Lying to My Kids...

Yesterday Ed lost his third tooth. 

Last night the tooth fairy 'forgot' to visit. Caught up in working late & the adventures of Timmy the elf, it completely slipped my mind. 

He woke up this morning completely miserable. With claims that he'd been good and gone straight to sleep, he couldn't understand why she'd forgotten him. He was so sad and seemed so genuinely heart broken I couldn't tell him the truth. I couldn't simply hand over his £1. It seemed far more important to stretch it out, to push the 'story' to its absolute limits. 

You won't believe how far I pushed it. 

I told him I'd call the 'Mummy helpline'. 

With my phone to my ear, I made an effort to re-enact my usual phone call behaviour; I wandered around the house, tried to avoid noisy rooms, spent a fair amount of time on hold trying to get to the right department, remained polite and ensured one of them overheard the whole thing. 

It went a little like this;

(Phone to ear)

-pause-

"Oh hello, can I have the tooth fairy department please."

-pause-

"Hi. My son put his tooth under his pillow last night, and he went to sleep and everything but he hasn't been visited. His tooth is still there."

-long pause-

"Oh right. Okay. That's great thanks."

(Put phone down)

I told him that 200 kids lost a tooth last night and the tooth fairy was extraordinarily busy. Apparently there were loads of kids missed last night so she's doing an extra shift today while they're at school. 

He was shocked, I guess he never thought the tooth fairy could ever have too much to handle, especially when he's of that age when everyone is loosing teeth. 

Ahhh, it all made sense now. He was ok with that. 

He put his tooth box on the top of his pillow so she wouldn't struggle to find it & lives in hope she'll make it today while we're out. 

I can assure you, she has. 

My husbands reaction to this was;

"I wish you'd stop lying to him"

Which I of course understand but he was so dejected, I couldn't do the whole "oh, it's just a story anyway, here's a quid"

That would've been awful.  

And in fact, the more I think about it, the less I regret it. 

I think it's massively important to spend your childhood believing in magic and fantasy. Aside from the fact that it's the only time in your life you can put faith in such things, I think those dreams and fantasies are the foundations of creativism and free thought. 

Childhood is the only period of your life where absolute silliness can prevail. When while days can be spent making up your surroundings in pure, unadulterated play. What is imaginative play without magic? Without made up characters?

Obviously, at this time of year, we are well and truly amidst the story of Father Christmas, whose existence has been discussed greatly, but we are sticking to our guns and carrying on with the story for a little while yet. 

Why, at just six years old, would I take that away from him?

I found this interesting article on the Wall Street Journal website, about how important magical thinking is to kids, and how they use it to understand the world around them. It made me feel good (not something I often feel when it comes to my motherhood skills) about my decision to stretch the story. Like the article says, when he looked me straight in the face this morning, I assessed his level of doubt and found none, only sadness. We can go a little longer telling stories. And he'll need these skills to have a better understanding of history and people who live elsewhere in the world because the ability to imagine, to put yourself in someone else's shoes, is invaluable. I used to worry that imaginative play is so internal, because only they can see what they see, that it would encourage them to live in a bubble, but on the contrary, it will help them both become compassionate men.

One day they'll discover the truth and therefore the lies I've told them, but I hope they understand that I only did it to keep the magic alive. 

Unfortunately it does make my life difficult. 

Remembering the tooth fairy needs to visit a boy who often stays awake quite late and not neglecting the elf's activities every night for 24 nights in December is often more than I can cope with, but I'll battle on. 

The tooth fairy, in her angst, did leave the £1 coin but forgot to take the tooth. Ed decided her bag must have been too full and that actually he'd like to keep it anyway. So long as he's happy. 

Elf on the Shelf: The Adventures of Timmy Twinkles 2013 - updated

I can't tell you how excited I am about this year's elf on a shelf shenanigans...not that I have a clue what's in store for us! Last year I had it all planned out that doesn't seem to have happened yet.

Anyhoo, I thought, since I never got around to posting it last year, I'd show you what our Timmy Twinkles the Elf got up to last year.

So here goes....

Our Elf introduced himself by being found, early on the 1st of December, on the printer, photocopying his butt.

Here's a copy of the note he was found with, which was originally printed onto red card and was so small we could barely read it.

On the 2nd, Timmy Twinkles was found sat aloft the family photos with an incriminating red white board marker and someone had drawn on each one....

