with watching so much daytime television in lieu of too much activity.

With this all in mind, I set out last week in search of something new to occupy myself. The criteria was quite rigid: minimal walking, low cost, low impact, preferably social, during school hours, not too much brain power (e.g. not studying, which I tried and failed in autumn)... Quite hard to find something which ticks every box, isn't it? [Incidentally, I'm still open to new ideas, if anyone has something to suggest, please do so in the comments]

I had no grand plan of how to find something, but I gave myself a mission to have my eyes and ears open to opportunities whenever possible. On the Wednesday, something caught my eye. I was in the wool and crafts shop in the town, checking on some handmade knitted items I'd ordered, when I spotted a little sign on the desk that read: "Learn to knit or crochet - ask for details"

As a child, my Mum taught me how to knit, although I never actually retained the ability to cast on and off. My Gran and I spent many rainy Saturdays embroidering and cross-stitching. However what I've always really dreamed of is making my own clothes. In my head, I see myself living in the countryside, with my children and dog playing outside all day, me growing my own vegetables, keeping hens and making beautiful clothes for myself and my family.

The reality falls far, far short of this ideal. I do live on the last street in a small town with fields outside the window, but there's a very busy road outside and the house belongs to my parents who also happen to live here! My children can't play outside for fear of being run over by the cars who speed in and out of our street or on the main road, but even if they could they wouldn't because they're currently far too interested in watching other people play video games on Youtube (why is this a thing???) I don't have the energy to dig a vegetable patch, although my Dad has an allotment plot so we have fresh veg and I could maybe steal a little corner once I feel better (if he lets me, after all the teasing I've given him for being a wee old man in a greenhouse!) I can't keep hens because of the fact we live with my parents and the enclosed part of the garden has no space for a coop and no grass for any would-be hen residents. Oh and the fact that my dog is a nutter who'd probably eat them all. I've never made a single item of clothing for anyone, not even a doll, and I even had to get help sewing my son's badges on his jumper for Beaver Scouts.

As I said, the dream is a long way away.

So the idea of learning how to knit and crochet from a professional seemed like a step towards the dream. A teeny, tiny step. I asked the woman who owns the shop and she invited me to start learning there and then. By the end of that afternoon, I'd knitted a 10x10 square (read: postage stamp!) and crocheted a "granny square." The lovely lady in the shop is wonderful: I've known her for a couple of years now, since her shop opened, and she's always seemed like one of life's truly nice people. As a teacher, she was fab: explained clearly, very patient and has total faith in every student's ability to learn. The next day I went back to the shop and started my first project - an infinity scarf/cowl for myself, crocheted. It took a little bit of effort to get me started, but I finished it within a few days of going into the shop. By Monday of this week, I felt confident enough to bring my second project (another scarf, as my entire family decided they wanted one!) home after I got started in the shop.

The great thing is that I can work at home or in the shop, as the owner has cleverly used the space to create a community area for classes or just letting people come in and sit to work on their creations, get a little help with tricky parts or get pattern ideas. This means I can socialise, either with the owner if she's not busy or with the other people who come and go. There's only a small financial outlay: a small donation to the "tea fund" and whatever supplies I need. The joints in my hands are only affected when the rest of my body flares up, so there's nothing stopping me from working away for hours at a time. Although I need to learn the techniques and skills, once I start a project there's very little mental exertion required.

I've really enjoyed spending time in the shop a few days of the past week. I felt at first like I was being a pest to the poor woman, sitting in her shop and taking up space. But she's been so welcoming and warm, and she's reassured me constantly that it's okay, the space is there to be used by the community. And I realise now that I'm contributing to the tea fund and to the shop by buying my supplies, and making the place look busy which I suppose is good for business(?) She's been so kind letting me be there but it's been so good for me, being productive, not being lonely at home, socialising. It's definitely a hit.

So that's been what I've done recently. It's definitely helped my mood and kept me busy. I did have a little low morning this morning, but as the sun came out around 11am I headed to my favourite wee seaside town for a walk along the front with a good pal and we went for lunch. It blew away the cobwebs and the blether lifted my spirits.

