Category: Our stories
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Why I Banned Peppa Pig From My House
Why I banned peppa pig from my house
Peppa pig aka rude little brat is banned from my house and for good reason.
Now I’m not against my children Amelia 4 and Caleb 2 watching television at all, in fact sometimes it’s the only peace and quiet I get.
Now I’m sure every parent has seen Peppa pig but if not I’ll explain it.
Peppa lives in a large house with mummy pig daddy pig and her little brother George (who is the only bloody character whose name doesn’t rhyme) George carries a dinosaur around with him.
Every episode is just as wrong and annoying as the last.
Peppa has hardly any manners, is never disciplined, is rude to her friends even hangs up the phone on them when they can do something she can’t erm how bloody rude..
Peppa speaks for her brother and bosses him around this is probably why he is such a cry baby and constantly gets his own way, great life lesson cry and scream and get what you want.
Peppas parents give into their children and clearly the pigs are not supervised properly.
Peppa is a spoilt brat we all know that but that is not the only reason I’ve banned Peppa from my house.
The program is bloody annoying “a bing bong” song is one of the reasons that I can’t stand this awful show.
My daughter became obsessed with bloody puddles and stopped saying spaghetti we now have peegetti, arghhh chop her up and turn her into bacon.
My heart aches for poor Miss.Rabbit who has at least 10 jobs, there is a bloody potato, yes a potato, yet they eat chips, a hamster vet who treats other creatures.
What the actual hell are the producers on? Acid?
This show makes my brain hurt and my ears bleed, if Peppa was real I’d make her road kill.
We are now loyal fans of a child who is allowed to roam the jungle unattended with a creepy talking monkey called Boots and a bunch of puppies on a mission. Fml roll on the teen years.
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How Exercise Can Save Your Life
“My dad took his own life when I was fifteen years old. I’m sure it was traumatic for my mom, but she sort of just sucked it up. She’d already experienced a lot of heartbreak in life. She grew up in a dysfunctional household and became a caregiver at a very young age.
So she was able to conceal her emotions and focus on supporting me and my brother. I was the good kid. I worked hard in school. I played three sports. And Mom supported me in everything I wanted to try. Not in a pushy way. More of a helpful way.
So much of her life was just driving me places: practice, games, extra lessons. Unfortunately her relationship with my older brother was different. Jacob was defiant. He wouldn’t listen. He had a good heart but he was doing a lot of reckless, scary things. One time he stole my mom’s car and she had to call the police.
Jacob had been the one who discovered my dad’s body, and I don’t think he ever fully recovered. Five years later he took his own life. When my mom got that phone call, she came into the living room, laid on top of me, and starting crying. ‘Jacob just shot himself,’ she said. Both of us barely recovered.
I began training for triathlons to deal with my grief. It had been my mom’s suggestion, but I think it inspired her. Because one morning she made herself go outside, lace up her shoes, and take a run. Later she told me that running gave her something to live for.
It allowed her to see color in the world and hear birds chirping. She began to compete in triathlons herself, and eventually became a certified coach. Mom’s ultimate goal was always to finish an Ironman competition, but it didn’t seem possible. She failed on four different attempts. Nobody wanted her to try again. She was 68 years old. She was the oldest female competing in Ironman Texas, and they literally thought she could die.
But Mom was determined to try one more time. I cheered her on the entire way. I walked alongside her while she swam the canal. I biked alongside her while she ran. I remember we were nearing the end of the race, and she had to get to mile eighteen by 9 pm, or she’d be disqualified. I was telling her to pick up the pace. But by then she knew. She looked at her watch, then she looked at me, and said: ‘I’m an hour ahead. I’m going to be an Ironman!”
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If She Loves You Now What Else Matters
Bob Marley once said:
“You may not be her first,
her last, or her only.She loved before
she may love again.But if she loves you now,
what else matters?She’s not perfect—you aren’t either,
and the two of you may never be perfect together
but if she can make you laugh,
cause you to think twice,
and admit to being human and making mistakes,
hold onto her and give her the most you can.She may not be thinking about you every second of the day,
but she will give you a part of her
that she knows you can break—her heart.So don’t hurt her,
don’t change her,
don’t analyze and
don’t expect more than she can give.Smile when she makes you happy,
let her know when she makes you mad,
and miss her when she’s not there.Love with your whole being when you receive love.
Because there are no perfect girls, but there will always be a girl who is perfect for you..” ❤ ❤ 🙂 -
Ella The BGT Child Warrior
WOW well this is an INCREDIBLE story!!!
