The Non-Mum Network

Ageing raver: I love the glitz and glamour of clubbing
almost as much as the music itself

Those Bird's Eye Viewers who have the dubious pleasure of being acquainted with me in real life will know that I love to party - the whole process of pondering which outfit to wear for weeks in advance...which accessories...perhaps buying a blingy new pair of heels; selecting false eyelashes and face glitter whilst out shopping, head tilted as I cradle my iPhone on one shoulder, chattering away to my mates as we come up with a group game plan for the forthcoming shindig.

I love clubbing; I pride myself on the fact that there's barely a cool club in London I've not frequented and had never been turned away by a clipboard-bearing Door Whore...until of course I went happily trotting upto the red ropes of the Mummy Club, beaming away expectantly, eager to come in and join the fun. 

The glamorous young MILF on the door took one look at me - looked through me into the depths of my empty barren womb - and promptly declared "You're not on the guest list...you can't come in," before turning on her stiletto heels and dismissing me with a flick of her wrist. Oh. Never one to be beaten down so easily, I had several attempts at IVF before returning to the Mum Club once more. Again, I was turned away. "Your name's not down, you're not coming in..."

"Not even with a mate who's a member?" I begged, my dignity rapidly being replaced with desperation. "I'm not expecting a freebie, or even concessions, I'll pay full whack" I whined.

"Uh uh," replied the door staff sternly - all the commotion attracting quite a crowd of Mum Club regulars; members who were by now regarding me suspiciously through narrowed eyes. Who was this Non-Mum imposter, attempting to infiltrate the Mummy Club? What was she doing here?

Crestfallen, I slunk off homewards, yanking off my false eyelashes as I blinked back tears; scrubbing off my Glitterlips on the tube. I was devastated to be turned away. I vowed not to be beaten...

Years later, feeling strong and positive once more, I made a conscious decision not to let the whole experience of being turned away from the Mum Club continue to get me down. I had a lightbulb moment - an idea so obvious that I instantly wondered why I'd not come up with it sooner: I'd open my own club. 

This club would be exclusively for women who'd also been turned away at the entrance to the Mummy Club; those who had done everything they could think of to be allowed entry: eating the right foods, hanging around with mums, trying to look like a mum even, before turning to fertility treatment as a last resort - but for whom the doors to the club remained resolutely closed. Then I decided to open the door a bit wider: to allow other women into the club, ones for whom The Mummy Club was never an attractive venue, but who would like to hang out with other Non-Mums anyway. 

My club? The Non-Mum Network. 

It may just be a virtual club at the moment - picture a chic and bijou little members-only establishment: expensive but comfy oxblood leather sofas; soft lighting; free-flowing cocktails being served by hot bartenders; an achingly hip DJ spinning tunes in an alcove - low-level at first before ramping up to fever pitch as we all get relaxed and tipsy, confiding in one another in the chill-out area. Who knows, one day I might have a real life Non-Mum Network venue - a physical place for women like me to meet other women for lunch or workshops. I'm dreaming big. 

If you've also been denied entry to the Mum Club, the one club you most wanted to get into, whilst everyone around you is breezing into it just by flashing a wristband, fear not. Follow this Facebook post for more information...


Why not add me as a friend on Facebook, search on Facebook for the Non-Mum Network under 'groups' or just click here to go straight to it. It's a closed group so everything said in there is for members' eyes only. I've also got a Non-Mum Network public page. 

So if you're not a member of the Mummy Club, come and join us instead. We've got bouncers on the door to keep the mums out, just in case a few try to slip in under the rope, as I did with their club 😋. You need never feel alone as a Non-Mum again... 

Ibiza 2006: smiling with my imaginary baby
(I didn't realise at this point my Non-Mum status was permanent)

#The Non-Mum Network

This article has also appeared in the Huffington Post UK. 

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com

www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com

www.mummymission.blogspot.com

www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76

Facebook: Samantha Jane Walsh

Instagram: wanderingblonde76

I'm a guest on Mike's Open Journal Podcast

G'Day Birds Eye Viewers!

How are you all on this dull February morning?

Now, those of you who know me personally and not just via the blog will already know that I'm something of a motormouth. I have a tendency towards being pretty full on: turbo-charged and as nutty as a tray of Ferrero's at the Ambassador's Reception. Some of you may remember my previous podcast recorded with Washington DC-based podcasters Sip And Shine.

