Let there be light…..

 

This is a short and sweet blog to mark a very happy occasion in my life. Well actually there have been several but these are the highlights.

One of my sticky, artery clogging, sweet treat recipes made it into my youngest stepdaughters school cook book and my culinary author pseudonym was not required.
I am taking my eldest stepdaughter to have her ear pierced on Tuesday and I have not had to sign and complete a CRB check for myself, or specify exact times of when stud will make said required hole in said upper left ear lobe to the nearest second.
Now you may be wondering what the hell I am so excited about. What is the big deal about an embarrassingly easy, cellulite inducing recipe going to print on a small scale, and a small metal stud piercing an ear lobe?
Simple I am finally being acknowledged. The Harry Potter style cape which made me invisible is no longer to be a part of my summer wardrobe. I am dare I say it, at long last accepted as a trustworthy adult when it comes to my step kids.
I have officially graduated from wicked stepmother status to stepmum.
These two incidents, along with a few more, resonate with me like the Berlin Wall coming down, for removing long standing barriers and ending a pseudo war which was not just cold, but BALTIC and very often sub zero in temperature.
The why we got to this point and how is beyond me. Well its not, but there is nothing to gain from raking up the past and frankly I no longer want to care. Past is past, hopefully like the trend for wearing crocs with socks, if it ever was in fact really on trend.
I am taking this new, improved, easy squeezy, possibly vomit inducing stepfamily scenario. I am not just running, but out sprinting Usain Bolt with it. I am going to enjoy this like I do a large glass of ice cold, highly expensive, happy haze inducing champagne whilst looking at Charlotte Olympia shoes online. (#shoeporn)
How long it will last who cares. Could it be a lull before a large storm? Quite possibly. Especially if the pierced ear lobe gets infected and too many kids body weights double over the summer from indulging in my recipe too much!
Well whatever it is and however long it lasts, I only hope it’s not like a holiday romance, short lived, intense and not very fulfilling in the long term.
I will keep you posted.
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getting older, getting wiser?

They say that as you get older you get wiser. If you saw my dad with his mates on a Tuesday night at last orders you might question this theory.

Anyways, whatever they are, these life experiences whether good, bad, embarrassing, bum twitching, hair raising, hair and skin removing, cringe worthy, eyebrow destroying, terrifying or sad, shape, prepare and arm us for further down the line if similar scenarios happen. Some even like to call it hindsight.

With men you learn quickly to avoid those with commitment issues, itchy crotch areas – I will leave why to your imagination, bad teeth, severe body odour, bad footwear, egomaniac tendencies or an apparent white mark to the second index finger of the left hand.

When considering suitable friends, girls with reputations like yoyo drawers, lounge lizard (when referencing the use of their tongue), single white female, the omen or descriptions similar to any of the above are again to be avoided like a dose of the bubonic plague.

Work scenarios are perhaps the worst. It’s often a wall to wall idiot convention where everybody has ideas above their station and a desire to ‘climb the ladder’. The boss’s son. That annoying, male chauvinistic, rugby playing all round nobhead of a colleague. The short skirted girl who is over indulging on the Botox and wearing far too many hair extensions, shagging her way around the office. Heck even the bog cleaner. Basically anybody who is competing with you for the big boss’s attention and maybe a lucrative pay rise, will always take the credit for your hard work or alternatively not piss on you if you are on fire in the stationary cupboard.

When buying shoes, you learn to always go a size bigger as your feet will definitely swell when wearing shoes which are either ridiculous or uncomfortable in their design and price tag.

But what about death? What hind sight is applied here? It’s an interesting one.

I encountered death fairly early on, my mum died very suddenly when I was just 19 years of age. I was a first year student at University, ready to party, piss my student loan up the proverbial wall in Topshop, steal some road signs, traffic cones and other such useless items and frequently get comatose on cheap booze whilst simultaneously getting a good degree. Death was not in this already busy schedule.

So what did I do? Well I shelved it. Made it a little like my approach to shoe purchases, a no return policy despite what your common sense and lack of toe nails tells you. I said to myself she is dead, done, dust in the ground, FINITO. I do not know why I thought this was comforting as like the shoes which need to be a size bigger it is not a comfortable prospect in any way, shape, or horizontal form with your feet severely elevated.