Everyone meet Ella, my amazing #childwarrior number 14. Ella is just 11 years old and has had 44 operations in her life! This girl is literally a ray of sunshine, she walks in the room and the whole room lights up. She literally brightens my whole day!! She has recently won awards on Pride of Britain and she more than deserves it!!
Here is her backstory:Ella was born over 4 weeks early. After suffering from sniffles, a hernia and a drop in weight, she was sent to the hospital, where they noticed a heart murmur, suspected fluid on her lungs and poor circulation. Tests showed that Ella had a rare condition called congenital nephrotic syndrome. CNS is a rare genetic illness causing kidney failure, which we were told is incurable and would require a kidney transplant when she gets bigger.
Ella struggled to gain weight and would constantly catch chest infections or other bugs, resulting in long hospital stays. She had infusions everyday giving her protein through a central line in her chest. Although these tubes gave her treatment to keep her alive, they caused infections, which would make her seriously poorly as these tubes went into her heart.
At 18 months old, Ella had both her kidneys removed as they weren’t working and were causing her more problems staying in. As she had no kidneys, she was dependant on dialysis. She also needed injections every 12hrs to thin her blood, as she was also born with factor 12 (highest level) deficiency which is a blood clotting disorder. Despite these injections, Ella still suffered blood clots in her lines stopping them working and also causing strokes.
As Ella had a low immune system, her chest infections would sometimes turn into pneumonia and result in stays in ICU on life support again, or in HDU.
Just 2 weeks after her 3rd birthday, Ella had a kidney transplant donated by her Daddy. Unfortunately, just hours after the procedure the kidney clotted and Ella became seriously unwell. She was rushed back to theatre and the kidney had to be removed. She contracted sepsis, and then she had to go back on dialysis, as her peritoneum started leaking. This caused her transplant scar (which ran from her chest to groin), to become fully open to the point her belly button was on her side. To repair this they had to change her dialysis to heamo-dialysis and start her on VAC therapy (this is like a suction dressing), but had to go to theatre every other day to gradually help bring the scar back together. This took over a month going theatre 3 times a week.
After nearly 4 months in hospital, Ella came home, but had to carry on going to hospital every other day for dialysis. Just a couple of weeks later, Ella suffered big stroke, where she had to be put in coma and given paralysing medicine. She had suffered multiple bleeds on her brain. She took a while to recover from this and had to learn to sit back up, talk, eat etc.
Although she was 3 years old, Ella still couldn’t stand or walk, she had renal bond disease and hyper parathyroids, so calcium leaked out of her bones. As Ella had so many operations on her tummy, the inside was a mess with lots of scar tissue building up and her hernia was getting worse. It got so bad she needed emergency operation to remove some of her intestines and insert a wire mesh wall inside her, as her abdominal wall didn’t exist.
1 year after the failed transplant, doctors carried out tests to see if they could reattempt the transplant, as this was Ella’s only option. Unfortunately, the tests showed that all of Ella’s arteries had threaded off into tiny veins which were not big enough to plumb a kidney to.
We were told Ella only had as long as this line would last, and we were handed a letter mentioning hospices and palliative care. Luckily her consultant didn’t give up and got in touch with Great Ormond St Hospital.
Luckily after very intensive tests at GOSH, Ella could have a transplant. Ella’s Nanna donated her kidney. This wasn’t without its dramas, it was 10hrs long and like first time she got rushed back into theatre but luckily came back out with a working kidney. After her transplant, Ella lost all her hair, which Doctors said was a combination of the medication, stress and trauma she had been through. Luckily it has all grown back!On 9th may this year, Ella will celebrate 5 years since her kidney transplant! Ella takes several medicines; the steroids she takes damaged her pancreas, giving her diabetes so she also needs lots of injections and blood-sugar checks every day, but life is so much better post transplant. The strokes have left her with learning difficulties, and the operations have left her with scars, but scars show how brave you have been, and after 44 operations, she definitely has been. She has learnt to stand and walk, although she still has mobility issues, she does her best. She has helped raise money for Manchester Children’s Hospital by completing lots of mini-marathons, with the Great Run Company. She also makes cards for children in hospital to make them smile, and in October 2018 she won The Pride of Britain Child of Courage Award.
She also won The Pride of Sport in 2017. She is definitely a strong and determined girl and us makes us proud every day.FOLLOW ELLA ON INSTAGRAM @ellachadwick_zebedeemodel
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How I Went To The ER To Retrieve My Lost Butt Plug
Saddle in partner, because this is the story of how I went to the ER to retrieve my lost butt plug out of my ass. Its long, but we both know you got time.
First thing though: feel special. I’ve only ever told this story as a novelty to some close friends, selected family members who are no longer surprised with my shenanigans, and the very few people who happened to put me in a conversation where this story was relatable (looking at you Barbara Ann Marie Arquette ).