The boys were a little freaked out by this and quickly grabbed a cloth, frantically wiping it all off, while muttering about being worried he'd get them into trouble. I'll be honest, I was wetting myself laughing - I have NEVER seen them clean anything haha.

 On the 3rd, he was found in the middle of making paper snowflakes. The boys joined in and we hung them all up.

 On the 4th, he was tangled up in the lights on the boys little Christmas tree.

On the 5th, naughty Timmy had hung the boys underwear on their tree.

On the 6th, he was enjoying tea with some friends.

But things soon turned sour amongst the other toys and he was found on the 7th having been kidnapped by playmobil figurines.

 On the 8th, he got his own back on the world and wrapped the entire toilet in wrapping paper.

On the 9th Timmy had made a brilliant block tower, so tall it didn't fit in the photo.

On the 10th, he was enjoying milk and biscuits with some new festive friends, more to his liking.

On the 11th, he had a climbing adventure on our hallway decorations.

 On the 12th, he was found cooking in the boy's play kitchen.

But once again things went awry and on the 13th, he was found in the oven ready for roasting.

On the 14th, he had got the boys breakfast bowls out ready, but he'd also covered most of downstairs in sticky bows.

On the 15th, Timmy was in the process of finishing a jigsaw. Bean happily helped him finish it.

On the 16th he had some 'seeds' for the boys to plant, under strict instructions that they must only be planted in sugar.

On the 17th, the seeds had grown into candy canes and Timmy was riding a dinosaur in celebration. He does love candy canes you know.

On the 18th, he was found atop the Christmas tree, possibly trying to point out we still hadn't put anything up there.

On the 19th, he'd made himself an igloo using Jenga blocks.

On the 20th we all woke up to red noses and Timmy was found with Rudolf and an incriminating red paint dabber. It didn't wash off so we all spent the day looking like his friend. Thanks Timmy!

On the 21st, he had made a mighty mess, making Stollen using Nanny's recipe.
(That was the night I'd been out with the girls, thank goodness for Mums! Even at my age, they're still needed for rescuing haha. She'd come over while I was out and set him up).

On the 22nd he had letters from Santa for the boys.

On the 23rd he had been camping and toasting marshmallows.

The 24th was a sad day, the boys were gutted to say goodbye and he has been hidden somewhere peculiar ever since, sorry no, he has gone back to the North Pole to make presents!!

This is the note he came with.

So there you have it.

This year, I need to keep a closer eye on where Timmy is at all times because we don't have a 'no touching' rule so he's played with all day, every day and most nights I had to search the whole house. Often, I'd find him under Ed, who would purposefully sleep on top of him to stop him being naughty. He once tied him up with string to stop him getting away.

Writing this...it's possible I'm scarring my kids for life here, but when Timmy left, they were genuinely gutted. And it can't be as bad as a big fat man who fits down everyone's chimney. And what's a childhood without a little naughtiness?

If you want to follow this year's nonsense, the best way is through Instagram. 

Follow me on kitty5069 where the photos will be updated daily, or search #elftimmytwinkles.

I suppose I best get planning then....

Labelling children

So, what's wrong with a label?

My husband constantly complains he can't spell. He gets offended when I say he can he just needs to practice more. I'm not saying he's not worked hard enough, I'm just saying that by writing himself off, he's effectively giving up. Labelling himself as a 'none speller'. Someone who'll never be able to spell. There is of course a possibility that, as a very dyslexic man, he'll never be able to spell certain words, just as a fish will never be able to climb a tree but why give up entirely? He finds it embarrassing, and often avoids it, but in the years we've been married I've learnt to sound out his text messages and often they make perfect sense, so long as I do it in his Derbyshire accent.

It's the same with my eldest, Ed, who is undergoing a diagnosis for Asperger's. He may never be able to cope with certain situations; he may never be able to deal with a lot of noise or his lack of control. But I'm not certain that's true, given guidance and coping mechanisms he'll probably be just fine. 

The label could help him, provide him with the support he needs to carry out a normal and fulfilling life. I would like to hope it wouldn't hinder him, or encourage him to avoid situations he presumes he wouldn't be able to cope with. 

I know labelling children can be detrimental, creating a self fulfilling prophecy. 
The arty kids find it hard to gain respect in the maths class.
The mathletes find it hard to earn respect in P.E. class.
And the trouble makers finds it hard to gain trust because it's much less effort to just behave how everyone expects you to.
Maybe the ADD kid will never sit down because everyone around him presumes he can't. Or maybe, actually, he can't. 

