After nearly 4 months of marriage, the number of times I am being asked “how’s married life?” are drying up and the number of times I am being asked “haven’t you given up drinking yet?” are increasing dramatically. This question is of course polite social code for “are you knocked up yet?”
decisions, decisions, decisions
The answer is “no” and well, “if I was I wouldn’t be 3 months yet” and “I wouldn’t be telling you if I was”. Of course, being someone who rather likes her wine the minute I give up the wine its going to completely obvious that I am of course knocked up. This blog post is also code for yes; I have finally given in to my female urges and decided it is family time. This blog post is also all about the TMI.
(Sorry husband and brother, I am a blogger after all; one it seems is in a pre-mommy blogger state. Ugh)
Actually, I’m lying. I’m actually pretending to give into my female urges, as I have never experienced the fabled all consuming desire to become a mother that I’m told you suddenly experience the minute your internal clock starts ticking. My mother didn’t need to install the ‘do not get pregnant rule’ into me as a teenager as I have had my own in built baby blocker all along. My internal clock is jammed, and at 35 I don’t think it’s ever going to start.
I don’t coo over babies on Facebook, nor do I think babies are the prettiest things on the planet (they all look like Winston Churchill), nor do I think baby grows are cute – they really aren’t – even when it was the 1990s I didn’t look cute in a bodysuit with poppers between my legs. As a compulsive planner, shopper and organiser it’s telling that I haven’t even ventured into the world of prams, baby clothes and nappy bags. It just doesn’t do it for me.
…and don’t even start on birth and ‘one born every minute’. I can’t even have that programme on in the background in the pub. It’s just wrong.
However family is incredibly important to me, even more so over the last year (if that is even possible) and of course I have the desire to create my own family future for us. I can see us back packing in Sri Lanka with a baby on our back. I can see a first bike. I can see knees being scraped. I can see nerf gun wars.
Maybe it is ok that I can’t see a baby before all of that. Maybe you don’t need an all consuming desire to be a mother, well to be a mother. Maybe Winston Churchill got it right and it wont matter – Kites rise highest against the wind – not with it after all.
Or maybe if and when it happens I will suddenly go into uber-mummy mode and get all the baby rage at once and want to learn all the things….and then I’ll become a mummy blogger. Shudder.
I think I’ll just stick with being me…anti baby quirk and all.
Mrs S x
As a little introduction for those who haven’t read this blog before (hello!) I was adopted at birth. A year ago I took the huge step to find my birth family. Whilst it has been a very tough road to take, its been amazing and the best part? Meeting my brother A for the first time. Today I hand my blog over to him, to let him tell his side of the story. Please make him very welcome as this is a very brave thing for him to do xx
A year ago, last March, I received a message that literally rocked my world.
It all started with a message on Twitter. Twitter of all things, a message off an unknown person claiming that they where my half sister. What would you do if you received a message like this? I’m guessing the majority of you would dismiss straight away like I did. But I decided to look into it more and asked searching questions to find out that this unknown person was telling the truth and was in fact my half sister.
I’m not going to make it sound like everything after this point was hunky dory, it wasn’t. It took me a while to get my head around the idea. I couldn’t concentrate in work and was very distant from the people who are closest to me. One night I sat in the bath thinking about it for so long that the water had turned stone cold and I was shivering.
I started to read this blog and felt like I started to get know my half sister and realised how much we have in common especially in music. We met a couple of months later where we sat opposite one and other and mostly stared at each other. My dad came with us and reacting in a way I have hardly ever seen him do before, he cried and explained that Smidge looked and acted exactly the same as our mum which nearly set me off. I knew then by how my dad reacted that I needed to make sure that no matter how far we lived we would get to know each other and that we would regularly visit each other.
My Dad was a huge help being there that day andd he told us stories about our mum, some that I even didn’t knew about. It was an amazing day and Smidge and I had quiet 5 minutes alone together where I had to tell her the story of how her adoption had came about. This was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do I couldn’t of done it though without the help of the adoption agency – Scottish Adoption (and a couple of pints). The adoption agency listened to me over the phone and were able to offer me great advice and support on how to tell Smidge. I can not thank them enough for their help.
Afterwards we had a huge hug and all I can remember thinking is and not being able to comprehend that I was hugging my half sister. Since our first meeting we have gone strength to strength. As well as meeting B I have met Smidge’s adopted parents and have never felt more welcomed by anyone before. So much so I know class them as family too.
I was then so honoured to be invited to Smidge and B’s wedding which I can honestly say was by far the best wedding I have ever been too. I actually felt like a celebrity as people kept looking at me and wanting to speak to me. I’ve never been introduced to so many people in my life. It was so surreal to be dancing with half sister on her wedding day when I had only known about her existence for less then a year. It was a really emotional day and I didn’t stop smiling. Even my dad’s partner was emotional as she didn’t stop crying all day. Think she must have used a whole mascara.
To sum up I’m so happy that my sister plucked up the courage to get in touch with me and I’m so happy to be able to call her my sister.
Thanks A (ignore my tears folks) xx
June 2012 “I’m fat” whine whine whine whine.
May 2013 “I’m fat” whine whine whine whine.
(note I am a just a little overweight, I know this, so will you bear with me with and read the rest of the post? Ta)
Little has changed since last year’s return from holiday and the massive crash I had after viewing the horrific photos. But it seems have been whining about feeling crappy about myself for nearly a year now and I’ve still not done anything about it. Whilst feeling overweight is bitch, moaning about it and doing nothing about it is worse – it’s the lazy, coward’s way out.
