Every so often I go through periods on twitter where I have to step away. Be it yet another mash-up, or some other shit kicking off, or yet another meltdown impending and I/they should most likely take it off-line. Contrary to popular belief, I do NOT like to be at the centre of twitter shit; for as long as I can remember I’ve always hoped to GOD it wasn’t anything to do with me. I hate confrontation and will only rise to it if really pushed.

You know who you are. I haven’t forgotten what you said.

I have my moments; we all do. Bit maudlin, but try and bounce back. I try to be nice; if I wouldn’t say it to your face, I wouldn’t say it on twitter. Anyone who’s spent 30 seconds with me will know that. Honesty beats my backside with a paddle – I wish I could be a better at bullshitting.

So why, someone please tell me, do people behave like utter arse holes? Why do people think it’s ok to be spectacularly rude to others they have never EVER met? I have one or two people who follow me, who insist on answering almost all of my “open” tweets with a shitty and very unfunny answer. Most often, never a good word to say. So if my tweets offend you, why do you follow? If my tweets are “TMI”, why do you read them? Have you nothing better to do?

There are very few people on twitter who I claim to KNOW. Sure I know people on there, by face, name, avatar…maybe certain mannerisms, tweet behaviours, blog posts, whatever. But there’s only a tiny handful whom I KNOW, having spent time with them OUTSIDE of twitter. So forgive me if I get fucked off when people are all up in my face like they “KNOW” me, and feel like they can say whatever they like, offensive or not. (Usually offensive, hey ho.) If you think you’re being funny by being a smart ass, may I suggest you take 5 seconds to rethink your tweet, and the take a further 5 minutes to think whether I would appreciate that tweet?

As long as I’m having a twitter stint, whether it’s 2 minutes or 2 hours, I talk to as many people as I can. I’ll return conversation if I can. I’ll start up conversation if I can. You sensing the theme yet? Yes, that’s right, I hate to break it to you but I’m only human. And I’m not a very good one, either. I may only be following blah blah (I don’t know, you go check) but I’m pretty sure that it’s not nearly as many who are following me. So do some maths. If I’m conversing with people I follow, and then people whom I don’t follow also talk to me, it’s going to get busy, right? And as I’m only human (we established this earlier, remember?) it’s more than likely I’ll fall over at some point, and pretty much fail.

I’ve been on twitter long enough to have had more than enough stick from people I do not know and also do not know me. I’ve been on twitter long enough to justify being very reserved with people who make me a teeny bit twitchy. I’ve also been on twitter long enough to know that I am well within my rights to unfollow someone if I want to, just as people can unfollow me any time they like. It really, genuinely, truly does not bother me. It’s ok. It’s not the end of the world.

Anyhoo, I do love twitter, I’ve made some great friends. I’ve got a whole ton of support from people when times have been spectacularly shit. I have built up my business with the biggest supporting network being twitter. I can’t thank you enough for this. But, you know, just try not to be too weird with me, ok? Remember I might come across as crazy (us crazies call it “eccentric”, I’ll have you know) but I’m still a human, who takes stuff on board.

And if you wouldn’t say shit to my face, then don’t say it to my twitter profile. Because for me, it’s not just a twitter profile.

*smooches*

Procrastination. I will be coming back to this post for future reference.

Nyan Cat.

Nyanyanyanyanyanyanyanyanyanyanyanyanyanyanya,
nyanyanyanyanyanyanyanyanyanyanyanyanyanyanya.

Ok just click here and tell me what your record was. And remember, Nyan Cat haz a flavor. I’ve only managed 23 seconds so far, but I am supposed to be working, remember.

*cough*

And then Nyan Cat has a . Trust me on this one.

And THEN, when your eyeballs have all but bled out of their sockets, give them a break by asking yourself this. Where’s the pixel?

0.9 seconds. Just saying.

Thank you, twitter, for providing some epic time wasting websites. If I forget to collect my children from school, I’m obviously blaming you.

#JustSayin’.