Feel free to leave your suggestions below, if you have any!

Peace and love.

FGx

Good things come to those who...

This is the blog I was going to write a couple of days ago... Sorry it's late 😀

(TW: depression)

For the past few years, I've followed the example of a lovely friend called Diana. While I was suffering from depression, I noticed that Diana regularly posted little updates of what she'd been doing lately but instead of going into detail and rather than seeming like a Facebook brag what Diana did - and does - was post a little list. The title of the list varied, but it was most often called "Today's Five Good Things" and it was her way of seeing goodness in everything, even on a day that wouldn't necessarily strike her as particularly enjoyable.

With Diana's encouragement, I took up this mission: to find five good things at the end of every day, regardless of how badly my depression had smothered me that day. There were days that were harder than others: some days I could go on to six, seven, ten good things. Other days, I really had to force myself to think of what to add to the list, only having two or three to begin with.

Gradually I came to realise that the exercise was forcing me to appreciate smaller and smaller things in my world: being wakened by my then-toddlers was something to celebrate, even when it felt like some form of cruel and unusual punishment. Those little boys were climbing all over me, excited for what the day might bring. They needed me to guide them through the day, to take them to the places and people that made them happy. They were excited to start the day with me and I suddenly felt grateful to have two wee guys feel that way about me.

The other positive outcome of posting this near-daily list on Facebook, rather than just writing it down, was that I couldn't get away with cutting it short. Friends engaged with the project and made me complete each day's list. Sometimes that act alone - friends caring about my wellbeing - was enough to complete the list. By posting on Facebook I was being accountable for my mental health and I was making my experience public.

This last part led to the most incredible outcome of all...

Three years ago this week, I suffered a neck injury which pained me for days into weeks. I couldn't get any physio (12+ weeks wait via GP!) so I decided to go for reflexology which had helped me with other aches and pains previously. The treatment helped, but not totally. I went next for reiki, another therapy I'd had in the past. When I came out of the reiki session my neck was much better. But I suddenly felt very emotional and I cried all the way home.

I don't know what made me so upset, I'm still not convinced whether it was the treatments I'd had or just a coincidence. My psychiatrist later said that my neck pain may have been caused by stress and that fixing the neck pain unlocked the stress. It all sounds a bit hippy-dippy to me (says the person who went for holistic therapies, I know!)

Regardless of what happened, by the time I got home - all of 10 minutes' drive - my depression was crippling. It was the most I've ever felt depression like a black cloud descending over me. The sun was actually shining that day. I can still remember the light on the wall during my reiki treatment. By the time I got home and went straight to bed, I felt like the sun was mocking me. The darkness inside me was overwhelming.

For the next four and a half weeks I stayed in that bed. While my husband took the first day off work, my mum actually ended up taking the next three weeks off to look after me and to take care of my children. The fourth week was the first week of the Easter holidays so my school-teacher husband was off anyway. By this time I'd been fast-tracked for psychiatric care and I was seeing the psychiatrist weekly. I didn't think much of him but my mum thought it was maybe just my depression talking. However, when I told the psychiatrist that I couldn't see him in Week 5 as we were going to my parent's house in Ireland, he made a snide little reply about how I couldn't be that bad if I was going on holiday.

I was devastated. For almost four weeks I'd been so flattened under the weight of my depression, I'd needed 24-hour supervision and care. Suddenly I felt like an impostor - I couldn't be that bad, could I? How could I justify going on holiday when I'd been in bed for four straight weeks? I must just be making it up, or making it worse than it is. I wept when I told my mum what he'd said.

Of course, my lovely, kind, caring mother is a fearsome warrior in the face of someone upsetting her children - regardless of how old we are. She phoned to complain, she came with me to stand up to this bully, she stayed calm and collected but left no one in any doubt: you have messed with the lioness. I was promised a new psychiatrist, a new location for my appointments, more nursing help, more, more, more. And all to be given after I'd taken my holiday, which was of course entirely justified and acceptable.