However, 5 years in to my 30s (yes I am going to be 35 in 5 weeks) and I am harbouring thoughts that I should just decline in to my 30s middle aged spread (all my weight is on my stomach) without a whimper. “It’s natural. It’s normal. You should stop worrying”. That is what my brain is saying.
NO I AM A LAZY COWARD. That is what my brain should be saying. But it isn’t.
The last time I bother to do any form of exercise (apart from lifting a wine glass) was right before the wedding when I did 2 weeks of the 30 Day Shred. The motivation – I got the total fear that I would look fat on the photos. It didn’t really work; as even though my dress had to be taken in twice and I was told multiple times that I looked tiny I still felt I looked fat on the photos.
So really what my brain is saying is that “even if you did lots of exercise you still felt fat”.
So it is a body image issue? “Once you see fat, there is no going back”? Is it, unlike last year, where I felt my clothes were the issue it’s actually not? I can find perfectly tailored clothes and still feel like a sack of potatoes. Or is it just me being a lazy coward and not getting on the treadmill? Or do i just need to find an exercise I enjoy? I’m going on holiday soon and this needs sorting out.
Mrs S x
This weekend was glorious. Whilst we didn’t quite have sunbathing and BBQ weather like the rest of you lot down south, we did have blue skies, new food discoveries and plenty of champagne – just as good I think you’ll agree. Highlights include:
After a night on the champagne celebrating B’s sister’s engagement on Saturday night, Sunday morning nachos and a Bloody Mary (photo 1) at The Argyle Bar, Marchmont were very much required. Sadly the football (LFC!) ended in a draw. We recovered nicely and we decided on a walk over to The Sheep’s Heid pub in Duddingston via Holyrood Park and Duddingston Loch (2, 3, and 4)
The Sheep’s Heid pub has been taken over by the folks from The Salisbury Arms and we were intrigued to what they had done with the place. However sadly, unlike the Salisbury the refurb has ripped the heart out of the place and it is now more a wine bar than a local pub. Boo. After overhearing that half the menu at the Sheep’s Heid was missing (who doesn’t plan for a busy bank holiday?) we decided to head back to the Southside and visit Thai restaurant Celadon for the first time.
As Chinese food tends to trigger my stomach migraines, Thai is my best bet for Asian food. After perusing their menu, we decided to go the whole hog and order a la carte instead of the £12.99 pre-theatre special (serve all day on Sunday) and I’m glad we did. Whilst the ‘weeping tiger’ (5) blew my head off chilli wise, the chicken red curry and 5 spice duck (6) were some of the best Thai meals I’d ever had.
As B and I had sensibly taken Monday off as a bank holiday (neither of them usually get them) we’d planned to get up early and head off for a long walk, but as usual the weather dictated our destination and with East Lothian looking the best, we headed out to one of our favourite beaches – Tyninghame. After a long walk on the beach (7 and 8), in view of Bass Rock, we had a picnic (9) (how old are we? But it was ace).
On the way home we stopped off briefly in the pretty village of East Linton for half a pint of the fab William’s Brothers ‘May be’ beer in the cute beer garden at The Linton Hotel. After a sociable one or two back in the Argyle we finished up out bank holiday with roast leg of lamb and all the trimmings. A very happy bank holiday!
This week: 30 day shred, new summer clothes (and maybe a new series on dressing as a curvy midget) and a hair cut, finally. Plus coffee from Home Ground Coffee in Ayrshire.
How was your bank holiday?
Mrs S x
As a kid it was exciting to be adopted. A childhood spent with a nose in a book meant that I would have a different story every week about my background. When people would explain their American-Irish or Indo-Caribbean backgrounds I would say “well I am probably a Russian princess” or “I am a fairy child’ or ‘well my mum must be famous’.
(Let’s forget the versions made up by mean people where I was ‘the milkman’s daughter shall we)
Of course it turns out I am not a Russian princess, I am not a fairy and my mum isn’t famous. Instead I have the same story as many adoptees, how do I put it? Messy. Yes, that will do. Something that is hard to explain in polite company.
I always knew in searching I would open up a can of worms. I can’t deny that they wriggle around a lot. That they occasionally mean I have to write a post like this to feel better about a tweet I’ve read, an article written by someone who doesn’t know how it really feels, or a Channel 4 TV short by Dan Gillespie Sells of The Feeling who while being spot on about gay parenting reduces adoption yet again to ‘well I could love someone else’s child, even a damaged one’.
(not a direct quote btw)
Adopted children, especially ones who grow up now knowing their past, are highly likely to be affected by something they read, or see on TV that even slightly implies that people would be concerned about loving someone adopted. That there is something even slightly shameful about it.
I am not ashamed because I am adopted. I never will be. Being ashamed of my adoption would make my adopted parents something to be ashamed of. They are not. For making my birth something to be ashamed of. It is not. Why should I be ashamed of me? Seriously, how fucked up (sorry) is that?
If you want to talk about adoption don’t make it about shame. It’s very easy to make adoption a stigma. Adoption might make you different but it still means, like every family out there, belonging. We know there is a real world out there, a messy past, but let us have that. We like everyone else deserve it.
Plus even for a little while it also makes all adopted children a fairy or a princess. Let us keep our stories.
Mrs S x