The Right to Rest

I Give In

I really, really do.

According to GMT, it is 4.45a.m.

This, of course means that,

Because I am tired and need to go to sleep,

All suffering has ended for the evening.

And I am so happy.

Because now I can go to sleep in the knowledge that:

No child is hungry,

No child is afraid,

No child whispers dark thoughts to another.

No child wishes for playdates and release from suffering.

I’m so glad that we’ve sorted out the



And only now,

I can rest.

In the knowledge that

All children are happy.

All children are created equal.


Ok, God, I give Up

I’m getting a wee tiny bit fed up with God right now.

He keeps reminding me that I’ve got to do stuff.

And I’ve already got a lot of stuff to do.

I mean, who decides whose stuff is more important?

Is it my fault that some kids are enduring hardship beyond my imaginings?

Is it my fault that I’m not in the vicinity to comfort and console?

No way.

This shit is happening everywhere.

I can’t be everywhere.

I wish I could.

Like Superman turning back time to

Undo the doings of

Well, whoever.

I want to be


Or some gorgeous Superhero.

But, I’m not.


Do you get it?

I’m not.

Mrs. A picks up the broken child.

Mrs B reassures them that it’s not their fault.

Mrs C administers the plasters and the

There, theres.


What do I do?

I watch

I listen

I read

I think

I plan

I teach them a better way.

I hope.

I believe.

I hold.

I comfort.

I cherish.

I suffer with them.

I be there.

Reaching out to Mum

Right. This is just getting ridiculous.

Let me state quite clearly…….. I did not come onto this site to be everyone’s mum.


Got that?

I am not your mum.

I love you.

I care about you.

I want you to happy.

I want you to be comfortable in your own soul.

I hurt if you hurt.

I feel what you feel.

I want to soothe your ailments.

Does that make me your Mum?

No. It makes me human.

Your mum is already out there..

Maybe she needs you to reach out to her?

I don’t know.

I really, really don’t know.

No kidding.


If your mum, for whatever reason (And it better be a really good reason. Don’t give me any crap about how hard she is on you, or how she makes you do chores. Sob. Sob.), really is not there for you then, OK, I give in.

I don’t seriously need any more children. Really, I don’t. Although a gorgeous little baby would not be unwelcome. (Don’t go there. You’re too old. Stop it. Be a granny. Eventually.)

I hurt.

I mean. I really hurt.

I cannot bear the pain that children experience, without wanting, in some way, to alleviate it.

But. I am not your Mum. She is out there. Somewhere. Probably wondering about you.

Reach out.

Too often the child is forced to be the adult. But, sometimes, it is worth it.

Reach out.

In my belief, it is a rare woman who is not moved by their own child.

I qualify.

It is a rare parent who is not moved by their own child.

I either have been very lucky or very blessed to have the love of a good man. (And I use ‘good’ selectively).

So many hurts. So much suffering.

Seriously, I did not enrol to embrace what I encounter daily.




I will never turn my back on a soul that is suffering.

Please, I beg you, find another way. A better way.

Leave me out of this equation if you can.




If you exhaust all, and I mean all, avenues for comfort and understanding, I will not turn my back on you.

I made  that promise to myself a long time ago.

And it holds good.

Seriously, I did not come here for this.

I do not want this.

I want to explore me. Not you. Not you and your problems.

But, I promise you, if you have exhausted all avenues before you, I will not ignore you.

Please try, on your own terms, first.


We are all souls looking to be understood.

And everything I said I qualify with the right you have to seek help where you can find it. And the duty I have to provide it where I can.

First, turn to mum.

If that fails, I humbly ask you to accept that I will stand in her stead until she is in a position to hold you and comfort you as all mothers should.x

Testing! Testing!

Right. I’m doing this as a test.

Is my Word programme working properly? Are font sizes doing what they are mean to do?

Is God listening to, my often inconsequential, pleadings?

So far so good.

Everything appears to be acting as normal, Captain.

But, are we good to go?

Well, how the hell am I supposed to know, Capitaaan. I don’t know what alien creature sabotaged our last mission.

Bugger this for a game of soldiers! Everything appears to be working as it should.

Beam me up!

Verbal diarrhoea

I’m thinking about my last post and the fact that I am too verbose.

I have been told this. Repeatedly. So, don’t post. This is not news to me.

The surprising thing is, I’ve often thought of myself as being quite anti-social. I mean, I don’t crave company. I’m quite happy for weeks and months on end to not ‘go out gallivanting’.

So where, if at all, does any social interaction occur with me?



My immediate family. Lots of them.

My extended family, up to a point. They’re busy. I’m busy.

My work. Thirty odd children in a class manage to destroy all desire I may have had for communication and verbal interaction. In fact, I usually need an hour to myself with coffee and cigarettes to get to a place where noise of any kind is tolerated, let alone welcome.

I love my job. I love children. I want to strangle anyone that hurts a child. No matter what form that hurt takes. How dare you?!

That does not make me a pushover. Rather a very patient, considerate teacher with the best interests of my pupils at heart. Seriously.