But this is the interesting bit. Where active imagination meets a need to not feel over whelming loss. Where an adult realises that to think of her mother as truly being as extinct as a dodo, is just not something which is going to be bearable.

Where I once said she was dead and gone, a bit like my favourite shoes which recently went to the hell that was a large industrial sized wheelie bin due to a snapped heel. I now say she is actually still with me, watching me from above whilst drinking a large Cinzano and lemonade (her favourite tipple).

When my roses grow despite all my efforts to kill them off I say she is working her magic. When my husband and I were ‘courting’ I imagined she had somehow, and trust me she was very determined, made him fall in love with me. All a bit Paul McKenna. When I recently had to watch my father in law face death in front of me I comforted my mother in law with the beliefs, and I verbalised them accordingly, that my mum would be ready and waiting to show him the ropes.

Where they go I only like to consider as a bloody great place. Think the very best all-inclusive five star holiday resort. Necker Island has nothing on it. It is beautiful. It boasts free food and drink in the guise of whatever you really fancy on any given day. Great music plays continuously like a Sonos system is supposed to. Any tune, any time, just think of it! Sunshine is a given. And of course the occupants are all the wonderful people from your past who just left the party down here far too soon.

It’s like the ‘Cocoon’ movie series, but so much better and minus the alien intervention.

Is it a load of old soppy crap? Maybe. It’s almost childlike in what you want to believe. Hind sight is you could say complete bollocks in this scenario.

It could all be true and let’s hope it is. I mean what’s the alternative for happy thoughts and a life without them? Trust me there is none. This is the only way. So indulge and get happy, imagining your loved ones having a bloody good time somewhere up above.

So does age bring wisdom? Yes it does. The wisdom sometimes to ignore the facts and choose to believe what you want……..even if that does mean a loss of numerous toe nails in the process.

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The wanderer returns.

Yes I have been AWOL, MIA and all the other terms you associate with someone dropping off the face of the earth where no contact has been made with them since they were last seen in a shoe shop, trying on enough shoes to comprise a pile of boxes the size of the leaning tower of Pisa.

Needless to say I am alive. I am well. I have not joined a cult. I have not yet started to consider life as a nun. Yes I own more shoes, grey hairs, cellulite and potential enemies due to my at times highly pragmatic personality. But overall all is well.

Why the blogging break? Simple I re-read some of my posts and they were not great. It was more ranting than blogging and to be honest it was not pretty, informative, enlightening, funny or any other description involving a positive adjective.

My first sabbatical didn’t really do the trick so I decided an extended one was required. You know the old expression – if at first you don’t succeed, try again. So I decided I would. Here’s hoping it has worked as a blog is coming your way very soon.

LOL

Maggie

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The school gate!

School gate mothers or should I say school playground mothers as the behaviour from some is far more like that of children of playground age rather than that of fully grown women.

Now you may wonder what I am doing at the school gate? Simple, my stepdaughter is in top juniors – retro description I know, year 6 for those of you modern types. So at least two days a week, sometimes more, I do the pick up. Or as I like to say, face the catwalk of silence.

A catwalk, yes, as that is what it’s like, a fashion catwalk. Now I like fashion more than most, fifty pairs of shoes and counting, a subscription to Elle and Grazia magazine, you get the picture! But what I see amazes me. This place where these women bearing the motherhood badge of honour unite to contest who is the biggest motherhood martyr of all, also appear to spend a lot of time and money on their overall ‘look’. Who knew the burning martyr shopped at Harvey Nichols, Selfridges and Topshop?

I describe it as the silent version, as it is, well for me at least. I do not utter a word or rather get the opportunity to. I am not deaf and dumb, or in possession of a highly trained golden retriever to guide me through life, hence maybe missing their advances for conversation. I get blanked, blatantly, often with no attempt to hide it. Some women acknowledge my stepdaughter by name and just look right through me. Who knew I was not only mute, but also invisible?