Trying to get a word in edgeways when I'm on one is no mean feat...as Mike Douglas, creator of the mental health podcast Mike's Open Journal, was about to find out, when he invited me onto his show to talk about my experiences with mental health issues, specifically in relation to infertility, IVF and marriage breakdown, as described in this blog post...

                              
Having had his own experience of mental health issues and also a marriage breakdown and no children, Mike and I have plenty in common. Unfortunately what we don't have in common is the same calm and controlled style of speech, so listening to Mike's even and lilting tone will be soothing and easy to listen to; my own hyper and breathless babbling...not so much.

I wonder which one's me...?
photo credit

So apologies for the frantic pace of my chatter - oh, and the fact that I sound like Pat Butcher from Eastenders...and say "yeah" a thousand times. Believe it or not, despite the mile-a-minute rambling, I actually don't like the sound of my own voice that much. Let's just say I make Bianca Jackson sound posh.

Anyway, thanks for listening! I hope I don't send your blood pressure soaring and you can listen with a nice cuppa, and not require a vodka and a fistful of Statins to get through the hour-long episode....


 To listen to the podcast click here


Listen to Mike's other episodes 
Follow Mike's Open Journal on Twitter

Who, me? I don't know what you mean...
photo credit

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:
www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com

www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com

www.mummymission.blogspot.com

www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76

Facebook: Samantha Jane Walsh

Instagram: wanderingblonde76

Speaking Out About Sexual Abuse: The Seed Of Change

photo credit

A child is like a tiny seed; a tree at the start of it's long life. The quality of the soil, the water, the climate - all determine the tree that seed will grow into. It's the duty of everyone who comes into contact with that little sapling to nurture it and protect it from the elements; to help it grow.

I don't have a child, but I've been one, and so have you, so we're all qualified to speak about this topic. We all remember the bewildering feeling of being small, defenceless; not yet understanding the world. Everything we encounter as a child is new: in turn awe-inspiring and confusing, fascinating and terrifying, as we look to the grown-ups to guide us and help make sense of it all. To be betrayed by the very adults that are meant to protect us causes lasting, irreversible damage. The bark of that young tree is marked with permanent scars.

The recent revelations of widespread sexual abuse in football have once again brought this difficult topic to the fore, although for victims of abuse it's never far from their minds. A survey last week revealed that 86% of respondents had either been abused themselves, or knew someone who had. This figure, whilst shocking in itself, is likely to be even higher in reality, as it doesn't include those who have never breathed a word of their suffering to another soul - of which I'm sure there are many.

So I, alongside many others, was disgusted by the recent ignorant comments made on Twitter by Eric Bristow: a washed-up former darts player who was probably spouting his nonsense from his front room, beer can in hand, whilst watching old reruns of Bullseye.

Eric, the overweight chain-smoking dinosaur who's been putting the "cock" in Cockney since 1973, implied that the victims were somehow "wimps" for not taking action sooner. I took to my own social media account to let him know exactly what I thought of his careless and damaging remarks, and was horrified to discover that although the majority of my friends and followers firmly agreed with me, there was the odd (very odd!) person who defended him. One particular Bristow-sympathiser was a woman, albeit an "old school" one from a similar era as him, who questioned why anyone would "wait thirty years to speak up."

Whilst infuriated and incensed by their comments, I'd actually like to thank Eric and his out-of-touch cronies, as their ignorance inspired me to write this piece.

Firstly, they clearly have never experienced any form of bullying, assault or abuse themselves, otherwise they would have some understanding and compassion for the shame, fear and self-loathing that wraps itself around the victim like a bone-crushing boa-constrictor.

Many years ago, when I was of primary-school age, I was sexually assaulted several times by the neighbour of a relative. Despite being appalled, disgusted and terrified on each occasion, I didn't tell anyone what had happened until much later and soon after that, the man died. I came from a loving family, I knew it was wrong, yet I was told by this person to stay quiet, so I did.

Does that make me a wimp? Of course not. Quite the opposite in fact. It takes a lot of courage to carry around a burden like that, especially as a child. I know several people - strong, amazing people - who have also been sexually assaulted, raped or abused. In most cases, the perpetrator went unpunished.

