'the trouble is, your son thinks you're about to die'

... was pretty much the first thing that my son's paternal grandmother said to me at the handover today.

Wow. Wow. Did she just say that? Bitch. BITCH

And then, as the day went on, this led me to think of my 3 worst handovers (let me explain, for non separated or divorced or single parents, these are not some kind of dodgy drug runs but where you actually do hand the child over from one reality/home to another and expect them to adapt immediately, without tears or tantrums, and take it all as it comes. It pretty much never goes to plan, and there is always some problem, but some are definitely worse than others). These are, I think, my three worst EVER in ten years, though I could easily compile a top ten if anyone was interested:

At number 3 we have the one where I drove little Blue Eyed Boy to his Daddy's as a toddler, the first time I ever relented to let him stay with the total loser after our break up (second break up; first one happened when I was 9 weeks pregnant and he 'had' to leave 'for the sake of his mental health', then professed to be 'off travelling in Asia' when in fact was hiding in a dirty flat in a dirty town in the south of England for 7 months...). The overnight visit - 2 nights, as I recall - was to be at BEB's Nanny's house, which is, to be fair, very cosy; and I do (no, after today I don't; I did then) trust his Nanny to care for his every want, need and desire, being nearly as devoted to the little man as I am. His father is another story - he loves him, but he hasn't much of a clue about anything if his mother isn't around. She still does his laundry, cooks him dinner, makes excuses for him, wipes his arse for all I know, and he's 40 pretty soon. If I ever get like that with my son, please shoot me.

Anyway I think BEB was around 2. We got there ok; I took a friend, and we had tea, and it was all very 'nice', until it came time to leave. I just couldn't do it. I decided to turn around and take Blue Eyed Boy straight home on the 3 hour drive with me. My friend tried unsuccessfully to talk some sense into me: 'but we've just arrived!' 'but how will it look!'... None of this went down very well. I sat on the sofa, for hours, with my son on my lap, until it was very very dark outside, picking holes in how they were planning to spend the next few days and inventing problems once I could find none. Everyone tried to persuade me to leave. Eventually, the choice was a travellodge and return the next day to face their wrath, or just let them get on with it, as was the original plan. I did leave. But I hated every second of it and sobbed on the motorway. Perhaps because I know, underneath, that love doesn't always equal top class care.

Number 2 is the time when I drove a much younger Pre Pubescent Beauty to Reading Car Park (if you've never been there , just don't do it. I mean the big one under the Railway Station, with no discernible exits or entrances, no sign of light or life but plenty of two and four legged rats lurking about the dingy corners) and waited to meet her Daddy who was also coming by car (why, why, why did we meet there?) ..history does not relate... We were going through a particularly bad patch about money. I demanded petrol money for the trip; he threw it at me, saying 'okay then, I'll have to take the child out food hunting'. PPB, who was only about six or seven at the time, truly thought she was going hunting through the dangerous streets of south Essex, armed with spears and knives and no doubt her gung-ho father wearing his camping gear full head-torch, and got frightened, and ran off, into the car park. With cars driving around. Fast.

Suddenly, we stopped shouting at each other; we were briefly united in our terror for our girl; furious; trying to calm down so that she would have enough sense to come to one of us rather than get run over by an impatient housewife with Waitrose shopping to get on with. Eventually she emerged from her hiding place and ran up to me, jumping in my arms and saying she wasn't going to Daddy's if she had to stab living things.

I tore the £30 up. In his face. remember doing it. God, it was satisfying. 'Don't worry, darling' I said. 'He doesn't mean real hunting, he doesn't know how to do it. You'll be eating crisps and pizza and all those things you like but I don't let you have very much and I'll see you after the weekend'.

Don't think I sobbed my way home that time; it was more like screaming and punching the steering wheel repeatedly. We all laugh about it now, if the mood is right, but at the time we were pretty upset.

Number 1 was today. And it was the worst because my Blue Eyed Boy was so, so upset, and I couldn't protect him from it, and I didn't cause it.

Only by getting IC , and do you know what - I am sure fellow sufferers can relate - I am so so sick of feeling guilty about an illness which I didn't want, didn't deliberately catch, can't get rid of, suffer in daily pain, urgency and pressure with, and which I wish to God didn't affect other people otherwise OF COURSE I WOULD TAKE THAT PAIN AWAY, from them and from myself too funnily enough.