Others do acknowledge me with a stare or glare. I am a poet and did not know it! Again I am not being sensitive, they do. I think at present there is more chance of me meeting a talking dodo than there is that some of these women looking at me in a friendly manner despite my best efforts, I smile at them REGULARLY. DAILY. I am not rude.

Even my accidental attempt to conform by purchasing the trendy school gate mothers designer trainer of choice, aaaargh – what is happening to me???!!! – does not seem to be doing anything to get my foot in the door of the club if you know what I mean!

Still in reality am I bothered? No, and I really mean it. I listen to some of the conversations and cringe. Ailments, hygiene, educational analysis, sporting prowess. If these women were men you might say the discussions of their children resembled a big dick contest. It’s one upmanship at its peak. Pushy mothers. Shoot me now!

I just find it all so petty, to ignore someone like this. I mean I have not pulled a Myleene and dared to challenge them en mass in public. I stole nobody’s husband. It’s just plain bitchy, a clique resembling the masons where Delboy and I alike are blackballed and blocked from joining anytime soon.

What’s more I have done nothing to be treated like this. They do not know me or rather very little of me. I am younger than most but why would that cause it, I have friends of all ages. Are they all shy? Their behaviours suggest not. Nor do many of them lack confidence. So what is it? Do stepmothers who muck in and show they care intimidate them? It seems it might be the case.

Well it’s this or I have terrible body odour and bad breath and am completely clueless about both. But I very much doubt it. I shower. I brush my teeth. I spray a lot of deodorant and perfume on my person at regular intervals.

Also consider this. These women have stood and spoken to each other, morning and night, five days in seven, for over seven years. I thought someone new might be of interest to them I mean what do they find to talk about? I know we British women can chit chat complete bollocks with the best of them but this is pushing anyone’s limit for mindless chatter surely?

So here we are, nearly at the end of another term. A break from it all is looming, the Easter hols is not far off. Then the summer term beckons, which leaves me with maybe eight weeks of the catwalk to endure. I am literally counting down the days.

I admit defeat. I give up. I get it. I will never be in the gang and happy to be so. But one thing is for sure. My new trendy trainers are going nowhere I just love them too much and nothing comes between me and my shoes, NOT even the school gate mother social leper treatment.

Me, the wicked stepmother – what a load of rubbish!

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You know they say you should never self-diagnose illnesses on the internet. Well, the same rule applies to tests which tell you the kind of stepmother you are. NEVER EVER DO THEM.

I learnt this too late. Too late, by exactly the time it took to take the test twice. Yes I did the test twice. Like doctors and medical conditions, it’s never a bad idea to get a second opinion. Well it was here. Prepare yourselves. Wait for it. Here we go. On both occasions I was described as a wicked stepmother. WTF??

What a load of bollocks I told myself after the first attempt, as I found, staring back at me from the small screen, the image of Snow White’s stepmother with the caption ‘Get therapy NOW’. Which is exactly why I re-did the test for the second time. I clearly did not care about the test results. WRONG. I cared a lot. Too much as bloody usual. I am frequently a complete idiot.

So what was so critical in the test which formed a realistic appraisal of my stepmother skills? Basically bugger all. It referenced my likes and dislikes on the following: fashion, make up, music, exercise/sport, how I express opinions, holidays and yes my favourite housework!

Based on the final question it was like the mother in law had written it all to catch me out and finally get me ironing everything from the little shits shirts to my very small under crackers.

I mean, what relevance are any of those things on my stepmother behaviour? Zero. Zip. Nada.

Yes I take care in my appearance, read a lot of gossip and fashion magazines and believe housework is not a priority but how does that make me a bad stepmother? It does not. How are any of those things applicable to step mothering skills for the good or bad? They are not.

I suppose if I was the Mother Theresa of stepmothers I might have chosen some more child friendly answers but in truth there were not many that I could see. Hence my second attempt.

For instance holidays I liked exotic locations, the other choices being camping in the woods, child free holidays or cultural city breaks. It was clear, the assumption was made that anything other than camping in the woods, the mother earth answer to holidays, meant without kids. I mean who wrote this test – a cynical bitter ex-wife who likes to analyse stepmother behaviour through anything but rose tinted glasses?