The problem is, that by the time I’ve given my all to my class, there’s not a lot left. At least, until I refuel. God Bless coffee and tobacco.

This will not please one of the blogs I follow. A beautiful, young, enthusiastic, unjaded advocate of health and well-being.

Despite the title of this page, I have no aspirations to work my butt. My butt started heading south some years ago and had a compass pointing the way. At no point in my fairly-lengthy life has my butt ever professed aspirations to be pert and upright. In fact, I don’t even know why I am using the word butt (except, perhaps because Americans refer to that region as such).

My bum is nothing to be ashamed of after seven kids. But, (and I am pausing for laughter here) It has never tried to be anything other than what it is.

I rephrase. It has never tried to be anything other than what I have been prepared to make it.

And, well, you know, exercise… I’ve just never really been into it. I know in these health-raising awareness days I ought to at least try to like exercise but I just don’t. Can’t.

How do you go about changing the innate characteristics of a person?

If I always, and I do mean always, preferred reading to playing, is that my fault?

I gladly went on walks with my dad because they were fun.

But, if you take the overt fun out of the equation, I just don’t see the point.

So why am I following this fine young lady’s page.

I could just say, ‘Because’.

That’s what all maturity-stunted individuals say when faced with a question they can’t/don’t want to answer. (Note to self: Must stop saying, ’Because I said so,’ to my children.)

There is, actually, a reason.

Here we have a beautiful young woman aspiring to inspire in others a love for what she recognises as wholesome.

I’m a wee bitty past worrying about that. But, I do have children. And I am concerned that they eat correctly/exercise appropriately/view themselves wholesomely. I’ve always concerned myself with these things.

I’ve not always religiously followed them. Sweets as a treat. McDonalds now and then. Swimming whenever I can be arsed.

I do try.

Really, I do.

But, I don’t like mixing much..

I am INFJ. See

Now, I know this stuff. I’ve done more psychometric tests than,,,,Well, I don’t know who than. Someone who’s done a lot.

I don’t really give a shit whether I have company or not. I view solitary confinement as a spa weekend.


I was told recently, by more than one person, I might add, that I ought to do stand up.

Well, that’s just offensive.

That means that while I was raising my glass and wishing ‘salut’ to everyone, they were not taking my words seriously.


I am, and always have been, a very serious person. Ask anyone who knows me. Well, not anyone, obviously. Not the people at that party who thought I was being witty and gay (in the original sense of the word).

Don’t ask them.

They don’t know shit. Which points me to another splendid blog I have encountered. If you like shit. Don’t be obtuse. I don’t mean literally. But, if like me, there are some disgusting things that ….well….you just can’t help laughing at, view this.

I really love this. I’ve tried a couple of times to post a comment to the author to ask permission to email this to others because it is screaming to be out there.

But, every time I have tried to make a comment, my screen has gone do-lally. Not with every post I make. But, certainly every time I try to post here. I have taken this to mean that I am not meant to communicate with this person ; that destiny is keeping us apart. Or some shit like that.

Anywhoo. It’s too good a post to stay on WordPress. I mean really too good. It ought to be out there.. Making its way in the world. Receiving plaudits from people like me that think that shit is funny. Well, it is.

I might also direct you to one Mr. Billy Connolly, of Scottish extraction, who did a lovely piece years ago entitled, ‘The Jobbie Wheecha.’

I am not familiar enough with the vernacular of Americans (of which this site is full). But, just in case, you need elucidation – jobbie = shit. Wheecha? Well, that’s a bit more difficult to explain. Suffice to say, ‘What does happen to all that keech (shit) that airline passengers can no longer hold until landing?’

If my rather sedate mother, with her completely out-of-character crude sense of humour, can fall off  a chair laughing at this (literally) then I think it’s worth a listen.

I went to the bother of googling this link, so you owe it to me and, seriously, to yourself to give it an ear. (That’s if you can understand it. We Scots have a slight dialect problem. Not for us, just for everyone else.)

As the title of my post suggests – verbal diarrhoea.

If you want shit, I can talk it along with the best of them.

I can’t even remember why I started this post. Now, that’s  no shit. That’s three haufs and pepsi max later.                                                                                                        

I have lots of shit to do tomorrow. We’re all off for summer holidays tomorrow. Oh, joy!!!

P.S. I have no idea what kind of shit is going on with my laptop/programmes but I can’t seem to get it to behave. This is not Times Roman 18 or else the rest of it isn’t. I give up. I’m posting as it is because in the words of Rhett Butler,

‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a —-‘.

PPS This is just ridiculous. I can’t even read the post I’m trying to copy and post. If you know what I mean.

So, I’m sorry. I’m going to have to select some massive typescript here so that this post can be seen by anyone without the aid of a magnifying glass.

PPPS Please, god. Don’t let my computer start being an arse. I already have enough of those in my life. Return my font sizes to the way they should be. And, when I select 14. Let everything be 14.

Nope, you’re just not going to do it, are you?

PPPPS Dear God, I truly am sorry that I disturbed you with trivia about font sizing. But it really is irritating!x