abuse

To the dickhead who shouted YUMMY MUMMY at me as I walked my toddler son home from nursery.

Thanks!

What a compliment. I thought I’d let you know you were half factually correct. I am indeed a mummy, although to you I was just an arse in a pair of jeans pushing a buggy. I could have been a nanny or a childminder, you didn’t know, but well done for being spot on with that bit. As for yummy, well now that’s highly objective. I’m sure my husband would agree with you. As much as I’m sure he wouldn’t mind at all that you shouted so loud at his wife, as you sped past in your van, that she nearly jumped out of her skin and lost control of the buggy, the very thing that made you assume she was a mummy in the first place, yummy or otherwise. After all you’d be fine with someone shouting at your wife and child in the same way wouldn’t you? I mean you must be. Otherwise you wouldn’t have done it to me.

Would you.

It’s not a question.

I also just wanted you to know you woke my son up. On a road full of busy traffic, you shouted so loud as to wake an already sleeping child. Man, you’ve got some lungs on you. So thanks for that too. I can’t tell you how much your…well what was it, flirting, joking, abuse, was appreciated. I really can’t. At all.

But maybe it’s time to knock this sort of behaviour on the head. No woman really gets her self esteem kicks from strangers, particularly those screaming loudly at a mother and her baby. I’m not suggesting they don’t. I’m telling you they don’t. So please stop it.

Seriously.

Just fucking STOP IT.

Apologies for the “mummy” silence over the past week or so. It wasn’t intentional, I’ve just been busy and stressed and, well, none of those things are excuses I know, but something had to take the hit so it was these posts. I don’t know why it was. I love writing them, they’re important to me. Hmmm. Anyway, sorry. And sorry for the random timing of this post. Although the way things are going at the moment it might be that random is the only way I can do these. Ahh well.

To the boy,

Sometimes I look at you, often when you’re asleep, or in your Winnie the Pooh inspired evening trance. I look at your soft skin and your, blonder than I could ever hope for, hair. I see your tiny Willson nose and your daddy’s bottom lip, the way you cross your ankles when you sit and the enormous feet on the ends of your lean little legs. I think I love you most in these times. In these times when you are still. Does that make me a bad parent? A bad person? Because there are other times. Other days.

Some days I find you too draining to bare. You scream, you squawk, you cry, you kick me, you hit me, you destroy every thing you can, including my heart and I am left in a state of shock. Battered and bruised both inside and out. If you were my partner, my friends would plead with me to leave you. This abuse would not be tolerated. But you are my son, and this is not abuse. You are 2. A toddler. A tiny person trying to find your way, your place, your pitch. And I do everything I can to help you, but, my darling, I’m new to this too. And some days it feels like, whatever I do, it will never be enough.

I know you are my son. In every cry of frustration, every time you throw something down in anger. Yup there I am. But you are so confident in your own ability, I don’t think you realise you’re only 2. Maybe it’s because no one has told you? Before I had you, I did not want a shy child. But now some days I wish I could eat my words. Just while we go round the Farm or the market. Walk beside me my darling baby son. Don’t run off into the crowd. Don’t make me have to restrain you, while you kick and scream and hate me. I’m doing it to save you, to keep you safe and to prevent a maternal heart attack. Please?

I’ve taken to checking on you while you sleep more than I ever did when you were tiny. I need to know that my darling baby is still in there. Somewhere. Not that it makes the hard times easier to bare.

It just helps me to get up to you the next day.

Mama

abuse

To the dickhead who shouted Yummy Mummy at me……

A letter to my toddler son