I love exotic locations. I love my stepchildren. I like the two together hence why we honeymooned in Barbados with the kids. ‘SO THERE’ with my tongue out in an aggressive fashion.

If I were the wicked stepmother would I treat my stepdaughters wart infested feet? No.

Would I brave the dreaded nit comb? So frequently may I add that I ended up infested myself? No.

Would I tackle conversations on the birds and the bees, worms – yes you know that lovely thing little kids get, sweaty feet, why you need to bathe regularly and basically anything else that is thrown at me? No.

And I could go on but I won’t as I do not want to look like an evil minded, ranting, mad woman. Well no more than usual.

I am a good stepmother. I know I sound confident and probably a little cocky but it’s true. Maybe this is not an attractive quality but it’s a necessity. Why? Simple. As any stepmother will vouch, the critiques come thick and fast and well if you do not believe in yourself and your own capabilities, there is no hope of survival without the need for a good therapist to recover from the frequent, overly critical and often highly personal character assassinations you seem to encounter.

But anyway onwards and upwards. I am putting the test to the back of my mind and only getting my stepdaughters to clean the kitchen floor once a week with their toothbrushes! Ha ha ha ha ha (wicked laugh).

In truth the only test I need to pass is a simple one. The test of whether my stepdaughters like me, thank me and most importantly what the little shit thinks. And so far, most of the time, so good and all seem happy.

Job done.

P.S. The bit about the kitchen floor and toothbrushes was a joke. No need to contact social services.

The invisible woman

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It is often said in life if you are given lemons, to make lemonade.

This is a good analogy. It’s basically the idea to make the best of everything. Just if you really are going to make lemonade, follow a good recipe with plenty of sugar or you will resemble a bulldog chewing a wasp!

So recently I have at long last decided to do the same with my alter ego. To down a glass of it and embrace the afterglow!

So who is she, my alter ego, drum roll please…….she is ‘The invisible woman’. Why? Simple. I am to certain individuals to be seen, just not in public, no sorry I will amend that, anywhere, not even the front doorstep of my own home. My voice should never be heard. My name cannot be uttered, let alone put in a text message for necessary arrangements. My physical form is required only when there really is NO alternative for childcare.

It’s a FACT. A sad fact. It is not the ranting’s of one hysterical or bitter stepmother. These descriptions really do outline the treatment I receive. However, these actions are all a certain individuals choice not mine, might I add in any way, shape or invisible form. Everybody knows it. It is the proverbial big, glowing, pink elephant in the room.

It is unpleasant. It is unfair on the children. I have tried to improve things, but it’s like flogging a dead horse and well eventually even I, someone who rarely gives up on anything, has thrown in the towel. The little shit similarly. We play the game. We avoid pouring oil on the fire. We are not defeated. We are just being clever.

I can hear some mumblings now. Why do it that way? Why not put your foot down? Been there. Done that. The kids have worn the t-shirt and quite frankly that is the worst bit. It is the kids that suffer. Emotional upset. Forced choices. A guilty conscience. Resentment. Confusion. You get the picture. I will not be the cause of any of these emotions.

Besides if I really am the invisible woman, I may as well flaunt it. She was several people across a number of stories. My favourite. The super hero!

Therefore I will mostly be channelling my inner ‘Sue Storm’ of the ‘Fantastic Four’. She was sexy, Jessica Alba sexy to be more precise, rocked a near perfect body in a skin tight, blue, cat suit. A force for good, she was intelligent, well liked and loved by her family.

So maybe being invisible is not such a bad thing after all. There is like the lemons and lemonade many positives to be seen from my invisible status. And as a wise woman once said, it is not the opinion that matters but who holds it. Enough said.

Oh and of course, if you see a woman in a blue cat-suit on the school run you will know who I really am! #newuniform

I’m back!

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It’s exactly five weeks, three days, 12 hours, 52 minutes and various seconds since I blogged. Crap or what? Well in a positive way it’s actually a ‘what’. As basically having set up my own business I have been too busy to blog.

I also think I peaked too soon – I blogged twice in one day at one point!

So what is the real reason for my extended writing holiday?