Pox Watch Day 3 – Current Observations and Birthday Thoughts

1. The spots. Will appear. Everywhere. And anywhere. If you can think of a place, they’re there. Oh, they are THERE.

2. I do not do well waking up every 1-2 hours.

3. Piriton does NOT make Isaac fall asleep.

4. Isaac let me eat my birthday breakfast of a plate of bacon. Whilst he may be ill, he is still considerate.

5. We have taught him well.

6. The Gruffalo, on repeat, somehow doesn’t get old.

7. Peppa Pig, on repeat, becomes tedious.

8. It’s amazing how you discover exactly how your body is able to mould itself into the shape of a sofa as your kid makes themselves comfy on your lap.

9. Snuggling with Isaac on a real sofa with a Graze.com box is lovely. Until he eats all your vanilla infused cherries.

10. It’s really hard to remain patient, when shit loads of lovely people suggest things to make your kiddo feel better and you’ve pretty much tried them all already. And nothing is working.

11. People are incredibly helpful.

12. It’s really ok to have some of the birthday Prosecco for your lunch, under the circumstances.

13. Somethings just do not distract from the pain. Including Lego. This makes me really sad.

14. What I think is “humour” can be really misunderstood by people who don’t really know me.

15. I have a darker sense of humour than I thought. Especially on minimal sleep and with poorly sick child.

16. It occurs to me I’m still waiting for the panic of turning 30 to settle in. 3 years ago.

17. Trying not to lose your rag when your kid is wailing for help, and you keep telling them you are doing everything you can and they just need to calm down and listen, but they keep wailing anyway, is REALLY hard. Frustration is a bitch.

18. It’s amazing how some “pyjama days” aren’t as good as you might like, and especially when all you want to do is throw yourself in the shower. *scratches*

19. I hate feeling guilty for wanting to be selfish for just 5 minutes. Just because the very poorly child with a rash the size of Africa covering his groin area, and yelled and cried all the time I was opening my presents. And yet is now sat quite happily on the sofa watching Octonauts.

20. Birthdays, Chicken Pox and children. You just can’t predict them.

Every time I have a meltdown, Good Shit happens

Anyone close enough to me will know that I pretty much have put my blood, sweat, tears, Facial Orifice Fluid and bacon drool into making my business work. When I ditched the cello completely (almost a year ago now…) and threw myself entirely into the photography, I had a fair idea of how difficult it would be. I knew, sure as fuck, that it would NOT be easy.

I’m not that stupid, thank you very much.

The thing that’s been the biggest ball ache though, is coping with the setbacks along the way. Not the lack of funds, or the lack of equipment, but the mental health setbacks. The burnouts. The meltdowns. I go through stages of putting absolutely everything into what I do. No corners cut in the slightest, no hints of slacking off, no pissing taking and absolutely staying on the ball. Of course! It’s expected with every business, right? Expected. Normally, straightforward.

Add in two demanding little boys, a house to look after and a husband to pay attention to, and suddenly it’s not so easy.

The one thing I overlooked, was becoming a combined SAHM and WAHM mom. I always thought I was just going to slot into one or the other.

I dunno, I clearly took leave of my senses for a little while back there.

So as a result, every so often, I pretty much just have a complete meltdown. Not like one of my fucked up depression episodes, where, quite frankly I could walk up to the medicine cupboard and overdose without so much as a “Thank you Bob”, but more like…a weird, horrible, childish tantrum-like meltdown. My brain goes something along the following lines:

“Fuck this shit I give up no one fucking appreciates how much fucking effort I put into this bollocks and given I don’t stop busting my ass it’s like a waste of fucking time because no one is booking me and what the fuck do I need to do should I give you blood slit directly from my own wrists because clearly that is what people want because nothing I ever frigging do is good enough and I swear to God I spend how many fucking hours a day sitting at this bastard computer constantly editing and networking and updating and don’t you fuckers sit there and tell me I spend all my time fannying about doing shit all because I do as much as I can without breaking and holy Jesus now the children are talking to me again and how am I supposed to get anything done without breaking me or screaming at them and there just isn’t enough time and I want more work but how the fuck am I supposed to cope with more work and omffffggggggggg maaaaaakkkeeeee ittttt stooooooooooooooop.”

