Alright my lover?
Picture the scene, it’s almost 7pm, I’m sat at Paul’s Mac with my legs folded underneath the weight of my gigantic arse, looking every inch the style icon in my mismatched pjs. If my hairdresser could see the state of my hair now (and I’m not talking roots) he’d be mortified, being dragged through one hedge backwards is absolutely not enough for me right now. I’ve still got no eyelashes left thanks to pulling my lash extensions out, my once golden tan has now faded and removed all traces of our recent Summer holiday, my lips are dry, chapped and sore and I’m pretty sure I’ve got half a rasher of bacon stuck in my traintrack braces. Once again, I’m full of an Autumnal cold which has, quite frankly, turned me into a mardy arsehole – one more sneeze and I really am actually going to piss myself good and proper. And then there’s my breath. I shit you not, in one big puff this breath could strip the woodchip paper off your Grannies wall. So yeah, right now I guess you could say I’m a walking advert for viagra.
I got in from work today and felt absolute dogshite. I’m having real low mood menopausal week and have spent most of the week in tears – now I know it’s probably because I was coming down with something. My beautiful little gang have just allowed me to get on with it, no expectations of me, they’ve just accepted that I’m not myself and could probably use a bit of me time. I feel pretty guilty though, I mean, it’s our week as a team of 5 and yet I have spent no time with Paul or the kids, I’ve literally finished work, gone to bed, finished work and gone to bed again.
But today, well today was different, my plan was to stay in bed all evening in preparation for my double shift tomorrow in a bid to sleep this man flu off and then came the phone call, the one call I am always excited about and is a sure-fire way of getting those butterflies in my tummy going, the one call I will miss when we win the lottery and retire. The ‘I’m just leaving work and on my way home sweet’ call. Of all of our phone calls, this one is always my favourite, 3.5 years together and I still miss him the second one of us leaves for work in the morning, even if he does tell me “I’ve been busy baby, not had time to miss you”. Anyway, tonight when he called, he was sad. Real sad. It soon became evident why.
George has recently started senior school and as I told you in my previous post, George isn’t like any other boy I know. He’s a one-off, broke-the-mould kinda kid, prick his finger and he bleeds originality. Today he had P.E, George is fully aware that any kind of sport isn’t his thing, I mean, who needs to know how to score a goal when he’s going to be saving lives some day? So there he is in P.E when some jumped up little rat tells him “You’re shit at P.E” all because he got hit on the head by a stray softball. YOU FUCKING WHAT MATE???
There is so much pressure on us all lately, adults, kids and even the unborn child who’s currently giving his poor sodding Mother the worst Braxton Hicks. From the minute the sperm hits the egg, the pressure is on. You want a boy to play football with and then you want a girl to dress up all cute and paint her nails. You look at your partner and hope she has his eyes and your nose (for me, I just prayed she didn’t get my teeth). Then they start growing up and you can’t wait for them learn to ride a bike- like back the fuck off there, I’m 33 and still can’t ride so quit with the pressure ok! But you get the gist of things, we put pressure on our kids and we put pressure on ourselves. I always felt like I had to be the perfect girlfriend with the perfect boyfriend, the perfect kids and the perfect little house with the white picket fence. I used to put pressure on my self to have perfectly applied make up every morning and ensure my hair didn’t have a strand out of place. Even though I’m a pretty shit cook, I pressured my self to try, as well as to try and have an immaculate house and all the bits that go with it. Fair play to you if you’ve got all that shit nailed but for me, I haven’t and I don’t give two shits for trying, the kids haven’t stopped laughing tonight and that says to me, I’m doing alright.
But what really makes me sad is the pressure our kids put on themselves to fit in. For George, he wants to fit in and he wants to be liked, so does that really mean he has to kick a ball of shitty leather and be good at it in order to be respected by his peers? And why does some little knobhead have to point out his flaws to him in such a spiteful way? Nah, does he my arse. We are all aware we have flaws but to me, nobody has the right to point them out for us, that’s why the majority of us feel insecure at some point or another. Not so long back, a friend of mine told me what a friend of hers had said about me, she wasn’t doing it to upset me, more to point out that she couldn’t get her head around what this girl had said, anyway, she text my friend and made some snide remark about me followed by pointing out that I was the girl with the “unfortunate teeth” and an “urgent need for dentistry”, it fucking hurt. Really hurt. My under bite has been the bane of my life and although I’ve never let it define me, other people have, and, like a fool, aged 33 I’ve now given into the pressure and am currently going through the process of getting the perfect set of pearly whites.
It hit home with me tonight when Paul told me what had been said at school. I was, and have, given George a big cuddle and told him to not be bothered by it, not to let it get to him and given him a few witty comebacks to practise. Then I realised that I am an actual hypocrite. I’ve told him that it’s ok to be who you are and not let others put you down yet here I am, picking the bacon out of my braces?
I suppose what I’m trying to say is this. Let’s just stop with the pressure for a while, the pressure on our kids and the pressure on ourselves. Let’s just run with who we are, we don’t need to be perfect and we don’t need to fit in with the crowd to be liked and loved. I’m a firm believer that there is someone for everyone and some day, someone is going to love us for exactly who we are, we don’t need to change ourselves or learn how to be the next budding David Beckham. We just need to be us, and we need to encourage our kids to do the same, the sooner we all do that, the less spiteful little rats there will be on the sports field because one day, eventually, we will all just accept that we all have different qualities and together, that can really work.
That’s why tonight, when Paul came in and gave me the biggest cuddle and I returned the gesture by heaving into his ear, I’m glad I didn’t bother sucking a mint or brushing my hair before he came home, because it really is ok to be different.