My husband wasn't given his dyslexia diagnosis until it was too late. His self confidence had plummeted and with an earlier label and more support, maybe he wouldn't be so quick to write himself off.

Without a diagnosis, without an explanation as to why my little boys behave the way they do, I feel a little lost. My first port of call is of course to blame myself, blame my crappy parenting skills. But actually, I'm doing my best, I know I am.

During a family meal the other day, everyone commented (adults and children alike) that Ed was having crisps while everyone else enjoyed a delicious home baked meal. He was at least sat at the table, bless him. But we've been through all of this before, and I know he knows I think he's missing out on great food, but that isn't going to make a blind bit of difference to him. For some unknown reason, he can't bring himself to eat most foods. What they didn't see was that before everyone had pudding, he had a bowl of cereal, a cereal he'd never tried before. With gentle encouragement he took two nibbles of the dry flakes, which disgusted him, but then five minutes later he asked if he could try it with milk. I made him a small bowl, which he ate, so I topped it up and we were happy for him to have pudding with everyone else (crisps do not earn you pudding deserving status in our house). He did his best, he tried something new (epic!) and he handled it brilliantly, but I imagine everyone still thinks I'm a bad mother for not making him eat the yummy meal. 

Fresh from a meeting with a speech and language therapist today, presumably the first of many meetings regarding my youngest, who chooses to use his fists instead of his words at school, I found that my referral from the doctor had coincided with a referral from school which basically said he was at risk of being expelled. I knew this of course, but it was a shock to see it on paper. 
Please excuse me while I have a little cry because my lovely little ray of sunshine is deemed 'a threat' by strangers. I can't put into words how sweet Bean is, he just can't seem to control his emotions. 
The therapist seemed surprised to hear that his school haven't started putting any systems in place to deal with his behaviour yet, aside from the one they use for everyone, but I'll not slag them off because they have been so kind and understanding with both my little guys and together we'll get there in the end.

My point is, left to his own devices, my beautiful, loving, bouncy, intelligent little man would soon be expelled from school simply because everything in his head is all jumbled up, it moves too fast and he can't concentrate long enough to see it. He has no idea what his doing, he doesn't understand the consequences enough to stop himself before it happens. The self esteem of this gorgeous boy is in our hands, and a label will help him understand who he is, that he's not broken, he's just different.
Talking to the therapist today, trying to answer all her questions, made me realise just how much we, as a family, just get on with it. We have so many different coping strategies which come so naturally now, it's difficult to pin point which ones are abnormal. As we chatted, I realised that actually having my Mum, who visits at least three times a week turn round to me a say; 
"Yay! Bean said two whole sentences to me!" 
is abnormal because he's five, he just doesn't often choose to speak to other people.
It helps that Bean and I are on the same page. We have always simply clicked and I'm now wondering if there's a running theme here. The more I research ADHD, the more it makes perfect sense to me. I think I presumed everyone's mind worked this way, but maybe that's not the case. I read this a few weeks ago and it pretty much sums up the warning I gave Mr Strawberry before we got married. I remember sitting him down and explaining just how hard I will be to live with. Until I started looking into how to deal with Bean, I never realised how many of these ADHD traits I have myself. I did one of those lovely online tests and got a ridiculously high score. I bet the Doctor would love it if I turned up with that haha. I imagine they get really sick of self-diagnosis and web research. Thankfully, Mr Strawberry loves me regardless.
It's going to sound mean, but my Asperger's research has only led to confusion, I can't seem to get my head around it and more often than not, Ed and I rub each other up the wrong way. I feel nothing but gratefulness that he at least has Daddy. Daddy gets him in a way I cannot. I love him and I'll always provide for him, but I struggle to understand what's going on in his noggin.

The problem with labelling is that it can make us a bit lapsy-daisy. I often find myself forgiving Ed for things I wouldn't let Bean get away with and visa versa. My expectations for each of them is different, but I could be really really wrong.
Also, I've never told them what my visits to the doctor are about because I don't want them to feel 'abnormal'. I occasionally wonder if at the end of this, if one of them, or both of them, doesn't get the diagnosis we're after, will I fight for it? I'm not sure. Today's society of labels creates a vision of what is 'normal' and labels what is not. I don't want my kids to feel like outsiders. We are all individual snowflakes, each with our own quirks. So maybe, treating them differently is exactly what I should be doing. They are not the same child, the same rules do not apply (to a certain extent of course, because no-one is allowed to throw shoes at Mummy's head!). When Ed starts to get grouchy, we encourage him to spend some time alone to gather his thoughts, either in another room with some Lego or on Minecraft. When Bean punches me in the tummy, I ask him politely not to do that (he doesn't listen). I don't naughty step them, because for them, that is a cruel torture device (I understand it works for others, I'm not judging). In fact, when Bean gets really out of hand and can't be distracted, I sit down and hug him, because sofa time with Mummy seems to help when his head's exploding.