Reliving that experience, even in summary, has been hard. But the good thing happened when I started to come out the other side of it - probably by late April. I posted a "note" on Facebook explaining where I'd been, having skipped social media entirely for the previous 10 weeks. I praised my mum and my husband, I thanked my dad who was a regular counsel and sympathetic ear, having had bouts of low mood throughout his life. And I was open and honest about what I'd gone through. It was the first time I'd really given an insight into the darkness of my depression.

It was then that I saw the final positive outcome of my gratitude postings really come to fruition. As soon as I published the Facebook Note, I was inundated with comments and messages far beyond anything I could have expected. Some were simple, little love hearts or kisses, just acknowledging my post. Most were warm and praising, something I certainly hadn't anticipated, celebrating my honesty and my return to better days. The ones I expected least of all were the ones which thanked me: people identified with what I'd been through and recognised parts of themselves in what I'd written.

To this day, whenever I say anything on social media which reveals a little of how I've fought the Black Dog of depression and won, I still get messages and comments saying how people can sympathise or how they appreciate my candour.

As I've said previously, I'm a pretty outspoken gal. I speak as I find and I stand up for my beliefs. I try to do this with tact and care, but still, I know it's not for everyone. But if I can find the courage to say something difficult or painful and know that one person reading it will be helped by it... I don't mind pissing off a couple of others along the way. I try very hard to come from a place of kindness and with good intentions. I don't go out of my way to upset anyone. So my conscience is clear. But sometimes I need the reassurance that I'm reaching someone with what I write - to know that I'm not pouring my heart onto the page in vain.

I was signed off by a wonderful psychiatrist last August and I'm thrilled to be clinically free of depression. That doesn't mean I'll never feel sad or fed up ever again, but for now the skies are blue and sunny inside my soul. I've fallen out of the habit of posting my "good things" lists because I don't need to remind myself that there's good in the world. I am currently living with some physical pain issues so I don't always have great days, but I know that there's lots to be thankful for in my world.

I'm incredibly grateful for the family and friends who supported me when I was at my worst, even though some of them are no longer in my life. I regret losing friendships, but I still know that I've never done anything with malice, so I'm thankful that I have no guilt over them. I wish my Gran was here to see me out the other side of my illness, because she was such a good help when I was low. She had some great wee expressions and phrases which I still think of regularly. I'm grateful to have had her in my life for over 30 years and that my children knew her long enough to have memories with her.

My boys are a huge source of thankfulness. They're two funny, sweet, unique little men and even if they are completely endless, I'm also endlessly grateful for them.

My husband is a special creature. He's seen me at my worst and never wavered. There aren't enough words to convey my gratitude at being in Team Gibson. Our boys (M1 and M2) reckon that there are four people and one dog in Team Gibson, but I know there's really three people, one dog and a superhero.

However, the point of the daily good things list isn't to praise and laud my loved ones. The real point is to see the beauty in the little things around me. When I'm not carpe-ing the diem, nor carpe-ing the noctem - really when I'm struggling to move my legs at all, never mind seizing anything - I can't feel guilty about wasting my time here. My body is temporarily failing, so I can't go exploring the world or seeking adventure. Sometimes it's okay not to seize the day, but just let the day go by quietly. Life is short, I don't want to waste it, but by recognising all the little things that make the world great, I'm celebrating the life I've been given. And that's okay.

So I'll continue to be grateful for a quiet cup of coffee, for my loud boys, for little moments with good friends, for listening to my Grampa's silly stories, for wet doggy cuddles, for a nice bit of cake and for the weed my child picked on the way home from school for me. These are all of the happy memories that make up a life well-lived. By my standards. And they'll do just nicely. 

Peace and love.


FGx


Links:
Samaritans
Sane

Please ask for help if you need it. You are never alone. FGx

Felix culpa

While researching a phrase to use in this blog post, I stumbled across an article on a website I'd never heard of before (it seems to be a "smarter" version of Buzzfeed). The article itself was originally posted 3 years ago and it's a list of Latin phrases which were once in common use in the English language but have fallen out of favour. As a keen linguist, I had to click on it and read the entire thing, to the extent that I've forgotten what phrase I was originally checking! I do this quite a lot and I call it "falling into the internet hole" although I've subsequently seen it called "falling down the online rabbit hole."

