THE (yes, THE) Blogger Calendar HAS LANDED!

You know when you’re chatting to a mate and you come up with a WICKED idea, and you’re all “YEAHHHH!!!!! RAWWWRRR!!! AWESOMMMMME!!!!!!”

Well that’s exactly what Tara “Sticky Fingers” Cain and I did at the start of this year. We talked a bit about the blogs we’d found and liked to read, and wondered about “collecting” them all into one place, and finding the faces behind the blogs.

Thus, THE (yes, THE) Blogger Calendar was born.

Tara and I ran round like crazy people, trying to get everyone in the right place for their photos while the conference continued. Tara told people of for turning up at the wrong time, while I told people off for pulling faces at the camera and pointing the wrong way (I can see you when you stick your tongue out or hold a moustache to your face, y’know…). Then Tara liaised her PR skills and gained the support of online photo service Snapfish (www.snapfish.co.uk) by HP who very generously offered to make the calendars for us and print 100 to distribute, while I edited people’s faces to make them look very silly, collected the best of the worst photos into my secret blackmail folder, and feverishly set about editing the “real” photos for the calendar.

Oh how I laughed.

By the way, Snapfish are the world’s largest online photo service with 85 million members, offering quality prints and unlimited photo sharing and storage. Which is pretty cool. (And they didn’t pay me to say that.)

snapfish

AND NOW HERE IS THE CALENDAR AND HOW TO GET ONE!!!! It’s easy.

First: post a photo of your blog’s inspiration. So, your baby/babies, where you live, your vegetable patch, your novel, your native flag, your phone – whatever you feel is the main subject of your blog.Whatever, it’s entirely up to you.

Second: Post a basic blog CV. In a fashion, it could describe why you chose the photo you did. Explain your blog, the who, the what, the why – your call.

Third: YAYYYY it’s a Linky. You need to do is add your post to the Linky below, either here or over at Sticky’s, and the first 100 in the Linky before 16th December will get themselves a calendar (postage is £1.99. Because you know, give a little, get a little). And you don’t even NEED to have appeared in the calendar to apply for one – it’s open to all! Awesome, yes?

Well it doesn’t end there. Snapfish are also offering you 50% (FIFTY PERCENT) off any of their calendars (excluding post and packaging) for readers of mocha beanie mummy and Sticky Fingers.

Head on over to the Snapfish site, design your calendar with their online tools, and then use the code TARAJAY at the checkout. Hurry up though, the offer is only valid until December 18, 2011. So go now. Go. Go!!

Actually, I’ll write about what the hell I like.

I’ve started this post about 17 times. I think I was worried about upsetting someone or offending someone. Or maybe I didn’t want to upset potential reviewer requests. Or perhaps with Cybermummy coming up, I wanted PR companies to think I’m a “good little blogger”, reasonably well spoken, very polite and not at all rude. I had grown tired of people asking me why I hadn’t had sponsorship for Cybermummy yet. And another blogger pointed out that my language is probably one big reason why sponsorship hasn’t happened.

Companies don’t like a potty-mouth, do they? And please, even with the sheer volume of tweets and the potential advertising, who the hell is going to want someone who tweets and blogs about Dildo Bob? (he’s currently shoved away in the bread bin in the kitchen. It’s his hideout whenever the in-laws are visiting.) At the end of the day, it’s not very “PC”, is it?

Whilst quietly seething about this, feeling pissed off that I wasn’t being accepted for who I was, because I wasn’t what people wanted, I started thinking about what I was going to do about it. Fact is, I miss “old school” blogging. I just asked someone where their archives were. Came the response “Everything from [this date] to [that date] is old blog. Before that was purest shite.” I’m guessing it was said with humour. But I couldn’t be sure. For some reason I saw it as offensive. I can’t decide why. I saw another tweet which made me sad: “9 comments on a cat photo, 1 on a heartfelt musing about my life. This is why I hate blogging sometimes.” It’s true isn’t it though? I immediately couldn’t help but wonder why they were still blogging, if they hated it?

Did I want to completely clean it all my shit up? Stop saying cock, bollocks, crap, fuck, shit and all those other words that people just don’t like? Should Dildo Bob be laid to rest and should I tweet more about something more “socially acceptable” instead? I have no idea what…my favourite pair of trousers? My iPhone? My treasured lip balm? Should I cut back on the “tmi tweets” and un-pretty kiddo posts”? The ones about Facial Orifice Fluid, Code Brown nappies and finding bits of roast chicken in my lemonade? The ones which make me laugh, and are quite frankly, real life?