But Ed will never be able to cope with the well meaning but heavily sarcastic remarks made by strangers. The other day, while we were paying for our shopping at the checkout, the stupid cashier commented on his thick hair and asked if he could have it. I knew the exact thoughts that were passing through his mind and his shocked expression confirmed my fears. I do so wish people would stop that.
Maybe they both need t-shirts (in their favourite colours of course);

Bean's.

Ed's.

I Ain't Scared...I Think.

Lately I've been cleaning our local preschool every evening. Being alone in that place doesn't bother me, it's chocca full of evidence that children have been there playing to their hearts content. It's a happy place. Cleaning up there is very similar to home so it's no hardship. 
But when it goes dark outside I scare myself silly.

Talking about it with the manager a few days ago I admitted to closing the blinds in case zombies find me.
This is a very real fear.
Think about it, if the world came to an end in any other way, I'd notice.
Asteroid crash, I'd notice the explosion.
Acid rain, I'd hear it on the tin roof. 
A big freeze, I'd notice. There's no heating on by the time I'd get there brrrrr.
I may even notice a sudden influx of fire breathing dragons.
But a zombie apocalypse...that could creep up on me. The world as we know it could come to an end and I wouldn't notice a thing, I wouldn't hear the scratches of zombie fingers at the door over the vacuum cleaner. But if I keep the blinds closed, maybe they wouldn't notice I'm there all alone, tasty brains and all. I could keep myself locked in, raiding the coffee and biscuit supplies, indefinitely.
There was an incident the other day. As I hoovered, I suddenly heard a screech, a proper blood curdling scream. My head filled with a wide variety of swearwords before I remembered I'd just hoovered up a tiny piece of paper. Once it passed through, the screaming died away.

It seems as though fear has been a big part of my life the past few weeks. 
I don't know what it's like where you are, but here, every September the house is full of spiders. Now, of course, the sensible me knows they are always here and you only see them in September because they come out for mating season, but still, let's not dwell on that too long, I may freak out. I hate spiders. They make my skin crawl. Just writing this is giving me actual shivers. They have been massive this year. It got to the point where every day I was coming across a great big beastie. I had thought it might de-sensitise me some what, but it hasn't helped at all. And I never did get over the whole Driving with Miss Muffet incident.
A few weeks ago, while putting a new duck house (what I made all by myself!) into the duck pen, I managed to get a spider on me. There had been a lot of bugs in there, but I'd remained brave. I thought I was fine, until while carrying something into the house, both hands full, I could feel something crawling on the back of my neck. I couldn't do anything about it until I'd put the things down, but I managed to get into the house, put them down, and yank off the creepy crawly which turned out to be a spider I'd seen previously.
I knew exactly how it had happened; it had been on a plank of wood which I fallen back onto during a clumsy moment. I tried not to completely freak out, and my darling husband congratulated me on keeping my cool, but inside I was jelly.
Then, last week, while loading the washing machine, I felt that same tickle on the back of neck. I brushed it off only to knock a little spider straight into my bra. I couldn't fish it out, so I squished it against my boob. Then I had to do a funky little bending over dance to get the corpse out of there without touching the damn thing.
Whenever these things happen, my skin crawls for hours after. Sometimes I have to change my clothes when a 'spider check' (you know, when you get someone to check your back in case something is there you can't see yourself) isn't enough to stave off the creepies.

Kinemortophobia; fear of a zombies. I can't say it or spell it but I obviously have it. 

According to Wiki, phobia is an irrational fear.
It doesn't make any real sense for me to be scared of either spiders or a zombie apocalypse. 

I know this.
I'll have to get past it somehow. On the plus side, nothing has ever happened, I've never been bitten by a spider, or even a zombie. My worst fears are very unlikely to happen, so there's really no point. 
As I write this, I got a call from someone who will be popping into preschool while I clean tonight, warning me not to cack myself when the door suddenly opens. Thanks for the warning! I needed it haha. Can you imagine?

