Thomas the Tw*t Engine

As the somewhat juvenile title of this post might suggest, I am not a huge fan of the phenomenon that is Thomas the Tank Engine. Unfortunately both my husband and my son think Thomas and his "friends" (see point 1 below) are bloody legends.

My objections are not so much to do with the stupid premise of talking trains (you have to accept that kind of nonsense when watching children's TV or you wouldn't survive parenthood). It's everything else about the show that bothers me.

1. Most of the characters are really quite objectionable. "Thomas, he's the cheeky one," goes the theme song (yes, we mostly watch the most modern incarnation of Thomas and Friends that does away with the memorable "do do do do dah dah daaah" theme music). He is indeed cheeky, if by cheeky you mean inconsiderate, rude, thoughtless and impulsive. "James is vain but lots of fun". Forget the fun, he's just plain vain, verging on the narcissistic. And as for Diesel - I think he may actually be a psychopath. Everyone always learns a lesson by the end of the episode, but only after they've all spent 10-15 minutes being total dicks (it reminds me of Mike the Knight in that respect), and by the following day they seem to have forgotten any positive behaviours learned and have returned to their former unpleasantness. Describing them as "friends" is a nonsense.
2. Where are the female trains? I fully accept TTTE was conceived in the 1940s, an era not known for its progressive ideas of gender equality, but a lot of extra trains have been added in since then. There must seventy plus vehicles in the Thomas universe, but the only positive female role models I can name are Emily - who apparently "really knows her stuff" - and I think one called Rosie, who rarely appears but might be pink? There's also a steam shovel called Marion but she's a bit of a drivelling idiot, and as for Annie and Clarabel - they are essentially portrayed as nagging bores that spend their whole time being prissy and critical, and largely get ignored by Thomas for that very reason.
3. What in the hell do the train drivers actually do?! Seriously, I don't understand why the trains even have drivers, as they have no control whatsoever over their engines. In the episode we watched yesterday, Henry gets scared of catching chicken pox (obviously) and careers backwards through multiple red signals in an effort to escape his terrible spotty fate. Can the driver not apply the brakes? Or at least calm him down and tell him not to be such an idiot? Why are trains with the emotional maturity of three year old children allowed to be in charge? It's frankly reckless. Which brings me to...
4. Sodor Railway's health and safety record. How the Fat Controller still has has a job is beyond me. Crashes, derailments, landslides, run away trains... They seem to happen on a daily basis, and yet the only punishment dolled out to the guilty parties is a stern ticking off and maybe the requirement to pull some whiffy rubbish trucks for the afternoon. Reckless, reckless I say!
5. Has anyone heard of a timetable? Each engine ostensibly has a dedicated line / job, but nobody seems particularly bothered about doing what they're supposed to. They all readily accept whatever random mission comes their way (like keeping crows off a farmer's field - vital work for a train clearly) with nary a thought for the poor passengers left waiting at the station. It's worse than South West trains!
6. Just how many trains does one small island need?! Based on the races between Thomas and Bertie the bus, every road has a parallel railway line, and there is nowhere on the island that cannot be accessed by rail. Seems like major infrastructure inefficiency to me. Dr Beeching clearly never made it to Sodor...
7. Why are so many of the major characters painted the same colour? For a non train expert like me, it makes it damn impossible to differentiate. Is that Henry or Percy? Edward or Thomas? Drake would at this point give me a withering look and huff about needing to know the difference between tank engines and tender engines, saddle tanks and panier tanks. Which I do (now) but still get it wrong a lot. Not that I care, but it is a bit humiliating being corrected by a two year old. "No Mummy, is PERCY woo woo!".
8. Is Sodor a really weird name for an island or is it just me?
9. Thomas' triangular eyebrows scare me.
10. "You're a really useful engine!" Gah.

Why, you may ask, do I allow my darling son to watch this programme if I dislike it so much? Well, unfortunately he has a namesake in the show, which means he has been bought TTTE-related tat gifts from an early age. He's therefore loved it from before he could talk and being 10 minutes longer than Peppa Pig, it is quite a useful way of keeping him quiet while I cook dinner or tidy (or write a blog post). Drake also has a bit of a soft spot as all of the engines are based on real locomotives and he's a bit of a train geek. Plus he read all the books as a child. I'd rather watch and episode of Chuggington to be honest (yes, I freely admit it), but Duckling seems to think it's lame, so Thomas and Friends it is. Peep peep! Puke.

Mummy brain, or plain old rubbish brain?

Absent minded. Forgetful. Scatty. Disorganised. These are all terms that have been used (quite accurately) to describe me over the years. Since having Duckling however, it would be fair to say that you could add "massively" in front of any one of these phrases, and it wouldn't be an exaggeration.