Well aren’t those the key words. “Real. Life.” Which is why I think my response will always be “No.” And I’m not even sorry. I’m not about to stop all that stuff. Because it’s me. Because it’s my blog. Because I blog about real life. I blog about my life. I am not your typical “mommy blogger”, I blog about everything and anything which relates to me, under my own rules with which I feel comfortable. I have a particular rule which I firmly adhere to, on twitter and for blogs: If you don’t like it, don’t read it. I can confirm that The Bloggess phrases it by saying “Only offensive to assholes.” If I was a complete and utter cock, I would have actually stolen this tagline and plastered it all over my blog. In fact there’s a person who writes some of the real shit I can only wish to write myself.

I’ve been reading a blog lately which I’ve actually become a bit addicted to. It’s not a photography blog. It’s currently a woman blogging about dealing with her depression, trying to manage her two small children and the loss of her husband. Her husband who hung himself in front of her and her daughter. And she’s writing real life. And it’s not pretty. Newsflash – real life isn’t always pretty. For me? Real life is rarely pretty. I am not afraid of real life. I’ll look real life straight in the eye, (weakly) flip it the bird, and then write about it.

I blog about my depression. Though lately I stopped, because I “didn’t want to make people uncomfortable.” I know people don’t know where to look when I write those posts. They don’t know what to say, they’re uncomfortable, hey, maybe they would prefer to read a blog about unicorns that vomit rainbows and fairies giving birth and flowers growing out of my arse. There’s nothing wrong with any of that. If that’s your preference? Then good for you.

The fact is, I blog for me. I don’t mind blog love, it’s very, very lovely indeed. The support for some of the things I’ve done has been spectacular. For that I can’t thank people enough. Truth is, nothing about my blog is done just for stats, or keeping people happy, or whatever. I started it as a journal of me and my boy(s) – the original title of this blog was “Journey of the Mocha Bean and Mummy“. Many would say “Oh yeah well what’s Silent Sunday all about then?” Well my brief remains the same, my views haven’t changed. People asked to join in, so I gave them a central point, inviting them to do exactly what I do. Why link back? Because then people can go find other blogs to visit. I love finding new blogs, and some of the ones I have found in the last few weeks have been great.

Whatever happens, I can guarantee you I am going to Cybermummy. Wild horses wouldn’t stop me. I can also guarantee you that Silent Sunday will continue for as long as I can make it, But stop blogging about my stories as a “real life mom”, as a real life human being, warts and all, and all the other things that go with it? Nah sorry, balls to that.


Manner Mania

Every so often I see tweets or posts about people coping with other people’s kids, and how other children can be rude, ignorant, whatever. I’m seeing dozens upon dozens of tweets and posts about bullying in the school play ground, as well as cyber bullying, and I’m left thinking, “It sure as hell wasn’t this bad back in ‘my day’”…

Or was it?

My parents weren’t necessarily big pushers of manners, but I never forget that feeling of pride when school teachers would comment, either to me directly or on school reports, about how polite and well mannered I was at school to staff and students alike (what went wrong, eh?!). It was a great feeling and come on, what kid isn’t going to thrive on praise? And, well yeah, maybe feel a teensy bit smug in the process.

But looking back, I understand now it wasn’t just the “nice feelings” that I got from being polite, but the doors it opened, how it made others feel, and how much more respected I was under the circumstances. A little black kid from a very average background, nothing special at all, who always remembered her please and thank yous? Who would voluntarily hold the door open or do a favour for someone and not expect anything in return? What was her motive?

There was a keyword which I understood from a VERY young age. “Respect”. I craved respect. I knew what it was, way too early, having had such a difficult time with my own father, who showed me little to no respect. And I was always determined never to be like him. So that was part of my mission. And to earn respect, you have to give it.

Every day, I teach my boys manners. No matter what they do, I exercise manners at all times. I want to be that parent who see’s things like spoken out to people everywhere. Surely that’s one of the most immense compliments a parent can get? At 2 years and 8 months, Noah will now say please and thank you for almost everything. If you say thank you to him for something, he will say “you’re welcome”. He apologises if he knows he’s hurt you, and apart from the odd “I’m going to play at being super shy”, will say hello to people if we introduce them to him.