So, what are you scared of? 
I once knew someone who was sacred of buttons. Oddly, we were on a fashion design course together. Now that is silly!
Tell me, what's the silliest, most unreasonable thing you are scared of? Feel free to entirely embarrass yourself :)

PS. If like me, you are of a slightly delicate nature, do not under any circumstances google image search the words 'fear', especially 'fear of zombies'!

Selfie Mummy

Before we got married and had children, Mr Strawberry and I used to go on road trips and he'd snap the two of us. It became 'a thing' we had to do. It was awesome.

Now it seems it's a thing everyone has to do...but alone in front of a bathroom mirror...with a duck face pout.
Weird.
One of the many reasons I'm glad we didn't have Facebook during my youth.

However, I enjoy being an iPhone generation Mummy.

With phone in hand, I am constantly taking pictures of my little guys and playing online games during the more mundane parts of our days. But when I scroll through the mountains of photos I’ve taken of my children, my husband occasionally pops up but my face is quite rare.

It’s an argument I’ve brought to his attention many times in the past but the poor soul just simply never thinks I might like him to take a photo of me and the boys as we go about our business. I started handing him my phone at opportune moments and he’d take one really crap photo. He has since learnt to just leave his finger on the button and thankfully there’s usually one that's half decent.

We recently went to a family wedding. When we arrived, I took one of Mr Strawberry and I, since we were all dressed up. I was done up to the nines, which is highly unusual for me. I was even feeling extra brave a wearing red lipstick, so it seemed a waste not to.

During the day we ended up going on an unexpected miniature train ride. I guess I must have been lost in the moment (train ride!! The boys and I may have been a little excited) and I took loads of selfies of us all in our little train cabin.

I remember when I was planning my wedding, my darling Mother recommended I get a good photographer because when the day is over, it's all so manic you barely remember anything. She was so right! Years later, I have a few vague memories but I've got a ton of photos which depict the day perfectly. Without them, I'm certain I would question whether it happened at all. So, if that's the case, how am I going to prove to my ageing self that I was present in my children's upbringing? 

My 2014 file of photos, all taken on my phone, already exceeds 12GB. That's a lot of photos. I'm in about four of them. It's bad enough as a mother you lose a sense of self; everything becomes about the baby and we don't have much time for the things we used to enjoy, but to vanish from the photo folders too? 

That's pants. 

And it's time to take matters in to our own hands.

With this thought sitting at the back of my mind, I went away for a weekend for some time to myself and to catch up with an old friend.

Safe to say, I went a bit 'selfie' mad.

Outside my first youth hostel experience (obviously, tired).

Outside the Globe Theatre.

Outside the Tate Modern.

Checking for Dementors at the Millinium bridge.

In front of a Monet.

Outside St Pauls.

With a friend and bright blue telephone box (not the TARDIS).

Outside the National Gallery.

With a blue chicken in Trafalgar Square.

When I was posing for the last one, a bloke offered to take it for me and I told him I was "doing a thing" (plus I was never going to hand my iPhone to a stranger!). Probably came across a little crazy but hey ho.

So, grab your phones, take lots of pictures of the kids, then turn the phone around or press that snazzy button and take some of you too. You know you'll regret it if you don't and when the kids are gone, all you'll have is a much older face and no photos of that less wrinkly version you used to wear when you were busy taking photos of other people.

I'm Trying Not to Regret the Little Things, But it's Difficult When I'msuch a T**t.

Ever have one of those moments that you wish you could take back?

Not the big moments we all regret but the little seemingly insignificant ones.

And I'm not even talking about those moments when you should have reached in for that kiss - it took me about 9 hours of talking all night and drinking cheap white wine to kiss my now husband - or the moments you shouldn't have, like when it was my boyfriend's friend. 

I'm talking about the ones that stay in your brain and crop up all the time, even though you know you're being silly. Those times you made a bit of a tit of yourself and just wish you could take back.

I used to be an avid over thinker. I would go over all the conversations and social situations I had been in over the previous few days, cross examine them intensively and often found a excuse to wish for a rewind button. These days I try to be a little easier on myself. Mostly I think people are too wrapped up in their own lives to over think me and the silly things I do, in the same way I never notice anyone else's strange behaviour and wonder if they wish they had a re-do option. Training myself to stop over thinking has been one of my biggest challenges but I'm getting there.

