Words of warning and welcome:

This is very much my blog, so don't be surprised if this doesn't follow accepted patterns and norms. Obviously it started out as a blog about my cross-dressing but it has developed a great deal since then. It is a place where I can be anonymous and honest, and I appreciate that.

It will deal with many things and new readers would do well to check out the New Readers' Page above this and the tag down there on the right. Although there's nothing too bad in here there will be adult language, so be careful. If you think this needs a greater control, please let me know. Thank you!

Sunday, 7 December 2014

I have nothing

Apart from being part of the grotesque lengths of mistranslation of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air's theme tune (see the video below) this is also the title of a track from Plumb, a Christian band/solo artist who gets a bit punk-y, and an accurate depiction of what I have in my head for posting here.

A good dark ale this one. Stout? Alas, I had but a half of
Coach and Horses from Tetley as we were in the Coach and
 so it seemed logical.

Three hours later I was designated driver, so safe.
Why? No real reason. I was out on Friday with a very male group of people what play football for a curry and a bevvy of drinks. It was a good night, there were good conversations that left me flattered (no, really) about teaching, our craft, and teaching, the political football, and teaching, the school at which we work. I was able to offer two of my colleagues a lift home and that went well too. I was also, subtly, put in my place. There are weekends away for members of this very masculine group and I have never been inculcated into that inner-sanctum but a new member was on that evening. I am, thus, the only member of the group so far not invited to these. Make of that what you will, you can imagine how I have interpreted it - I'm not offended but nor am I particularly surprised. Perhaps a little disappointed. Oh, and there were teams to be chosen on the Friday. Yes, I was left until last.

Ha ha ha. I wish.
Saturday we processed north to see my mother and some friends for the exchanging of Christmas gifts. It was a long, but generally good, day. Lots of travelling (I live in the UK, our distances are laughably short - less than 200 miles here - but every bit as tiring as US distances - in Michigan we managed more than this per day but with cruise control and no corners). I had two ales round my Mother's that evening and it was good. But the Boy did not get to sleep until 11pm. Cue much grizzling today. It does not bode well for my Father's mad birthday meal at 7pm on Christmas Eve round a place with nowhere to go for children and an expectation of smart clothes, quiet and refinement (I mean, seriously? Seriously?). Still, after a little mucus-invoked vomit in the car and a mega-tantrum, the Boy settled to sleep easily enough.

Yes. This sums it up - that's pretty much how the hugging
looked when trying to calm the Boy.

I looked less nice.
This latter point deserves some unpacking if only because I am quite proud of how I handled it. I stayed with him, telling him that I understood his feelings and how much he hated feeling them but that they were fine to be feeling and that, even though I couldn't help, I would be with him. I told him that his Daddy loves him and that his Daddy understood his anger, his disappointment and his sadness but that his Daddy would not leave him as long as he wanted me there. And it worked. It's not the first time I've done this nor the first time it's worked, but it is the first time that a weekend of travel left me tired enough to shed tears of solidarity whilst doing it.

Then, online, there were the following things:

This article made me cry and I want to do something.

This article made me angry and I want to do something.

This video (below) is beautiful and I cannot accurately explain why - you just have to watch it.

This blog (look at the links too) gave me pause and made me want to do something.

And, as I get older, I get more radical. I'm beginning to wonder if riots, direct action and anger may be the way to actually enact change. Maybe. Maybe not. I am less and less attached to property the more I live with my family.

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All comments are welcome, I have a thicker skin virtually than I do in real life!