He doesn’t always eat with his knife and fork, he will lick snot dribbling down his face if he knows there aren’t tissues to hand (though he will often ask or grab a tissue first if he can) and he still wipes his hands down his front if they’re sticky/messy/covered in crap. He eats with his mouth open, and talks with his mouth full. But you know what? He’s only 2 and a half. Would you say that’s too young to start drumming in manners? Yes? Then you won’t like the fact that we’re already teaching Isaac to sign and/or say please and thank you.

I don’t think they’re EVER too young to start learning the basics. Never too young to get a good grounding for the foundations of good manners. I read this post recently and was glad to see that I wasn’t the only person who was very wary of how important it is to teach our children manners, politeness and respect. Can they be too young? Yes of course they can. They won’t understand much for a while, will they?! But leave it too late? And I think you’re in trouble.

I teach my boys as much as I can, in the hope that they grow up to be well-respected gentlemen. They’re already adorable now; yes you can roll your eyes and think I’m saying that because they LOOK cute, but there’s nothing more awesome than hearing Noah say, as clear as day in light of his speech delay, “thank you, Mommy” or “you’re welcome, Mommy” when I say thank you to him. And it comes from him UNPROMPTED.

And I think  – no, I KNOW – that adults and children alike could do with minding their manners. It’d be a shame to think that our future generations would be doomed just because people were incapable of saying the odd please and thank you, accompanied by a big genuine smile.

What say you? Do you even care? Or do you think we’re not doing enough?

Virginal straps, a Red Jacket, Poop and the Proverbial Fan

This arrived a few days ago:

It’s supposedly a Baby Bjorn carrier, rated very highly. I decided it’s a questionable piece of bondage from some people with a twisted sense of humour. I was also considerably annoyed by the smug looking “mother and baby” on the cover of the box, modelling it so beautifully and so effortlessly. I think it was about three days before I decided to embrace the virgin pureness and breast enhancing/figure hugging straps. Have to admit, it’s actually pretty good, and Noah doesn’t seem to be at all bothered. Mind you, like he’s ever bothered about anything.

Needless to say, the Poopgate Scandal continues, and it seems to be spreading amongst close circles. After initiating a fabulous Code Brown at a friends house a few weeks ago (sorry K McG…), Noah decided it was time to let Nana know that behind that adorable cute face, hides a deep dark secret.

Having collected Nana from a friend’s house because she was ill, Noah and I took her home, where Noah had a feed and a nappy change. Followed by another almighty Code Brown. I wonder perhaps if I had not been so stupid as to say “Yes he’s been great lately, though he hasn’t filled his nappy in a while so I expect we’ll day with that in a day or two”, then he may not have taken that as his cue to commence the Old Man Grunting and that wonderful bubbling, gurgling sound as he expels everything with all his might into his nappy. It’s a sight to behold. Nana almost passed out.

I think maybe one day when I’m feeling particularly care free (and care less) I may just post a picture. However that does mean exposing my son’s nuts on the internet, and well, let’s face it, that’s just wrong.

My sympathies to C enduring her own Code Brown with Huddles. Try laughing, it always amuses me. But then I think I have an addiction to Poop.

By the way, he’s still piling on the pounds and is now back to the original growth curve when he was born. Yes, he’s 16lbs and on the 99.8th centile. I’m so proud. And back-broken.

My Old Friend is making a very comfortable appearance, rearing an ugly head at every given opportunity. Wouldn’t mind so much if I had the strength to fight back, but it’s amazing how quickly a person can beat themselves up at the most ridiculous things.

“Omg he threw up on me all day and omg omg his nappy is dirty again and omg omg omg I didn’t feed the cat and omg omg omg omg omg omg I forgot to wipe his face clean this morning BAD MOM BAD MOM BAD MOM”

Etc, etc.

Anyway (and this bit is the Proverbial Fan in case you’re wondering) today was just one of those days.

All set to waste a day spending obscene amounts of money shopping with the lovely “Wags”, when I get a phone call to pick up Nana. I think Noah and I had had enough time to approximately drink a diet coke (DIET! Hah.), eat B’s crumpet (thanks B, I never had crumpet before and yours was very nice…), munch on BabyB (omg those cheeks and that hair), and have a brief conversation with C about sports bras and almighty breasts (Seriously. H cups are just frightening things. They’re bigger than Noah’s head).