Either way, my mind wandered from where it had started - a blog about being grateful for life and making the most of the hand we're dealt, which doesn't automatically mean cramming as much "stuff" into life as possible... That blog will come another day. Instead I fell onto the topic of Latin phrases and some philosophies that were relevant 2000 years ago and are shockingly relevant today.

I don't know, dear reader, if you have arrived here after your own fall down the rabbit hole, but if you read my previous blog, you'll have seen that I am a) a raging liberal and b) not a fan of the new president of the USA. Please don't feel that either of these things define me: I am more than the sum of my parts. Nonetheless, on this occasion, it is the above factors which came to mind as I read the article and the definitions of each phrase. These are also the basis of the rest of this blog post.

There were three phrases which especially felt important. I'd like to share them with you...

"Homo sum humani a me nihil alienum puto"
I am a human being, so nothing human is strange to me
The article describes this as advocating respect among all people, regardless of superficial differences. I think this can apply across several levels. In the context of modern politics, we need to encourage less division and fewer barriers. The world is shrinking as transport and technology connects us at greater speed than ever before. Yet the population is more divided than at any time in living memory... except among the decreasing few who remember World War II.

We can also use this phrase as a reminder to consider the many circumstances which we face as humans - positive, negative, affirming or debilitating. When chatting earlier about someone who only joins conversations infrequently and even then with little enthusiasm, I had to force myself to think that this person could be suffering from any number of issues, from anxiety or pain to bad past experiences. We never know what drives another human until we really get to know them intimately. Even within our own culture, race, religion, age group, there are so many other things which can separate us that we must fight to put them aside and look only at what unites us all: our humanity.

"Corvus oculum corvi non eruit"
A crow will not pull out the eye of another crow
Once we've realised that we belong to a team (or species!) it is our duty to stand shoulder to shoulder for the benefit of the group. From childhood I've never understood the attitude of "I'm alright Jack" - I'm fine so why bother worrying about the person next to me. Everything in nature shows that we are stronger together: a blade of grass is easily blown over but an entire hay bale takes a lot of effort to move.

Equally, human history shows us that societies which fail to support their most vulnerable put everyone at risk. A German theologian became known for his statement beginning, "First they came for..." which has been copied and altered many times. Martin Niemöller was a pastor in the German Lutheran church and was an early supporter of Hitler and the national conservative ideology which arose after the fall of the German empire and the Weimar Republic's subsequent socialist and communist leanings. However by 1934 he had realised the extremities of the Nazi cause and was a campaigner against them. Despite his change of heart, he still had some flawed opinions at that stage and only spoke out for those whose beliefs aligned with his own. He was imprisoned in 1937 and again in 1938 (with no freedom between sentences!) until 1945 when he was liberated at the end of the war. He cites this imprisonment, spent with people from all walks persecuted by the Nazis, as the turning point in his life. He spent the rest of his days campaigning for peace, justice and disarmament. He was a key figure in the Stuttgart Declaration of Guilt which acknowledged the failings of the Church in allowing the Nazi persecutions to go on without challenge. He is still controversial as a flawed individual but by his death in 1984 he had fully admitted the sins of his past and worked tirelessly to make amends. His story is quite remarkable and one which I think is important not to lose through time. His story also serves a valuable role today in reminding us not to repeat his mistakes. It is vitally important that we do not allow governments and leaders to sideline, persecute or exclude any group from our society, regardless of our own position or privilege, and with Pastor Martin's words in our ears:

"Castigat ridendo mores"

Laughing corrects morals

Morals are subjective. What I believe is "right" is entirely based on my nature and nurture. Another part of my nature/nurture is a complete inability to keep my mouth shut when I perceive injustice or wrongdoing. I am a very outspoken person and while I am capable of tact, diplomacy and common sense, I am also a fierce fighter for those who cannot speak for themselves. I understand why some people shy away from speaking up, preferring to avoid negative attention. I sympathise, especially when I'm on the receiving end of backlash after opening my mouth to object to something. I'm tempted to do what my children try with their mouths when they get into trouble for speaking out of turn: Zip it, lock it, put it in your pocket.

