My little lifelines.. Bastard kids. 

I write this having consumed a bottle of wine. On a school night. Yes I am becoming “that mother”, but let me tell you something about “that mother”, “that mothers” consume wine and eat chocolate and monster munch not because their bad, but because their saints that have hard days and raised their children and not murdered anyone. They have not had any social services referrals and have not passed on their shite to their children. 

I used to judge such mid week drinking parents. In all honesty at times I still do in some hypocritical manner of making myself feel like the better the parent, but let’s face it, if your not making your kitchen look like something from a horders documentary whilst you search for a bottle opener then actually you are potentially not human. 

I just about managed today without singhing out memories on my skin, I managed with tears causing my skin to break without my children noticing. I managed not one of them saying please of thank you, not one being grateful for my two hour dinner creating and without one of them happy to put on clean clothes. I couldn’t make a doctors appointment for more medication and I couldn’t manage leaving my home for a simple trip to the shops. I didn’t manage to bath normally instead I scrubbed and cried and the pain I felt all day in my arms did not stop me dressing. I smiled when they all returned from school and I protected them from the psychological pain that their own father would have caused them had I not have acted the shield. I even managed to reply by text to many and blend into my own norm despite the fact I think I am having a sodding meltdown. Maybe I should add I have gone on a type of strike. I shall sort out after my youngest and I,  but the older two are going to feel what is done for them whilst receiving a sharp tongue. A near on adult daughter who can just about wash a mug is about to learn the realities of life. 

I have sat and thought about the fact I left my tc four months ago and every day since has felt like someone pours salt onto my wounds, new ones made, fresh and painful. I have no one to unleash my things to because normal people don’t understand and my tc friends struggle like I do. I love my witty nut tc friends and sharing is adding fuel to their already burning ashes. I resort back to a medication I have not required for two years and yes.. Yes I love it, “that mum” loves it. 

So yes. This mum drank wine when the kids where in bed. This mum today does not particularly like having them and this mum today does not actually even like them. I love them. I know this. But today that is all I know. I know I love and must protect and anything else is a bonus and if I want to sit and manage my self with a wine, and use it to reward myself like a true alcoholic then I shall. I don’t feel that guilty, because actually the worst is being ” that mum” that looks like shit and “that mum”whose children are grubby, are late for school and who are not well nourished. Mine had a cooked from scratch wholesome clean meal. So my attitude to “that mum” is actually “that mum” who did it through her pain and struggles and who got them to school late and yes a little unkept, actually tried harder than other mums will ever know, or will ever feel. 

Cheers. Cheers to the clink of wine, the sleepless night ahead as you feel your own pain and the issues your own children have without knowing, cheers to making it through a day and cheers to not letting yourself spill out sideways, cheers to your children having an amazing mum and knowing no different and cheers to how easy you make it look. Cheers to not being noticed and cheers to ever being referred to as “that mum”.  

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