Nana had fainted from a stomach bug and needed collecting. Is it wrong that for a little while I was really pissed and wanted to go shopping? I felt bad, but hey. She got to see Noah and I know that made her happy. I’ll just have to go buy the world’s biggest tit-slings another time.

Finally got home, checked emails, put Noah in the Baby Torture Device (it’s surprising how fast it grows on you), and then all the power went out. For a whole freaking hour. No heating, no microwave, no cooker, no internet (GAH) nothing. And Noah had somehow soaked his way through his nappy, down his trousers and a sock. So he was really pleased.

And then, to add insult to injury, I had to give in and admit that I had dyed his clothes pink.

In another one of my “Half-Soaked Mommy” Blank-outs, I’d left his red hoodie in with his whites. Which are now bubblegum pink. He’s now as well dressed as any other girly out there. I’m not entirely sure what to do; they’re still sitting in the bath of bleach, being ignored by me.

He doesn’t care, of course, not since his passport arrived and he’s free to leave the country.

He also doesn’t seem remotely bothered that in an attempt to spruce up Winnie-the-Pooh, we gave him a far more interesting outfit. Or at least a sleeping bag.


In fact, it could be a small scale Baby Torture Device

Have we met?

Due Date: 01/03/2008

Week: 34+1 days
Month: 8
Trimester: 3
Fetus Age: 32 weeks
Fetal Heartbeat: 138 bpm
Size: 33 cm
Time to Go: 41 days
Hahaha!
So I remembered about blogging. Cos it’s been…roughly…
Umpteen billion years. There’s good reason though!
No, wait, there isn’t. I got tired. I got bored. I got lazy. I got faaarrrrrrr too depressed…
So let me see if I remember how this works. I write stuff, aaaaannnd…that’s pretty much it. So now I need to catch up on the last umpteen months. Well christ I don’t know if I can do that…I can gloss over stuff though! Let’s see.
DPA – they finally suspended me after me trying to work at R as a classroom assistant. It nearly killed me and I ended up going for emergency physio. Yeh that was fun.
Sciatica – not so bad at the minute, but I also have SPD to go with it. Ahhh it’s so much fun! Kinda like being kicked in the crotch with steel-toe hub-capped boots. Repeatedly. It’s a laugh a minute!
The House: Phase 1 (Bathroom) - Oh my god we’ve had no bathroom for the last month. MONTH. The lovely G&M next door gave me their spare key so I could use their loo. I may have died a hideous death otherwise. But it’s starting to look great now. It’s just a shame that Mr Builder likes to show up when he thinks it’s appropriate (like this morning when the sink and shower could be fitted and there’s NO FREAKING SIGN of him). Mr Tiler has done a fab job though, I’m quite pleased. Just sink, shower, grout and floor to go in then it’s complete. Pretty straightforward, huh?
Hmm…
The House: Phase 2 (Nursery) – it’s lovely. I love it. Only, I can barely get in there because at the moment all Mocha’s stuff is stacked in the crib until I feel happy enough to sort it out. Or, eg, until the frigging bathoom is done and I feel safe in my own goddamn home again (I do NOT like having the fucking toilet and sink stored in the bedroom, thank you very much Mr Builder. That’s a sure-fire way of turning me into crazy psycho preggo woman.)
The House: Phase 3 (Home Birth) – yes you read correctly. Whether it will happen is a different matter as everyone seems to be against it (well, anyone in the medical profession. “SPD!” “First time mum!” “We’re too scared!!”. DH is actually really keen on the idea. The birth unit at BWH is horrible. Hospital is a hospital no matter how much you dress it up. The idea of giving birth at home is one of the best ideas we’ve had this pregnancy. I hope to god it happens. And of course, I’ll kick ass on the way if someone says no.
Me – I’m ok. I have Carpel Tunnel Syndrome, Sciatica, Symphisis Pubis Dysfunction and my nose bleeds weekly when I throw up. I live on banana milk and salt. But you know what? I’m good. Actually, I’m great. And why?
Mocha – Oh my god I love this child so much and it’s not even born yet. I haven’t even seen it. Well, we kind of have, at a 4d scan:
Ohhhhhh my god how cute is this child?
I am totally NOT biased. At all. Seriously.