Wednesday, 28 January 2015

I Have Freckles.

YAY! I GOT nominated.  I am going to cheat and present my 7 random facts in a blog post format.  I hope that’s ok.  It’s been a slow week on the Wonderful Wagon front.
Here we go!

I have freckles.  All over my body. On my eyelids. A couple on my lip.  I look like a speckled pancake.  Except for my back.  On my back is a perfect outline of a swimming togs; the sort we used to wear around the garden as kids when the summers were always hot.  I also have a freckle over my left iris.  No idea what it is except sometimes I can get inside your head. 

I’m a mom driver.  In that I will do the school runs, get the shopping and that’s about it.  I am not confident enough behind the wheel to venture into unknown territory.    I would rather ask my almost 9 year old to take the wheel than do it myself.  If you want a laugh or fancy taking your life into your own hands, get me to reverse. 

I hate butter.  I may have mentioned this before.  But I want to kill it.  It, to me, is the vilest most disgusting, sick making vomitus substance that was ever invented.  I have almost cried at many a dinner table when a gorgeous Sunday roast was served only to find melted butter on the peas, the spuds, the carrots, flowing like lava over the turnip, and the ultimate of vegetable crimes, on the corn on the cob.  I remember being at a birthday party as a child and the mammy telling me I couldn’t have anything nice until I ate the sandwiches because I always got “a good dinner” when I got in from school.  No.  I didn’t eat the sandwiches.  They were the typical more butter than bread variety. 

I love a bottle of white wine.  Yes, I said bottle.  But I didn’t always.  In fact I hated it once upon a time.  I thought it was vinegar and always opted for a pint instead.  These days I hate pints and would take hand and all off you for a bottle of white wine.  I’m a bit partial to Pinot Griot.  See, I got snobby with it as well. 

I have a mad scar on my right knee going from one side to the other from the time it was ripped open because I wasn’t paying attention and had an argument with a car.  Let that be a lesson to you.  It’s not as bad looking as it once was.  But it’s still kind of numb and it gives me the heebie jeebies to touch it.  It’s as bald as an egg too.  Which is kind of handy.  Oh, and I like to tell little kids that a shark did it but I tasted rotten so he spat me out.  And if they ever meet a one-eyed shark on their travels, that would be the one I punched in the nose to make him spit me out.

I hurt easily.  Yes, I do.  You mightn’t think it but if someone says something shitty to me I dwell on that and nothing else for literally 48 hours.  I run it through my head over and over again, all of the different variations, the different sharp, snappy retorts I could have said instead of standing there with my mouth open like a goldfish trying to hide my brain frantically going “don’t cry! Don’t cry! Don’t let them make you cry.” And then I go off and cry.

I like to think I am fairly in tune with my body.  I can feel when a blue is coming on.  There are times when the racket my boys make can reduce me to tears. I am jumpy and suffer with sensory overload.  It is during these times I need total and absolute time to myself.  Silence.  No-one near me, touching me, asking for stuff, putting even the tiniest of demands on me.  Sometimes when I am dropping off to sleep at night the most random, horrifying scene regarding any one of my kids will pop into my head.  I have to work really hard at shutting it out.  “It’s not real.  That won’t happen. They’re next door to you.  They’re safe.  It’s not real!”

So to conclude, embrace your beauty marks, your scars, your C-section map lines, your stretch marks. They tell the story of your life.  Same goes for your likes and your dislikes.  They make up the map of you.  Your feelings are yours and no-one has the right to tell you what to do with them.  Be proud of your body.  It can do amazing things. 

Own it and make sure no-one else does.