Well its simple. you see I no longer have hours to kill at a desk, in a communal office, where I need to look like I am actually working as opposed to surfing the internet like a cyber-loafing, free loading, idle idiot.

As they say every cloud has a silver lining. The cloud being the lack of blogging, not the successful business bit.

I also have to be honest, I have struggled to know what to write about. A lot of things have gone on. Some mundane, some not so. Some firsts but definitely not lasts in terms of various scenarios. And well some things have very much remained the same but in a heightened, more reoccurring fashion.

At times gin seemed the only way forward. The shame being it was 10am on a Monday morning and well drinking behaviour like that is a slippery slope. And besides with my work load I did not have time to give it real decision making time and energy, i.e. making a list of pros and cons and therefore how to write about it.

Yes I am well and truly cryptic blogging. So let’s cut to the chase.

My blogging sabbatical is over. All change from here on in. I will be blogging again regularly with gusto. So watch this space.

Is there a ‘I love page three’ t-shirt I can buy?

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Page three, on and off like a light switch. Firstly there was a no-show then a, true to form, chest first reappearance. The tits did the talking so to speak back to their rightful place, on page three. I still in truth cannot believe that it causes such horror, annoyance and bad press. Whatever you want to call it I just cannot get excited or rather offended by it and the silly protest against it.

I mean really, let’s look at this in the bigger picture of life, the world, and the lives of women. Page three apparently objectifies us. Rubbish. We as women are objectified 24/7. You walk down the street, the hairy bottomed builders whistle and taunt. You are at the gym, the meat head muscle bound numpty’s are looking or shall I say leering. Heck even your fellow kind objectify you. Women are each other’s worst critic.

Women are objectified. Always. It’s a fact. It’s part of being a woman. Page three is a very public example of it. But like the builders wolf whistling, it’s actually harmless. There are no seedy pimps bullying and controlling anyone, these booby blessed girls choose to do it. Topless modelling is a career they embrace, love and make lucrative earnings from.  I mean isn’t that what feminism is all about, freedom of choice? Doing what we choose not what society dictates we should? Earning our own crust?

Besides men are portrayed in a similar vain to that of page three on occasion. Heat magazine has ‘torso of the week’. Beckham and those underwear adverts. The Chippendales and of course, the movie ‘The Full Monty’. Are men offended? No.

In a week where two qualified medical professionals, doctors to be exact, faced court after carrying out genital mutilation on a female patient, should we not be focussing on the bigger picture of matters such as these which are quite frankly appalling and should not be happening in any way shape or form? Surely this is slightly more important or am I going mad?

And there are bigger, pressing matters yet. Domestic violence. Human trafficking. Vulnerable girls being groomed for sex by large groups of predatory men. There is a massive and ever increasing amount of child porn material available on line. And speaking of porn. If page three objectifies us what does all that readily available porn that many teenage boys view nightly do to us? The violent kind. The completely degrading kind. I wonder.

Why are we not campaigning on these matters? Why are the brave bunch who took on The Sun not channelling their energies into these far more important matters? It appears that modern feminism is about equal choice for women in everything even if it’s not really relevant. If it’s not page three, it’s top jobs in certain industries. Maybe women choose not to work in said ‘anti-female’ industries, or dare I say it, maybe our strengths lie elsewhere. It’s not a bad thing. It’s not anti-feminism. It’s just life.

I ask you, are male doctors offended when we specify a female doctor to talk about our lady troubles. How many male midwives are there and if you got one when your vagina was about to double in size would you feel comfortable about it? Let’s be honest probably not. Are the men complaining? Well we know the answer.

Remember the book, ‘Men are from mars, women are from Venus’ well it was written and titled as such for a good reason. We are opposites and for the good of jobs, life choices and everything else sometimes despite all this new equality for women stuff we need to stick to it. Accept it. Maybe even embrace it. It’s a good thing.

And finally on the notion of being topless, and it being banned. Does this apply on the beach? I am starting to worry about my tan lines. Should big movies be banned if they feature a topless shot? I think of Jamie Lee Curtis in ‘Trading Places’ to name but one. Female icons who strip off, are they to be bullied? Madonna and Nikki Minaj to name a few are well published example of celebs doing boobies. Are we going to apply the no topless rule to these and countless other scenarios?