Few mothers I'm sure escape without some degree of Mummy brain. It is inevitable when you have a small child (children) demanding your attention every moment of the day. We women are allegedly good multitaskers because it would have given us an evolutionary edge in days of yore, and yes, I am damn good at doing 15 things at once, much better than my very 'linear' husband; I just don't do any of them very well, or apply any kind of sensible priority. And being a bit of a perfectionist (ironically), that drives me nuts. My biggest bugbears include the following:

1) Never putting stuff away. On a non-work day, the breakfast condiments usually remain on the kitchen counter until around lunchtime, at which point I have to put them back in the cupboard to make way for the lunch stuff. Which then stays out until dinner time... And as for shopping - our return from the shops almost always coincides with an urgent need to change a nappy / shovel food into a hungry child / wrestle a child into bed / play Duplo, so I consider it a major victory if the ice cream goes in the freezer before it becomes a liquid.

2) Forgetting to lock the car. I do this an embarrassing amount. After one memorable occasion where someone actually got into the car and riffled through the glovebox (nothing was taken thankfully), an apoplectic Drake was heard to utter the phrase "well at least you won't do that again in a hurry.". Except I did, less than a week later. I did not own up to this funnily enough.

3) Leaving the washing in the washing machine. I'll be honest, this is less of an issue now Drake has largely taken on washing duties. But the main reason he took on washing duties was because his work shirts kept getting left in the machine until they acquired a lovely mildewy aroma, and on one occasion, some actual mildew. Hanging up washing is simply too time consuming to slot into nap time and too difficult when you have a toddler who wants to "help". There is still a sock in one of our plant pots I need to retrieve...

4) Failing to brush Duckling's teeth. I am REALLY ashamed of this one. The evening brush is fine as we do it in the bath, it's the morning one I struggle with, because our morning routine changes depending on who is at work that day, and where. At some point pretty much every day I think "Oh crap, I forgot again! I WILL remember tomorrow". I rarely do. It probably doesn't help that Duckling hates having his teeth brushed and usually screams and struggles like a feral cat in a headlock. A bit like the washing, there may be an element of deliberate (albeit subconscious) forgetfulness on my part I'm sure.

5) Losing my phone and/or running out of battery. Drake keeps his phone charged and in his pocket at all times, only extracting it when sitting / sleeping / using it. I don't always have pockets in my outfits, so tend to leave it all over the place. Or I put it in my coat pocket while out and fail to retrieve it once back home, causing a 20 min phone hunt several hours later because it's on silent, and no amount of ringing it from the house phone is going to reveal its location. When you add a mobile-stealing infant to the mix, it's a wonder I ever have it on me at all. I have missed a whole variety of important calls through my failure to keep tabs, including several from Drake enquiring if our pre-agreed emergency protocol should be triggered (our plan to get Duckling rescued in the event that Drake is overseas and cannot reach me by any means of communication, thus suggesting that I've incapacitated or fatally injured myself. Seriously, that scenario gives me nightmares). Maybe I should just permanently keep it in the arm holster I wear running...?

6) Inability to accurately gauge the time needed to do anything. This is probably my biggest and most regular failing. I can plan a work project down to the tiniest detail with beautiful and accurate gantt charts. I can organise other people and events like a pro. Ask me to get myself out of the house by 09:00 sharp and no matter when I start my prep, at 09:07, I will still be running up and down the hallway yelling "Duckling, where are your shoes? Where are MY shoes?! No you can't wear your wellies to soft play! Or my flipflops! For God's sake, stop mucking about, we have to GO!" It's not Duckling's fault - mostly it's me that's made us late; he just bears the brunt of my frustration as I realise I'm going to be apologising profusely to someone yet again. To be honest, having a child hasn't actually made me that much later than I was before (10-15 mins mostly) because I do actually leave more prep time than I used to to accommodate toddlerisms - it's just still never quite enough. If I try really, really hard because it's really, really important I can be on time (even early!). But on a daily basis, that level of concentration, will-power and energy is beyond me. I live in hope that I CAN get ready in 30 minutes this time, even though I know it always takes me at least 45 mins from out of bed to out the door. And when I do have 45 mins or more, I find it impossible to retain a sense of urgency and thus get hopelessly side-tracked by more interesting pursuits. In that respect, I think I'm as much of a toddler at Duckling.

None of these failings are unforgivable (though I have friends who may still harbour a grudge at being left waiting forever - sorry guys...). As I say, all Mums probably have those Mummy brain moments.  It doesn't stop me feeling like a fraud when I describe them as such though, as blaming my child for traits I displayed before I had him isn't really fair. I don't want to be constantly living up to my own stereotype either. Thankfully Drake mostly just laughs at me, rather than getting annoyed, but being laughed at is not exactly ego-boosting (particularly as he has scatty moments about as often as I have 10 minutes to kill on arrival at my destination). As such, I decided I'd spend a whole week a few months back trying not to be so ditsy. I lasted about a day and a half, before the effort of trying to maintain a grip on my short term memory, be on time, keep the house tidy and hang on to my phone led me to totally forget a chiropractor appointment - and forgetting appointments is one thing I very rarely do. Drake thought it was hilarious. It took me a week to see the funny side. But hey, as the old parenting cliché goes, if you make it to the end of the day, you're dressed and your children are still alive, you've had a good day. Maybe I just need to lower my standards. Duckling will be able to brush his own teeth in a year or so's time anyway. If he still has any...