So I have nothing but the utmost respect for these footballers and others who have been abused - in fact all victims of any crimes - who find the courage and strength to speak out - no matter how long it takes for them to feel able to do so.

Self-confessed selfie-queen Karen Danczuk has also recently been in the spotlight for winning a court case against her brother, who was last week found guilty of repeatedly raping her (along with two other victims) throughout her childhood. Having attempted to bury the trauma for many years, Karen finally spoke out on Thursday during an emotional interview on the daytime television show Loose Women, during which she told of her shattered confidence and efforts to seek approval from others through constant selfies, a habit which had previously seen her ridiculed and written off as arrogant and narcissistic.

Those of you who read my blog regularly will know that I don't shy away from broaching difficult topics, yet it's taken me until this post (my 60th article for 'Life: A Bird's Eye View') and forty years of life on Earth to write anything about this subject - although I've started to a few times then hit the 'delete' button instead of 'publish.'

Common effects of abuse include anger issues, low self-esteem, depression, self-harm, law-breaking, substance abuse and promiscuity. This may seem like a tenuous link, but I directly attribute my childlessness to those unfortunate childhood experiences, since the careless behaviour which led to my cervical cancer surgery and subsequent inability to conceive was a direct result of my damaged self-worth caused by those events.

The repercussions were mental, as well as physical. I was afraid of bringing another person into this world, for fear of passing on my flaws; the responsibility for shaping the personality of another human being just too great. Well, I got my wish and never became a mum. (I later changed my stance on this and went on to have multiple failed IVF cycles; it was too late).

Why am I telling you this? Certainly not for sympathy, or to jump on any bandwagon; rather to illustrate the far-reaching effects of sexual abuse, and that it can happen to anyone.

So how can we protect our children from these vile predators?

It is vital to talk to your child. Even if you think they are too young for such a conversation - they are not. The NSPCC Pants campaign and accompanying Pantosaurus Quiz are great tools to assist with this, and the charity recommends introducing them to children as young as four.

Do not make the mistake of thinking that it can't or won't happen to your child. Abusers are usually well known to the child: a family member, family "friend" or trusted adult in a position of authority. These are rarely scary strangers in macs; they are the smiling, normal-looking men you've known (and trusted) for years.

This has to be a joint effort. It's up to all of us to protect all children, not just our own. One in five girls under 18 is a victim of sexual abuse, and one in 25 boys. If you suspect something, do something. If a child's behaviour changes, find out why. The internet presents a whole extra dimension of risk that didn't exist when my generation was growing up; including very young children being groomed online whilst their parents watch TV downstairs, oblivious. Educate yourself - your children are probably more internet-savvy than you are.

By talking openly about uncomfortable topics such as this, we remove some of the shame, guilt and isolation felt by the innocent victims. Perhaps then, we can prevent some of these incidents happening in the first place - and if they do happen, hopefully victims will feel able to speak out sooner and the perpetrators punished so that they can't harm anyone else.

We've all heard the saying: "from tiny acorns mighty oak trees grow." Well it's up to us to nurture those tiny acorns as they grow into trees, warding off silent predators that creep like poison ivy, threatening to wrap their suffocating fronds around delicate branches. A child can only truly reach his or her full potential as an adult if they are allowed to blossom without suffering physical and/or psychological harm.

So please, look around you; be aware. Let's not blindly trust people with access to our children, no matter who they are or how well (you think) you know them. Sometimes, you can't see the wood for the trees.

Useful Links:

NSPCC parents' guide
Samaritans
NAPAC
The Compassion Cure

This article has also appeared in The Huffington Post UK.

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com

www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com

www.mummymission.blogspot.com

www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76

Facebook: Samantha Jane Walsh

Instagram: wanderingblonde76

Mummy Mission

My second blog, Mummy Mission, was a short-lived infertility blog; the blog may have been short, but the journey was looooooong (7 years to be exact)........


                                                  www.mummymission.blogspot.com

Behind The Smile....by Anon (A Non-Mother, that is)

There are two halves to most women's lives, clearly divided: BC (Before Children) and AD (After Delivery). As was the case with Jesus (should you be religiously inclined), welcoming a child into your life causes time to start all over again. Such is the significance.