This proves how ridiculous this whole campaign is. Women actually campaigned for freedom of speech and here we are actually campaigning for examples of this to cease.

I will leave it there. The Sun and its page three is harmless. I applaud people who campaign, the time, the energy, you are amazing. But I will say one thing. In the anti-female world, there are bigger fish which need to be fried. So let’s go swim with the sharks and really make a difference where it is actually needed. (And yes I checked that sharks are actually types of fish.)

Happiness is eating and farting!

This week I have been married 9 months. All say aaaaaaaaah! It is a modern miracle let alone the modern fairytale I let you read earlier this week.

It has been great, life changing, confidence building and most of all flatulence inducing. Yes one of the biggest things has been finally, after nearly five years together, breaking wind in peace to a small audience. Finally being given the green light to let out a rasper in front of the other half. It is so liberating.

That wedding band I wear, well two of them, gave me the confidence to do it and not worry about being dumped for non-lady like behaviour. I mean who ever heard of divorce due to human produced gas explosions.

Hey do not judge its human and when you have reverse ventilation issues like I do, trust me, this is big! This is not ground breaking but wind breaking!

The other big thing is food. Getting married, in fact cohabiting for 3 years prior prevented starvation. My starvation. Or rather me turning into a life sized hard boiled egg.

Prior to living with the little shit I literally lived off eggs, scrambled eggs, boiled not poached eggs, an occasional scotch egg, pasta, toast, stir fry and a few more eggs. That’s a lie. Large bottles of Becks beer and spinach and Ricotta cheese pizza on a Saturday night were also menu options of choice.

My love of eggs was once so great that with an ex boyfriend I owned several chickens! The idea was to sell the produce. In truth I ate them all.

No wonder when I was more Bridget Jones, less wicked Cheshire stepmother my flatulence was worse! Egg fuelled flatulence is like super charged unleaded petrol. You get a lot more for your money!

You see I no longer starve or have share options with the fresh egg company as the little shit is a feeder. This ‘feeding’ is not the stuff of weird dating websites. He is a healthy normal weight and I am nowhere near an obese state. Well unless you refer to the anorexics scale then I am massive! No he loves to cook.

It’s sexy. Well that’s a lie. Its a necessity and sexy, as otherwise the kids growth would be stunted and well my flatulence would be even worse from my immense, continuos, huge consumption of eggs in various guises. It was ok living solo to be the equivalent of a human whoopee cushion but not for a loving family environment.

So as I sit here on another Sunday night awaiting my made from scratch steak and ale stew with potato croquettes for tea, I also breathe a sigh of relief that my days of cooking like Bridget Jones and the famous blue soup are over.

There is one small downside. All this #antijan eating, drinking and thinking is great but I am a vain bitch who likes to stay under a size 12. So all this feeding that I get has not done much for the size of my ass. I am a stone heavier than when he first cooked me steak with Béarnaise sauce. But on the positive a portion of it is in my now nicely enlarged breasts. #cloud #silverlinings

Hence I am frequenting the gym. Often it is part of my daily routine. So much so little shit recently asked me if I was having an affair? He was of course joking. Maybe I should tell him the truth. Vanity rules and yes I may now occasionally fart like a rhino in front of him, and be good with it, but the thought of getting too voluptuous in front of him is too much to bear.

So yes marriage is fabulous. Honesty reigns…….well in most things just not my vain side or rather my more voluptuous vain side.

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Posess and control? #madness

A very wise friend, a daughter of an avid Buddhist type, once said that ‘all our problems are caused by our desire to possess and control’. When she first said it, I did not believe it. But then I thought about it and the penny dropped. It’s so true, it’s scary.

When you initially consider it you think of it as monetary. Yes money. We are told L’argent, as the French call it, is power. Power ultimately leads to being in control. Money also gains you stuff or ‘possessions’. You can shop till you drop.

But what else does it apply to? Well everything. Friendships, relationships, shopping habits, fitness plans, diets, dog handling, cooking, nail painting, bikini waxing, dry January, sugar detoxing and my favourite……parenting.