Anyway, enough foreplay. Thats how I got in this mess 🙄
So I had just moved out of my parents house and in with some roommates. I had a different tinder dude every other day or more: whoring it up with my new found freedom, like Genghis Khan was my idol 🍆🍆🍆🍑🍑🍑 So here comes my offender, let’s call him Beardy. Beardy had, as you might of guessed, a great beard. He also was a boy scout, a boy scout knows his knots, and my kinky ass was done already. Beardy comes over, and we start going at it. A little rope, a little woo-hoo, I’m feeling myself. I decide in a fit of spontaneous inexperience to pull out my 1 dollar butt plug that I got on Wish. You know the one. It’s got a rhinestone, seemed small and innocent enough. WRONG.
We put it in. All smooth sailing 😎 so far. I feel kinky as shit 😏 no one could possibly master my level of seduction. Then Beardy starts to…mess with it? Wiggling it around, tugging on it, being fuckin weird. So I say “hey I think it’s fine where it is, let’s leave it and keep going.” But no no, Beardy continues, and in the only appropriate fashion for the bad sitcom that is my life goes “its okay, I know what I-….” He then gasps. He looks a little concerned. He looks at me. He looks at my dukey hole. He looks back at me again.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him. I’m thinking is my starfish ugly???? I knew I should of bleached it dagnabbit. He goes “uh….its gone.” ITS GONE!?!?!?!
WHAT DO YOU MEAN ITS GONE?
THAT BEDAZZLED ROCKET DIDNT JUST LAUNCH INTO SPACE MOTHER FUCKER.
“I told you not to mess with it!!” I am so upset. He’s telling me to calm down as if telling a woman to calm down has ever ended better than him being hit with a mf car 🚗
“Relax” he says. “I’ve lost much bigger things in MY ass!”
BRUH 🤦♀️🤦♀️🤦♀️
I make this fool take me to the hospital. I lived literally a block away, so he drops me off and his ass goes home, to be blocked and never getting to speak to me again 😒I walk into the ER. Luckily there’s only a few people in the waiting room, so other than the butt plug feeling like an ever ominous dukey waiting to groundhog, I feel a tiny bit better about the situation. I go up to the check in counter and the nurse asks what I’m being seen for. “Uhm….can I…write it down?” I whisper. Obviously if I whisper God can’t hear me. He kinda gives me a look but luckily puts me straight into triage so I can bare my sins. The nurse back there goes straight to the point. “What are you being seen for?”
Ah, yes. The question clouds my brain like the farts trapped in my lower digestive system.
“I uh….lost something. In my butt.” At this point I made a decision. I could either die of embarrassment right here in this hospital, and be the butt of many jokes to cum (get it?) OR I can own it. Make it my own joke to tell. I went with the latter. “I lost a butt plug in my ass” and told him the story thus far. He rubbed the back of his head and was like….let’s just get you in a room.
So I get in a gown, get to a room, and after a bit another nurse comes in. She’s smoking hot 🔥 she puts her hands on her hips, and goes….” So I heard you lost something.” Damn it. I already know this story is going around the nurses stations word for word already, and my dumb ass is rapidly developing a crush on this sassy red head (because priorities?). I repeat my story and she sets up an x-ray for me, all the while lecturing me on how important it is to have butt plugs with a wide base and plenty of lube (obviously she’s flirting with me and doesn’t actually care about the safety of my traumatized anus….right?) When we go to the xray room she INSISTS on holding my gown for me at my neck. My ass is just out. I’m like no I can cover myself, but she marches me there, bare assed, without another word about it.
I’m back in my room finally after making 2 ass out trips in easily the most trafficked portion of the ER. The doctor meets me in there…and he is a SNACC. This dude is 6’6 and handsome as hell. Why do these things keep happening to me? He goes “so….I heard you lost something.” 🤦♀️🤦♀️ he’s pressing around my abdomen making small talk. I ask him how his day was and he goes “oh you know, just a typical Wednesday.” Same dude. Same. Someone please kill me.
Now here is the meat and potatoes for this story. Are you still with me? You should be, because I’m hilarious and these things happen to me so you don’t have to go through it yourself. Here we go.