But there are some moments that just won't go the hell away.

When I was quite new as a Mummy and showering was done in a rush, there was one time when I found what I first thought to be cream cheese in my ears. Unfortunately, when I found it I was in the company of someone I don't know particularly well but someone who was important to my Mother's life in a business sense. Sleep deprived, my thoughts were spoken aloud as I wondered how the hell my little boy had managed to get cheese in both my ears. We hadn't eaten any in a few days at least.

I later of course discovered that while showering (in our freshly installed shower after being so used to having a bath for my daily cleanse) I was washing my face scrub into my ears, where those little dishes collected it and it remained all day until my next shower, where I added more.

These days rinse my ears thoroughly, probably too thoroughly, but the memory pops into my head every single time. I pine for a chance to take it back, to explain, it wasn't that I was filthy, quite the opposite. But it'll never happen.

This one doesn't crop up very often. Thankfully my memory is so bad I don't remember even 10% of the stupid things I've done but still, it's there in the back of my mind.

We haven't been on holiday in a few years which is probably just as we'll because last time we went, while getting dressed fresh from the sea, caught up in a moment of beach dudette-ness, feeling rather free spirited, as I dried the salt water from my body and shoved my clothes on under my towel, I accidentally showed my lady garden to my little sister's boyfriend. If I could have contained myself a little better, it wouldn't have happened.

There's obviously no way round some of the stupid stuff I've done, I just have to let it go. Put it down to experience and try to keep my damn mouth shut in future, or at least invest in a bigger towel.

It's funny because I do not regret the bigger stuff. 

There is a vague niggle of regret for not finishing my degree in London when I was at a truly prestigious university, but had I not moved and finished it elsewhere, I would not have met, and consequently married, my soul mate. 

All of my decisions, however good or bad, all led me to where I am, who I am now.

Yesterday, very aptly, while reading the work of a friend I came across a poem which really struck a chord. I'm certain he won't mind me sharing it with you here. Bare with me, it's long and won't be to everyone's taste (contains swear words, drug use & mentions sex), but give it a go.

A Three-Part Harmony in a Deep Sleep.

By Christopher P.P. White.

Smoking on the tenth floor

Of ten-story car parks

With a joint that wilts

Like a dying rose;

Grasping onto sanity

Whilst the walls

Covered in graffiti

Spin like a laundromat's innards.

My feet pointing upright,

The smell of a strangers urine in my nostrils,

The flickering spotlights flicker

In time to my tune-

A normal Friday night, I say,

As I drift off to a slumbered state.

Drinking the contents

Of acquaintances' fridges

At house parties and runaway homes.

Bottles of cheap beer and corner shop wine

Flood my lungs

And their voodoo curse

Attacks my lucidity with force;

I end up on the railings

Of a Jehovah's Church,

Under the new day's watch

With the help of police officers

And the responsibilities that the law provides.

I've slurred in front of the cops

Far too many times.

Not a day goes by

That I don't miss the drugs,

The booze, the recklessness,

The deep conversations under

A cloud of smoke,

The all nighters in pool halls,

The excitement of attraction,

The laughing fits,

The music--

THE FUCKING MUSIC!

The falling asleep to indie films,

The bubbling euphoria of being young

And being alive and wanting

To wake up and live the whirlwind

All...over...again.

I miss it.

Who wouldn't?

I would live through that beautiful mess

Every day for the rest of my life

If I could.

I'd rather have those times than

Gaze upon a sandy beach,

A fuck with no repercussions,

A guzzle of a £200 bottle of red wine,

A substantial win on the lottery,

A day in space,

A week abroad,

A meal cooked in a Parisian restaurant,

A second shot at being a kid again,

A striptease,

A new book of poems,

A look through old photos,

A freshly rolled cigarette,

A dance to a great song,

A first breath in an intrepid breeze,

A world without Jazz,

A time without war...

I would live through the intoxicated youth again,

The failed relationships,

The sleepless nights,

The self-loathing after a bender,

The lonely beds,

The tears,

the abuse,

The pain,

Anger,

Sorrow,

I would live through my years as a failure

And make all of those bad mistakes again,

Because it led me to you.

The book, his second collection of poetry, is available here.

Comment below and tell me an embarrassing story that makes you wish you had a 'do-over'. 

Complete with gruesome details please. 

I need you to make me feel better about showing my muff to a boy half my age.

Love to you all xxx