For most, as soon as that second faint blue line appears on the pregnancy test, there comes a complete mental shift in attitude, long before any physical changes are apparent. The carefree, party-til-dawn kinda girl is immediately replaced by a responsible vision of virtue, much like the revered Virgin Mary herself.

Whether the newly-discovered foetus in her womb was the result of a drunken quickie or carefully-planned conception, it makes little difference once the nurturing instinct kicks in. No sooner has the pee dried on the plastic stick than she's tossing that half-empty bottle of Malbec in the wheelie bin and snapping up the Marlboro Lights in disgust. The devil's horns of yesterday's vices are discarded along with the duck liver pate in the fridge, cast aside with the blue cheese and the sushi. Out comes the halo and the wholesome holistic lifestyle. Mung-beans and muesli are on the mummy-to-be menu. For now she is about to enter Life: Part 2.
Shit's about to get real.

Of course, she always knew this day would come. Usually, it's a welcome relief. As much as she loved the clubbing circuit and hectic social scene, she was secretly growing a little tired of the accompanying hangovers, the wasted Sundays (in both senses of the word). Now she can decline the invites with a simple sage pat of the tum, without the insistence that "you simply MUST come!"

photo credit

But what about the 1 in 5 women for whom this joyous day never arrives? Those of us who went from dreading a positive test in our younger years, to positively yearning for one later on? Those of us who end up in all manner of awkward positions, mentally and physically, as a steady stream of health professionals peer, prod and poke our vulnerably exposed bodies, shaking their heads forlornly. As the realisation dawns after yet another failed fertility treatment that the day will now never come. What then?

Well, we smile and congratulate every friend, colleague and female relative as they make their announcements, beaming with happiness. We dutifully attend baby showers proffering gifts of baby clothes and toys (or hand over the ones we'd previously bought for ourselves, for our own future families). At this stage, we are still able to contribute to the constant baby-related babble; ironically, having been through years of fertility procedures and spent countless hours researching online, we know more about the subject that most actual mothers.

Later, we hold the gurgling new arrival in our arms, hoping that the mother doesn't catch sight of the tears we're fighting to quell. She never does; she's in a drug-fuelled fug of love hormones, intoxicated by oxytocin.

me with my newborn nephew, baby Hayden

Our lives take on a limbo-like quality as we limp along, smiling sweetly and doing all the things we've always done, as there's no good reason to change. We're the Peter Pans of the party scene, for whom the parenthood fairy never visits to sprinkle her baby dust and declare "Enough! The party's over! Now for the meaningful stuff...."

And that's the tough part.Whilst all our friends are now knee-deep in nappies, busily planning play-dates and lunches with like-minded mummies, us Non-Mums are left smiling along, standing awkwardly on the sidelines of society, our existence barely acknowledged. It feels as though we're driving the wrong way down the motorway of life.

Everywhere we look we're reminded of the ease of procreation: in the creche-like coffee shops on our lunch breaks or the many Baby On Board badges on the morning commute, those lucky ladies cheerfully counting down the days until they can wave goodbye to the office politics and welcome their Mini-Me.

Even the single-cell amoebas posing as guests on The Jeremy Kyle Show are reproducing like rabbits. That's Darwin's Theory disproved right there. Maybe he meant survival of the fattest, not fittest.

Henceforth follows years of carefully deflecting the endless enquiries of well-meaning strangers:
"So, how many do you have?.....How old are your kids?" ...."Oh, did you not want any?"
Questions that are hard to answer without either choking up, getting into a full medical history or simply sounding rude.

Suddenly, around the late thirties mark, the interrogation mercifully stops, as people become aware they're now in dangerous waters with those fishing questions. The relief is short-lived, however, as it becomes apparent that the inquisitive look in their eyes has been replaced by something far worse. Pity. Sometimes, other women hint at selfishness : a shallow personality explaining the lack of children. Okay, so I have my nails done and go on holiday from time to time....wanna swap?

It takes time to accept the life unexpected. To move on. Allow yourself to mourn the family you've lost; just because there's no body doesn't mean there's no bereavement.

Life has given us lemons, so we've made lemonade...and then found ourselves with no-one to serve it to.

So we add ice and vodka.

And rejoin the party.

This post has also appeared on the front page of The Huffington Post UK


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:
www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76
Facebook: Samantha Jane Walsh
Instagram: wanderingblonde76