My son was due home today, and couldn't sleep last night, and this morning his Dad (who has now gone bankrupt and permanently moved in with his mother, Blue Eyed Boy's beloved Nanny, whom heretofore I've had a fair amount of respect for) asked him what was wrong. He said he was worrying about my being ill. Poor love, he was probably worrying about coming back to a house with only one toilet, where on a bad day he has to do 'sneaky wees' outside in the garden (in freezing temperatures!) as I'm in pain in the bathroom. I know at Nanny's there are 2 toilets and no people with IC. Anyway, this is where it gets bad. He just needed a hug, and some reassurance that Mummy would be fine and the day would be fine. But no. Firstly his Dad grabbed him, made him look in his eyes, and said really intensely 'Don't listen to your mother too much however she talks about her illness'. Then, when, freaked out a little, he wandered off to find some breakfast, his Nanny said 'what's the matter, you're not scared she's going to die, are you?'. Nobody has ever mentioned this possibility to him before. It's a bit like saying 'don't think of a pink elephant'.

Now if this was some comedy sketch on how NOT to talk to your six year old about chronic disabling illness, it would be funny. But it is my SON's LIFE. And then at the handover , his Nan takes me over to one side and gives me all this shit about how I am too public about my illness and need to keep it more secret from the children (how exactly, said PPB later, given that you spend most of your time trying not to talk about it and being falsely cheerful, but just sneaking off to the toilet and sitting down a lot???).
'Stop involving your kids,' hard-core Nanny said. 'Everyone gets ill. Deal with it. Leave them out of it. Stop moaning.'
And then the paternal party were off. A puff of pikey smoke and they were gone on their pikey broomsticks, leaving me with a mixed-up six year old grieving for a time when his Mummy was well, his Daddy used to pretend to be civil to his Mummy out of respect for him, or possibly even out of respect for the fact that I had his child and am raising him single handedly along with his big sister! (this time, he just shoved the suitcase in the boot and stromped off, like a 14 year old boy), and handovers were times when sure BEB felt sad but he knew everyone loved him. This time, the bottom had fallen out of his world. And I could not replace it.

The soft play centre did nothing to help.
He kept bursting into tears.
We came home, had cuddles, played some playmobil, he had a bath.
We have another pointless row with his father's family which descended into me yelling at them about what they said to my son, which I do regret - wish I'd saved it for cold lawyers' paper.
We all have dinner at the table. 'Mum', he says; 'I won't talk to them if they talk to you like that'.
I cry at the fragmentation of his world, which I disguise by needing the toilet.
We cuddle the cat.
We watch Happy Feet 2.
We eat chocolate.
My son keeps crying.
I tell him his Daddy is not perfect. I tell him his Daddy did, in fact, leave me when I was pregnant and that it is, in fact, not ok to miss 3 nativity plays in a row. Which are truths I have wanted to come out with for a long time, and there is never going to be a good time.
We have about five million stories and cuddles in my bed. I stroke his hair. I let him have his music on.
Bedtime: 'Why was this the worst day ever, Mummy?'

I used to think that unless your ex was a serial killer, a child pornographer or an evil rapist, it was probably best to have a fairly shite father than no father, and so consequently have assisted my children in seeing their poor excuses for 1. a half-Irish, charming but selfish and lazy, sweet but cruel, affable but cold as hell father...  and 2. a charming (oh I love the baloney) but common (sorry, I just can't find another word here), well-meaning but completely ineffectual, practical but a total bastard when it comes down to it (what kind of dad doesn't come to 3 years worth of nativity plays?) father.... These fathers do not bring much to the table.

When I add it up, right now, it's about £420 a month. Which split equally is £210 a month. Which is £50 a week, each. That's what they bring to the table. So the children can be fed, with a bit to spare for their mum. Or they can do their football, their swimming and half of their piano classes. Or they can have some new shoes. They can't live in a heated house, or travel around from place to place, or wear new school uniform. And that's if I split the money equally. I'm not meant to. It's meant to go mostly to one child, because that's the way the cookie crumbles.

I used to think that unless your ex was a serial killer, you're best off involving him, for the child's sake.

Right now, I am not so bloody sure. In fact I am less sure than EVER. In fact, I'm pretty sure I am WRONG. So stick that in your batman suit and climb the fucking houses of parliament, you wankers, if you can be bothered that is.