Then I remember Pastor Martin. I'm a western white female. I'm a follower of the largest religion in the world. I would have thought that I was in a position of privilege. Until I witnessed a room of men in America enact a law that affects women globally. Then today I read the Vice President of that largest power in the Western world promise to defund selected women-only rights. Regardless of your views on abortion, these two acts directly affect women and only women. "Privileged," western, white women as well as the poorest in US society. This presidency is only one week old and its laws, signings, bills and promises have already hit immigrants, Native Americans, women and federal scientists (who were figuratively gagged in direct contravention of their First Amendment rights).

It is tempting to say, "it's only in America, it won't affect us," but the unelected Prime Minister of the UK is currently having tea and Bakewell tarts in the White House, so I wouldn't start counting any chickens just yet. Just as Hitler wanted a world filled only with blond-haired, blue-eyed boys who followed only the ideologies espoused by Adolf himself, it won't be long before we start to see the American businessman finding a way to harm any group that doesn't fit his standard of greatness. And what is good for the US is often OK in the UK, since we became the weaker partner in that "special relationship."

So with "phrase one" in mind of our fellow humanity and "phrase two" in mind of our obligations to stand up for each other, we must now push forward with "phrase three:" kill their power with satire. Laughter is the key. Undermine them, challenge them, ridicule them and just don't take them bloody seriously. If you take them seriously, they can go ahead unhindered. Waste their time arguing semantics, grammar, crowd size... Take up valuable air time to make them look silly. Anything to stop them having a platform for hatred and prejudice.

I found out about the Women's Marches too late to join in, but I loved looking through photos from the events, especially reading all of the signs. Some were ingeniously funny. A friend travelled to Washington DC to take part in the march and I cried watching her videos. There weren't just women in attendance, but men, children, dogs! Standing together to say that we will not be knocked down so long as we have each other.

So when the scientists of the US National Parks, EPA and NASA were vilified earlier this week and began to plan a march for later this year, I decided to follow the UK sister march and I intend to be there with my husband and children (they just don't know it yet!) I'm utterly sh*t at science of any kind (I'm a linguist, remember?) but my husband is a scientist and my oldest son has the most curious mind imaginable, always has. We will stand as a family, as part of a wider community and say, "not in my name."

So there you have it. I opened my laptop tonight to write a blog about how to enjoy life and I ended up exploring language and politics. Again. Oops. I promise the next blog won't be controversial at all, not even a little bit. It will be positive and life-affirming and fun.

Bigly fun.

Stay woke.

FG x

Latin article here

More on Pastor Martin here

UK science march info here

US science march info here

Truth, lies and obfuscation (in which there are no pictures)

The date is Sunday 22nd January 2017.

On Friday, I avoided all coverage and commentary of the US presidential inauguration. On Saturday, I couldn't avoid seeing the fall-out and debate after the event.

Three hours ago, the newly installed president's press secretary stood in front of the White House press corps and berated "sections" of them for misreporting crowd sizes during the inauguration. He then proceeded to justify this with lies. I won't go into the many lies he used, but needless to say the evidence is readily available for those who choose to fact-check.

Earlier on Saturday I was part of a discussion about the concept of accepting everyone's opinion, even if they're wrong. The conversation was very civil and no names were called or insults thrown. We debated the nuances of what makes one argument "right" and another "wrong" and when there are times of greyness. All agreed that in a majority of cases there is a definite right answer, with scientific basis. Having an opposing view doesn't automatically make one wrong, it requires further investigation. It was a very interesting and thought provoking conversation on social media and I enjoyed taking part.

