Mummy Manifesting

It took us a while to become parents. Years of trying, fertility investigations, treatments and adoption. My girls are very, very wanted and It is no secret that becoming Mummy was and is massively important.

The other day I caught myself mid rant. Miserable. Exhausted. Thoroughly fed up with the whole thing. I am not the mother I envisaged. Admittedly that lentil weaving, floaty skirted, zen mama maybe is a little unachieveable given my personality. But even so this short tempered, screeching, she devil is way too far in the other direction.

I do not want. No that isn’t strong enough. I completely reject the knackered, shouty, stressed mother I have become.  I spent years putting heart and soul into becoming a Mother. It was not for this.

I love being Mummy. I adore the house being filled with their laughter, sticky finger prints, plastic tat booby trapping every floor, socks of varying sizes all missing a buddy and all the apples in the fruit bowl missing just one bite. This is the life I dreamt of. This is precisely what I signed up for.

I’m going to be a lot more conscious of the mother I want to be.

Using a quiet and calm voice. The fact that this is way more terrifying when a small knows that they have done wrong is definitely a bonus.

Actively seeking out time with and activities with my girls. Spending time with them is a pleasure, a joy and a privilege.

Refusing to engage in moaning, bitching or embracing the negativity. We create the life we focus on. Yes there is always room for improvement. By concentrating on the good, the joy that they bring me and the smiles this becomes the story.

I am manifesting that zen mama. Although I’m still at a loss as to how you weave a lentil…

 

 

Emotional Continence

I wear my heart on my sleeve. Obviously not literally, I like mad jewellery but that would be pushing even my boundaries. I’m trying to say that I’m not really capable of hiding what I’m feeling.

As the name of this blog suggests, I am the proud owner of an impressively witchy cackle. When I’m excited I squeak. I kid you not, like a slightly broken guinea pig and don’t be mucky I didn’t mean that kind of excited! If I’m passionate and enthusiastic about something I will be loud and hold on to all breakables I’m the terrifying combination of clumsy and a gesticulator. Confusingly if I’m angry, tired, hormonal, sad or especially happy I will cry. Good luck tying to figure out why I’m leaking.

I’m quite happy to ride a rollercoaster with my emotions, bouncing between extremes. Admittedly, given the amount of liquid eyeliner I wear the fact that I cry most days is a little inconvenient. Well it was until that review and welcoming Kat Von D into my make up bag. I’ve digressed.

I cry most days. I also laugh multiple times every day. I’m not depressed. I have been. I didn’t cry, or laugh, or really feel anything at all. For me depression is a numb, desolate place where even my emotions are muted. My normal is running the gauntlet of lots of powerful emotions and dealing with them openly and often loudly.

It seems to be the crying that causes people the most discomfort. People know how to respond when I’m cackling, are generally too worried about breakages when I’m enthusing and when I’m excited hilarity that a grown woman has just ‘squeed’ will follow. Tears have most people stumped. It’s horrible. A good cry is a magnificent thing. The palpable release of tension. A signpost for those people who care that you need them. But much more than all of this we need the tears to really feel the laughs.

Life is never going to be all about those belly clutching, ‘I think I might have just peed a bit’ laughs. In order to truly and better appreciate them there needs to be an opposite. The mascara ruining, multiple hankie, blotchy faced sob session.

I believe that in embracing the snotty sobbing we expand our range. Enabling us to reach headier heights of happiness. And if you need some suggestions here are just a few of the things that have made me greet.

  • When the cake I bought was pastry with cinnamon and not enriched dough and cinnamon.
  • Charity adverts.
  • G and the girls finding loads of fly agaric toadstools when I couldn’t go for a walk because of my stupid ankle.
  • If I think about Flash for too long. Flash was my cat, he had to be put down in 2015.
  • Bad haircut. Ok, several bad haircuts.
  • Part way through a massage.
  • During a stupid fight with g over a hedge.
  • Some nights when I tidy up my duvet dancing girls. Eternally grateful that we get to tidy up sleeping children.
  • Almost every book I read.