And then I pretty much dump everything and walk away. For about 12 hours. Usually less. Because I’m a chicken. (And probably addicted {to being slaughtered like a wee baa lamb.}.)

In that very short time frame, a number of things happen.

1) I realise I’m not entirely shit, and that sometimes, I do produce good work.

2) The kiddos continue to behave in exactly the same way, because I’ve done a reasonable job of not letting them see me break.

3) I go back to thinking about my “split online identity” and question whether I’m doing too much trying to run @cosmicgirlie, my beloved outlet when I’m not blogging here, AND @JayMountford, the outlet where I pimp myself like crazy and stalk other people regularly to find work.

4) People start booking me.

Yeah, I don’t get number 4 either.

My only guess is it’s because I’ve gone through a period of putting so much effort into establishing my career, that just as I reach the point of “omffffggggggggg maaaaaakkkeeeee ittttt stooooooooooooooop”, I’ve done just about enough to put myself in the light, gain recognition, and therefore earn bookings.

Now, it’s obviously an arse that it goes this way, because frankly, that’s a real ball-achey way of doing things. It also makes me wonder if I have what it takes to continue in this industry. I second guess myself enough as it is, so these quarterly meltdowns really do make me think.

Since the start of this year, I have already done 4 photo shoots and turned down one (out of area for a portrait session), as well as having 3 further portrait enquiries. I have a total of 9 weddings booked for the year, with 3 more waiting to confirm or cancel, and have turned down one because it clashes with another wedding. I have done an impromptu photo shoot in Birmingham’s Bull Ring and have been invited to photograph CybHer. I’m about a third of my way into my second full year, and well, yeah.

I’m doing ok. I could just do with less of the meltdowns.

Ahhh. When you have kids, no one, NO ONE warns you of all the shit that awaits you on the other side.

Like, piles. And losing your sanity. And your missing pelvic floor.

And a hernia!

Yeah. A hernia.

I appreciate it isn’t a universal mothering thing. I also appreciate that two 11lb babies will WRECK YOUR INSIDES.

I don’t blame the boys.

Much.

I decided to ask Dr Twitter last night about hernias, *cough* for a friend *cough* (I think they were on to me), and had responses such as “l” and “” and also ““. I thank you, twitter, I love that you can always reassure me.

So after the peace of mind from Dr Twitter, the natural progression obviously was to go read up on Dr Google. And then I spotted stern warnings from and m which pretty much secured the deal of making an appointment with the doctor today.

The hernia thingy isn’t there all the time. Only, um, when I’m on the loo straining like a bitch. There’s nothing like squeezing like crazy and then suddenly having to pop a little bit of your insides back into where they should be. Whilst doing everything you can to not yell out in pain. (It’s a bit uncomfortable causing such alarm for everyone else in the house, and quite frankly, I’m not entirely happy having someone banging down the door while I’m on the crapper.)

My doctor is awesome. If she ever leaves, I suspect I may never go to the doctor’s surgery again. Previous experience with doctors has NOT made me feel good. Anyway, she had a poke around my stomach and congratulated me on fixing my diastasis recti (FUCK YEAH, no more pyramid belly for me). And then she poked a bit on the side and well, yeah, it didn’t look promising.

So! I have a hernia, though I don’t know which one because there are LOADS of them. It might be ok left alone, or I might be looking at keyhole surgery. There’s a consultant surgeon appointment winging it’s way to me in the next week or so, and an ultrasound scan to have a good look around. I’d rather not have surgery. I have no fear of going under the knife and all that (if they have to do open surgery), but I just can’t be arsed with even more scarring. My body is scarred enough as it is, and they are rubbish at fading. I have burn scars on my neck and arms which have been there for 32 years.

I really don’t want any more.

Vain? Yeah, probably. But what’s even bigger than worrying about scarring, is finding yet another something wrong with me. I’m tired of being broken, it’d be nice to be fully functional without assistance, you know?

Oh. How. Wonderful. *sigh*