Doc snaps on some gloves, as does my nurse. This could almost be an awesome kinky fantasy if there wasn’t an egg🥚 blocking the exit that is my poop chute. Doc pulls out a fucking arm sized container of lube. “For these kinda things, you need lots of lube.” snaps glove Lord have mercy. Next he pulls out this scope thats meant to slowly stretch out your anal muscles: I’m thinking this won’t be too bad right? As usual I was dead wrong. He has me get onto all fours on the bed, knees and elbows. I am fully on display. I didn’t see a casting couch anywhere, much to my disappointment. This was my life 🙄🙄 he puts the scope in and starts doing his thing. He’s rooting around, hmming and hawing until eventually he pulls it out and tries using a finger. It’s been about 20 minutes now, and at this point I should just call him daddy.
He puts a hand on the top of my ass. “I’m gonna try something else…and you’re not gonna like it.” Before I have a chance to ask what the hell that means….HE FISTS ME. HIS WHOLE GODDAMN ARM IS ELBOW DEEP IN MY BUNGHOLE. THIS VERY LARGE MAN IS SEARCHING FOR GOLD IN MY EXIT CAVE.
I shriek. The nurse comes running over, hands on my shoulders, shushing me and rubbing my head. “Are you okay?” The doctor asks, one fist in my asshole and the other holding me down so I don’t run through the fucking wall like the Kool Aid man. “I’m fine,” I say, tears streaming down my face. “Just a typical Wednesday. “I laugh. The doctor laughs. The nurse laughs. My asshole laughed… His fist is still in my Hershey hole.
After a grueling few more minutes he gets it out. I am finally able to deflate. Its washed, put in a neat little bio hazard bag and I’m asked if I would like a keepsake copy of my xray. I said absolutely. On my way out, I see nurses huddled around a computer…with my xray on it. “Omg. I would of freaked out.” Said a nurse. I popped my head over the counter. “Oh don’t worry, I did.” I retold the story, to a great audience and waddled home at something like 6am.
The end!
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The NHS Is NOT A Charity
Is no one else absolutely furious that they’re being gaslit into believing the NHS is a charity that is funded by donations from working class people?
That a 99 year old man dragging himself up and down a patch of grass is being celebrated? It is nothing to celebrate. It is not a great example of The Great British Blitz Spirit. That’s what the government and the press who prop them up want you to think so you don’t notice their catastrophic failings. It is a stain on this government and the way this country is being run. It is utterly shameful.
Why are we not furious that a pregnant nurse died when she shouldn’t have been at work in the first place while Sicknote Johnson lords it up at his country manor? That care workers are being rewarded for their work with the honour of paying for a fucking badge?
We are being asked to do our bit and dig into our pockets to pay for a service that we already pay for. It is not a charity. You are being asked to pay for the shortcomings of this government. It’s not fucking Comic Relief. Maybe the nasty party should ask their billionaire mates to dig deep or even perhaps pay the taxes that they owe in the first place? The left always knew the last election was literally a matter of life or death and we are seeing it every day and it’s the worst thing to be proven right about. Those of you who voted this utterly disgraceful government into power should be absolutely ashamed of yourselves.
ETA: Those of you arguing on MY post that I shouldn’t be making it political, EVERYTHING IS POLITICAL. Existing is a political act when you’re not a white, middle class, heterosexual, cisgendered man.
I wasn’t expecting so many people to se this post so I’ll add this for clarity:
VOTE THE TORIES OUT.
FUND THE NHS.
GIVE A DAMN -
Whether You Lost Your Baby At Any Stage
Whether you lost your baby at 6 weeks.
Whether you lost your baby at 12 weeks.
Whether you lost your baby at 16 weeks.
Whether you lost your baby at 20 weeks.Whether it is your first loss.
Whether it is your second loss.
Whether it is your third loss.
Whether is is your fourth loss.Whether you have not had a child.
Whether you already have a child.
Whether you have two children.
Whether you have three children or more.Whether you lost your baby in your teens.
Whether you lost your baby in your twenties.
Whether you lost your baby in your thirties.
Whether you lost your baby in your forties.Whether you lost your baby through ivf.
Whether you lost your baby through unplanned pregnancy.
Whether you lost your baby through planned pregnancy.
Whether you lost your baby through surrogacy.Your pregnancy loss matters.
Your grief matters.
Your tears matter.
You matter.❤ 🕊 ❤ #ShareInMemory ❤ 🕊 ❤
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Brilliant Words From A School Principal
Brilliant words from a School Principal I can’t love it enough.
COVID-19 Kids – what if?
When people say kids are going to be ‘behind’ I say, behind what?? Not each other- they’re all in the same boat. Only ‘behind’ the age expectations of a curriculum that currently has limited context due to these extraordinary circumstances. In front on so many other more important fronts I say.What if instead of “behind” this group of kids is advanced because of this.
What if they have more empathy, they enjoy family connection, they can be more creative and entertain themselves, they love to read, they love to express themselves in writing.What if they enjoy the simple things, like their own backyard and sitting near a window in the quiet?
