Get out those Violins

I was reading about more Greek riots in the Daily Mail today and being upset by Daily Mail readers flogging a dead horse again - calling the rioters and protestors "Benefit Scroungers" and "living off the taxes of hard-working people". I don't know much about the situation in Greece, except that their austerity measures have been harsher than ours; workers being laid off or forced to earn a fraction of what they once did, even struggling to afford to buy staples. The people are really suffering, I think.

Today, I'd like to focus on the term "hard working". In Tory Britain today, that seems only to apply to those fortunate who have a well-paid job. If you are a toilet cleaner or a pamphleteer, you are not considered to be hard working, just thick. No, sitting on your fat arse all day, with your blackberry, is considered the hardest work of all (my heart bleeds). I'm not a benefit scrounger yet, but I do sit at home all day being on twitter, facebook and chewing my fingernails straight. I didn't plan this, I was being supported by my ex-husband while I had young children, and then we separated, still jobless.

Being a married, jobless mother is considered moral, the right thing to do while the children are still young. But being a single, jobless mother is quite a different thing. I see my children are no longer just children, but feral bastards with me as a whore-stroke-breeder. I'm living off other peoples' taxes to be able to afford a television, a fridge freezer and shoes. The condemnation goes on. Of course I'd like to work, but current circumstances are not in my favour:

4 years ago, I noticed my daughter was guzzling orange squash, panting and participating in extreme weeing the bed. Her body was also looking skeletal. I knew in an instant she had developed type 1 diabetes. I'd always believed she would develop it one day - no, I'm not a hypochondriac and neither do I have Munchhausen's Syndrome by Proxy. It was an instinct I had, based on the fact that I'd been a fat cow during pregnancy, revelling in and championing the fact that I'd given up fags and booze the instant I'd become pregnant. Unfortunately, what replaced these vices were just as worse - sugar and carbs. I ballooned to 12 stone at my heaviest from just under 8 stone. What was happening, I believe now, was that my pancreas was working over time, but so was my dear foetus's. Eating carrot cake in Cafe Nero was making me obese and wearing out my unborn daughter's pancreas. There should be a warning to all pregnant women on Boston Brownies and Cornish pasties. I could be wrong, but my gut feeling tells me I'm not.

The impact of this now, is constant monitoring of her blood sugar, the school phoning me almost daily, going up to the school and administering emergency insulin and soon with the inevitable, me going up there every lunchtime to give her extra insulin while she's not ready to inject herself, and I don't blame her.

My son displayed worrying and unusual behaviour from the age of 2. By the time he started school, his behaviour was pretty off the wall. I won't go into detail, but I had to go into school a couple of times with a bucket and a bottle of Dettol. He still has a talent for trashing the house in a matter of seconds and breaking everything he comes into contact with. He was hitting the television the other day with his Wii remote control - I can't relax when he's around and cannot take a bath or even linger on the toilet while he's still up. I have to wait for his bedtime. He suffers from hypermobility as well, which means he could become a contortionist when he's older, maybe appear on X Factor. The downside to this is is that he cannot walk very fast and falls over often so going out with him takes forever.

Okay, so what about their mum? I manage. I manage very well. There are days when I cry at the prospect of making toast for the children, but I still find the strength to do it. My home is immaculate and we live by a routine. I get to do the bipolar stuff when they're not around, and switch into super mum mode when they're with me. I won't let them down. But it is hard work which is why I get so upset with people criticising other people without truly knowing their circumstances. Now, do I get a medal?