Taboo I know, after all I am not a parent. But I figure I can comment as I witness parenting first hand, daily, hourly, in various guises, at the school gate, supermarket, bus stop, parties, you name it, it surrounds me. I also deal with parental emotions first hand being a stepmother. You see what it really does to someone when they only see their kids half the time, for the good and bad.

From experience, looking in from the childless world I navigate, to have a child, is to many, like having the ultimate possession. They are priceless, one of a kind so it appears many feel the need to behave in accordance with this. Think security which tops that used on the Crown Jewels.

Parenting is seemingly all about control. That’s reasonable. In many cases, it has to be. The child’s safety, health and happiness often depends on it. However, like the control on the Queens favourite hat, sometimes it’s control gone mad. Control for the bad, the obsessive. The ‘crap on anyone you see fit along the way’ kind of controlling behaviour. Think pushy parents, tiger mothers and the ultimate, mother of the bride. All controlling. All barking mad.

I know what you are thinking, that this is a biased perspective from someone who knows shit as she is not a biological parent. Maybe so. But like Tim Wilcox BBC journalist, or maybe not for much longer, I am entitled to an opinion. Just as he touched on Jewish behaviour I can touch on parenting.

But is it all healthy? What I refer to is this attitude. Possess and control. Possess and control. Possess and control. It’s like watching the Dalek’s on Doctor Who. It’s crazy. It’s a possession alright, a human possession of the psychotic, irrational kind. Intelligent individuals, even some very dear friends, quite literally have leave of any kind of sensible, common sense behaviour when it comes to their kids.

I thought parenting was a selfless thing, ‘it’s all about the kids’ I am frequently told. Well I’m sorry for many it’s not. Or rather it is an attempt that often fails miserably. It’s more about them. They have to be owner and chief. Their way or the highway. Give the kids a break.

The desire to control the kids, their behaviours, their whereabouts, even when they take a number two it appears, come what may, no matter what continent you the parent might actually be in is paramount. It is a painful thing to watch, let alone be on the receiving end of. I mean do I need to text you the lunch menu so you can agree their food choices whilst we holiday in the jungles of Bolivia?

If it were a movie, it would be ‘sleeping with the enemy’. The kids will however end up like Julia Roberts, throwing themselves overboard to escape, if you continue to be so controlling.

Or worse still they will turn into control freaks themselves. Remember the concept of learned behaviour??

So obsessive parents, why not let them be. After all they often have two parents. The ‘left home alone with the kids’ parents are more often than not savvy and capable. Some kids even have a bonus parent like me who is equally in possession of a working brain with common sense as a bonus skill. So wherever you are globally, even Outer Mongolia, staying on the side of said country with no phone lines, no transport links aside from donkeys and a population of five, four humans and said donkey, your child will be well looked after in your absence.

Furthermore, you will only cause trouble whilst trying to run your own life and everybody else’s simultaneously. It would be a pain in the ass if you did this without a 12 hour time difference let alone with one. Remember, nobody likes a control freak. FACT!

What’s more the kids themselves, like all dogs, need to get off the leash sometimes and do as they will. But hopefully not pee against a lamp post or shit on the pavement. Let them go. Let them do their own arranging. They will not forget you, they might even appreciate you more when they realise how much stuff you actually do for them.

And if they don’t, well you can tweet, text, snapchat or BBM them incessantly till they return. I have also heard satellites are cheap to hire now if you really want to stalk them in style. Helicopters can also be rented by the hour.

This controlling behaviour is all well and good. But will you have the energy for it when you are elderly and they are middle aged? I think not. Simple #GIVEITUP. Let them go.

Controlling and possessing them in whatever manner you see fit is not caring it’s stifling. Treating your child in this way is weird. After all, there is no ‘child’ category on eBay so you cannot buy and sell them as objects, at least not in this country, so why treat them like you can? THEY ARE NOT POSESSIONS, THEY ARE HUMANS. (All said in a Dalek voice.)

On a final note. Take yourself back. How would you have felt treated like this by your parents? There is silence. I rest my case. As I tell my stepdaughters daily treat people as you want to be treated yourself.