What if they notice the birds and the dates the different flowers emerge, and the calming renewal of a gentle rain shower?What if this generation is the one to learn to cook, organize their space, do their laundry, and keep a well-run home?
What if they learn to stretch a dollar and to live with less?
What if they learn to plan shopping trips and meals at home?
What if they learn the value of eating together as a family and finding the good to share in the small delights of the everyday?What if they are the ones to place great value on our teachers and educational professionals, librarians, public servants and the previously invisible essential support workers like truck drivers, grocers, cashiers, custodians, logistics, and health care workers and their supporting staff, just to name a few of the millions taking care of us right now while we are sheltered in place?
What if among these children, a great leader emerges who had the benefit of a slower pace and a simpler life, who has a fine sense of empathy and care and concern for fellow humans.
What if he or she truly learns what really matters in all this…
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My Autism Story
Hello, everyone.
My name is Bronson Layton. I am 22 years old, I am a college student, and I have a story that I feel should be shared with the world.
I come from a family that had never had a single record of ancestry with autism, not until the day I was born.
When I was two years old, my parents were still getting used to the lifestyle of raising a kid, but what they had noticed was what they considered “out of the ordinary” behavior. Whatever toys I played with, I placed them in a straight line, I had moody fits when I felt antagonized, etc.
Soon after my parents noticed these signs, they took me to a child psychiatrist, who eventually informed them that I have been diagnosed with a rare form of autism called Pervasive Developmental Disorder Not Otherwise Specified (PDD-NOS), a disorder that delays the neurological growth of a child’s brain. The basic symptoms of this disorder include not being able to pick up social cues, possible isolation from interacting with friends or family, and the processing of speech, thinking, critical, and learning skills.
My diagnosis was in 1999, a time when autism was still not commonly understood and was still being observed. My parents were initially shocked at this revelation, as well as from the subsequent news from an optometrist that I was going to grow up blind, but they (and I) were not prepared for how the following events positively changed our lives forever.
As I got older, I began to evolve from keeping to myself to interacting with other kids once I entered public school in first grade. I noticed how the other kids were able to answer questions in class a lot faster than I could understand. Because of my processed thinking, it took me two minutes to come up with an answer to the best of my abilities. From that year on, I had received special accommodations for my coursework, such as sitting in front of the class to read the board better, and taking longer time on tests.
Since fourth grade, I joined my school’s marching band, something I never had any interest in, but my mom convinced me that it was a great way to not only make friends, but to help gain more confidence in myself. I played the trumpet for two years, and after that, I played the baritone horn.
At the same time during fourth grade, I discovered my talent for creative writing. I realized on the day I wrote my first Spider-Man story, my processed thinking and my imagination harbored a fundamental feature for my character: a hidden talent.
As the years passed, and as I got older, I helped my fellow classmates and peer groups write essays, and I even shared what original pieces I wrote with my class occasionally, despite I was still unaware about my diagnosis.
However, one day when I was fifteen years old, I came home and straightened up the house for my parents, and at some point, I found some papers scattered across the corner of one room near a filing cabinet. I picked them up and began reading because I was curious. The bottom of one of the papers said, “Autism diagnosis confirmed,” and I kept reading through the other papers to find a checklist of my habits and behavioral traits; it was from that fateful psychiatrist appointment thirteen years prior to my discovery. In that moment, I finally learned the real truth about myself.
My parents kept it from me because they thought it would affect my self esteem to the point that I felt like a freak to others, but I wasn’t mad at them. I understood why they’d hide this from me because they really love me, and ever since then, I’ve accepted who I am, and I use my talents to help others who need a friend.
Ever since my discovery, I led my class’s graduation as the valedictorian and class president, I’ve traveled to a prestigious college to earn a Master’s degree in English in order to become a professor, I’m about to retire from marching in my college band since I’ve done so much in twelve years, I manage my own YouTube channel called “Brons Over Brains” that encourages people on the spectrum to be themselves and to overcome challenges while following my life journey, I’ve been able to make all A’s so far in my college career, and now I am a part of this special group that will allow me to share my thoughts with kindred spirits!
Everyone, including the parents of children with autism, you are all on the right path in life, no matter how different you think you are from other people. Being different is never a bad thing. We are all unique in our own way, because that’s the adventure of being human.
Don’t worry, you’ve got this.
If any of you need a friend and need advice on how to navigate through life with autism, I will be happy to share my experience as an autistic with you to show sympathy and compassion. Remember, you are never alone.
My name is Bronson Layton, and I’m sharing my life story to all who want or need to hear it.
-Bronson Layton