I recently heard a public figure point out that nothing is "meh" any more - that there was a time not long ago when things were "meh," a sort of shrug-of-the-shoulders, just-okay type of status. In 2017, it would seem that "meh" isn't allowed. If you don't agree with an opinion, you must therefore take a contrary and apposite view. Sometimes, I don't agree with someone on social media or on the news, but I can't say I have strong feelings to the extreme alternative; I'm just a bit "meh." But this isn't allowed in current rhetoric. I sit quietly disagreeing with both extremes, wondering what happened to the middle ground.

The new American president would have you believe that you're either on his side - the side of the little guy, middle class, white Americans - or you're a raging socialist equal to the Nazis of 1930s Germany (check out some of his campaign speeches for veracity of this).  Now I'm a left-wing liberal feminist as much as the next person, but isn't it time we embraced the middle ground again? DJT's first act as president was to lift the climate- and water-protection laws to allow big energy companies free reign again. I understand that he's a climate change denier, but surely he could have found a way to loosen the restrictions on energy companies without actually legalising water pollution again? Am I wrong in assuming that he understands the laws he's repealing? Or is he just taking requests from his business buddies and acting on them without hesitation, deviation or repetition?

A recent survey showed that people in 20 of the world's most affluent and advanced nations believe that the world is getting "worse" - defined in the survey as more divided, more unjust and more extreme. As I see it, extremists in power force the "other side" to their extreme and the divide opens further. Until the extremists stop running the world, it'll only get worse. Unless World War III breaks out. Then we'll be up the creek...

While all of this is going on in the world around me, I sit quietly waiting for test results that will hopefully tell me if my current health condition is curable or permanent, treatable or not. I don't know what's in store for my joints, my memory or my eyesight. Nor do I know what will happen with my oldest son, who is currently waiting for a psychological review. Furthermore, my husband is in a temporary job, with no certainty over his future. My younger son seems blissfully unaware of the chaos around him and appears to sail through life. Long may it continue! However I decided earlier this month that my new resolution is simply a positive outlook: if I can't say something nice, say nothing; if I don't know how something will turn out, assume the best; prepare for the worst but hope for the best - there's that word "hope" again.

I will continue to fight for justice and equality in the wider world, I will fight for the best for my children and their peer group, I will support my husband in his fight for the career he deserves and I will fight for my own health and wellbeing. Everything I do is done in the spirit of hope and I won't let uncertainty and fear change my attitude. My kids still think they have a great life and as of Saturday afternoon they think they have awesome parents - I'm not going to disabuse them of those beliefs!

Let me be challenged, bring on the questions; I'll answer with truth and fairness. But sometimes I'll be happy in the middle ground, with my incomplete opinions, and you can't stop me.


Peace and love

FG x

Return to the dark side...

It's been almost 4 weeks since my last blog.

That feels like a confession. I never wanted to use this blog as a confessional. Which is why I've avoided it during the last few weeks when my mood has been low. I had planned to take the time off up to Christmas, but the other 3 weeks' absence were purely down to keeping the bad sh*t to myself. There's enough negative stuff posted on the internet, no?

(Yes, I censored myself in the last paragraph, my mum might be reading!)

So if you're going through some dark stuff, how do you keep the internet positive? "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything." Is that it?

Sometimes, though, knowing that other people are going through the same thing can be helpful - positive, if you will! So sharing your negative experience can give support to those in need. And hope. Hope is a powerful resource.

I confess here and now to being a massive geek. I love sci-fi and fantasy. I'm raising my two little boys to be geeks. I'd be hard-pressed to pick a favourite but my kids would pick Star Wars every time. I could write an entire, separate blog about why they might be right AND why they might be wrong. But part of what I love about SW is hope.

Princess Leia was the ideal movie heroine when I was a young girl: she fought for her people and their freedom, she was feisty, she held her own among men, she rocked a totally unique look and she didn't care what anyone thought of her. But chiefly, she clung to hope against all the odds.

For quite different reasons - although I'm sure a psychologist would tell you it's all subconsciously connected - I have a tattoo that reads "HOPE OVER FEAR" in bold, clear capital letters. It's a bastardisation of a Nelson Mandela quote: "May your choices in life reflect your hope rather than your fear."