Big Magic – Elizabeth Gilbert

Sometimes I wonder if the universe is trying to tell me something. The beautiful rainbow on an otherwise perfectly miserable day. Picking up my phone to call someone just as it begins to vibrate with them calling me. Those coincidences reassuring me that this is all part of some kind of grand design.

Other days I don’t need to wonder. The universe is crystal clear in her rallying cry, no decoding required.

Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert was a shout. Possibly even a banshee scream.

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I tend not to read non fiction. I’m all about the story, the more fantastical the better. So when I found myself in the library’s non-fiction aisles I was a bit unsure what I was doing. But I was drawn to the spine of Big Magic. When I saw the headline on the cover ‘Creative living beyond fear’ all the wee hairs on the back of my neck woke up.

I thought I’d read a couple of chapters to see what I made of it. I read 120 pages before stopping to feed my poor, starving children. Fed them and immediately went back to the book. Inhaling rather than reading.

I wrote notes, nodded and giggled throughout. Gilbert’s style is warm, conversational and never preaching or highbrow. To be told that I don’t need to conquer my fears is massively liberating. I can own being a scaredy cat. But I will no longer stagnate, frozen in fear.

What struck me the most about Big Magic was the infusion of joy. Gilbert does not pretend that creating is an easy option. She instead mounts a convincing and appealing case for it being a positive, happy and nourishing endeavour.

Ultimately, I would love to make a career from writing. That said, I don’t write with this in mind. I write because I need to create. I write because I always have. I write because I don’t know how not to.

The universe steering me towards a book that celebrates this right now. Well that’s Big Magic

It’s not all sunshine and rainbows

It might have been because I was wearing my bright yellow jacket and mahoosive rainbow blanket scarf. But I hope that an acquaintances recent statement that I was a bit ‘Sunshine and Rainbows’ was more a comment on my sunny personality and steadfast determination to accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative.

For the purposes of this post we are going to assume she is not a serving officer of the Fashion Police and that my similarities to Pollyanna were being noted.

It is a description I like. One that I have every intention of putting to use the next time I need to describe myself. However, I’ve become aware that I’m guilty of vastly differing standards.

I will go out of my way to smile, chat and engage complete strangers. Make a conscious effort to remain positive and ensure that I am talking kindly and sending love and light out into the universe. Words are powerful, with the ability to help people soar or to tether. We manifest what we speak. The stories we tell shape. I am mindful that I want to project kindness not only to those I love but further, much further.

With one small, I previously would have said insignificant, exception. I treat myself like shit.

I criticise, admonish, disparage, undermine and downplay myself all the time.

I’ve only been aware of it for a couple of weeks and I feel so sorry for me. Hell, if a friend’s partner treated them the way I treat myself I’d be telling them to leave the bastard and helping the packing. I’d probably even put clean bedding on my spare bed and move them in. No, Mother-in-law the bedding would not be ironed, I still do not iron.

It’s hard to break a habit. I’m taking little steps, often. Refusing to beat myself up if I catch myself, well, beating myself up.

I’m writing daily gratitude lists to remind me of all the good in my life. Yesterday’s was:-

  • Surprise french fancy for the Bake Off. Best husband ever.
  • Denim pinafore and all the witchy brooches. Halloween is my favourite.
  • New make up contained an extra product that I wasn’t expecting.
  • Knowing that writing calms me. Thank flip I’ve got something. Today was tough.
  • Surprise Throne of Glass book. Might have forgotten that I pre-ordered that.

At least once a day I am making a conscious effort to prioritise myself over everything. It feels ridiculously decadent to say ‘sod it I’m giving myself a manicure’ when the house is a tip, the girls are engaged in guerrila warfare and the dog needs walked. It makes me feel like some kind of feminista rebel. One with beautifully filed nailed and tidy cuticles.

I am working really hard to speak to and about myself the way I would a friend. Remembering that just because it’s said to garner laughs does not make it kind.

The one causing the most hilarity is affirmations. To date I have done an awful lot of laughing in the bathroom mirror. I’m really visual I need to see myself as I repeat affirmations, hence the mirror. I am going to persevere until I can look myself in the eyes and believe

I am creative. I am powerful. I am confident. I am Sunshine and Rainbows.