For Madiba it meant making hard decisions and putting his neck on the line when it would be easier to sit down and stay quiet. Due to his close ties to Glasgow and his massive popularity here, it was used as a motto during the Scottish Independence Referendum campaign in 2014 to reflect pro-indepence voters' hopes for their country rather than fears of what might go wrong.

For me, it's a regular reminder to banish the anxiety which creates fear and to live in hope: hope of a better day tomorrow, hope for a medical improvement, hope for my kids to be happy.

Sometimes, though, making decisions based on hope involves speaking out for what you believe in. That exposes you to scrutiny. And other people's opinions. Just as I came across people who disagreed with me during the independence referendum, three years later I continue to find myself on the opposite side of the table from people when I voice my opinion. For example I recently had a (very minor and trivial) debate with someone over the merits of ironing school shirts. While I could have kept my thoughts on the matter to myself, I also found myself wanting to help my friend who'd raised the question. I wasn't simply airing my view in order to have it heard (look at me!) but I was trying to improve someone else's quality of life (very marginally, a few times a week).

I don't blog to have my wonderful opinions seen online. I have no desire to become "Internet-famous." I live simply in hope that my little ramblin' prose will help someone who identifies with what I have to say. Most of the time my words are carefully chosen and intend only to do good. I accept that some will disagree with what I believe - even though they're clearly wrong(!) - but I'm capable of accepting that and biting my lip. You can't make people think like you. You can show them your side of the issue, no more. There's a cute little picture in our bathroom that has a little family of ducks on it and underneath it reads, "You can lead a child to water, but you can't make them wash."

A humorous garbling of a popular saying. One which I can testify is accurate. Anyone else who has parented a 6- and a 7-year-old boy can surely agree. I put my thoughts online in the hope that they will reach someone in a meaningful way. If that doesn't happen, I haven't done something wrong. The intention is good, the action is good. The end result just hasn't gone my way. And that's something I'm trying to accept through all aspects of my life right now.

I went to the doctor today to ask for more consideration of the pain I'm suffering at the moment. I was fortunate enough to see a locum doctor who took a little more time familiarising herself with my history before diving straight in. She felt the swelling in my hips, knees and fingers. She considered everything on my file and then everything I presented today and she agreed that what I'm experiencing is no longer acceptable for the diagnosis I'd been given. She'd like to investigate further and has ordered more tests with a laundry list of new things to look for in my bloodstream.

The niggling voice of anxiety in my head has been dismissing my discomfort and pain for weeks, telling me that what I have wrong with me is trivial and that I must be a wuss. If I'd gone to the doctor with that attitude I'd have taken my regular prescription from her, thanked her and left. Because I live in hope of something better, I spoke out. I hoped that there would be a better explanation. I was right. At best, I'll get a new diagnosis with a good prognosis. At worst, I'll discover that my existing condition is worse than first thought. I know that's the worst case scenario because the doctor said those words to me. And she wouldn't have done that if I hadn't stuck my neck out and voiced my concerns.

The worst thing about living in fear is that it confirms itself. By living in hope, I give myself a chance to discover new things and make better choices while the worst thing that happens is that I don't get what I want - but I wouldn't have got it anyway. By living in fear, you only ever get your fears fed back to you: you don't get the job you didn't go for; you don't raise well-behaved children without showing that you trust them; you don't get a new clinical diagnosis if you don't tell your doctor about new symptoms. Living in fear achieves very little. But living in hope?

Hoping for the best but allowing for the worst is a realistic but positive way to live life. Acting on your hopes for yourself and the world gives you the satisfaction of trying, regardless of the outcome. A wise woman recently said to me, I'll only ever regret the chances I didn't take.

So I acknowledge that I lived in fear for the last few weeks - I should have been blogging but I didn't do it out of fear that readers wouldn't want to see the darkness I was going through. My tattoo has shaken me out of that state and I'm going forward again...

With A New Hope.



FG x