Why I am no longer anti-antibiotic

Duckling is currently taking his fourth round of antibiotics in the space of four months. The first was for a chest infection, the second was a prophylactic course to prevent an infection in his severed fingertip (bit unfortunate that one), and the most recent two have been for another chest infection (the first lot didn't totally clear it, so we're now onto the second).

Much is made of antibiotics being handed out "like Smarties" (though I'm not sure many doctors would advocate the liberal distribution of Smarties either) and how it leads to the emergence of antibiotic resistant bacteria, particularly where patients don't complete their full course. There is also increasing evidence that antibiotics - especially multiple courses taken in the first two years of life - can result in a higher incidence of asthma and eczema in children. The theory goes that they wipe out natural gut flora that have an important role in establishing and regulating the immune system. An unruly immune system can cause overreactions to normally harmless things - such as pollen and dust mites - and thus allergy symptoms. And this is just one impact of antibiotics that we know about - it's possible there are more that haven't been researched quite so fully.

Knowing all this, when I first embarked on motherhood I was quite determined that Duckling would never take antibiotics.  This was clearly a ridiculous aspiration, based on a misguided belief that I would have a child that never got more than a mildly snotty nose.  Two years and four rounds later, I have very much dismounted my high horse.  I realise that nobody takes / administers antibiotics for fun (have you ever tried getting a spoonful of sickly banana gloop into a two year old? Not. Fun.). They do it through necessity - or at least a predicted necessity.  Certainly some prescriptions may turn out to be overkill, but there is often no way of quickly and cost effectively assessing when infections are bacterial, or whether a person's immune system is strong enough to fight an infection on their own. Despite what the floggers of complimentary medicines might like to tell you, antibiotics, when taken for the right thing, do work, and work well. They have revolutionised modern medicine. They are not perfect - no effective medicine is 100% side effect free - but faced with a choice of amputation / death, or antibiotics, I'll take the latter thanks.

When faced with the choice between a doctor's visit with a mildly wheezy Duckling or a critical meeting at work, there wasn't any real decision to be made either (I'll save the story of how he demanded 'boobie' in the middle of my hastily arranged conference call for another day - though I will say passing it off as a request for 'blueberries' was a minor stroke of genius). The doctor listened to his chest, frowned a lot, then packed us off with a prescription for a new inhaler and some amoxicillin. Fourty-eight hours later some steroid tablets were added to the mix ('roid rage is such a joy in an already tantrum prone tot), followed by stronger antibiotics, a steroid inhaler and a chest x-ray at the start of this week.  I'll be honest, there was a moment at the beginning where I wondered if I'd encountered a Smarties peddler who was making a fuss about nothing, and whether I should just leave Duckling to fight things himself. A trip round Sainsbury's where he coughed so much he was sick quickly changed my mind though.  There is a fine line between laid back parenting and neglect.

I'd love a super healthy child who sails through life with only the occasional cold and a bit of mild puking, but despite two years of breastfeeding, and plenty of fresh air and soil eating, I don't have one of those. Maybe I will in the future when he's built up his immunity fully, but for now I have to accept he's a little bit vulnerable and balance the risks - not demanding antibiotics at the first sign of a sniffle, but not ignoring the developing wheeze either. Yes, he may have a higher risk of asthma with all this antibacterial bombing, but I'd say there's a real chance that asthma is what's making him need the antibiotics in the first place, so withholding them just seems a bit perverse.  I know there is a wider problem to society of antibiotic resistance, and that there is a chance his illness was just viral and would have gone away of its own accord.  I am not willing to risk my child's immediate health for either reason though.  For Duckling, this time, antibiotics seem to have kept him out of hospital, and for that I am very grateful. I am over my antibiotic snobbery. I just hope we still have some effective ones available by the time Duckling has his own kids (and to help ensure that, I will make sure he finishes the course, I promise).

Am I a "Mummy Blogger" if I don't always write about being a Mum?

I have now been blogging as The Different Duck for just over a year. When I first started out, the plan was to write about my experiences as a new Mum, probably for the same reasons that the thousands of other Mummy bloggers out there do: I needed some form of brain exercise beyond inventing bathtime songs and critiquing cBeebies to my husband via WhatsApp ("Mr Pontypine's moustache just flew off! I mean what the actual f**k???!"). I was also a little overwhelmed by the full on nature of parenthood and wanted a forum to share my thoughts and experiences that would allow me more waffling space than a Mumsnet message board and result in fewer eye rolls than I get from Drake.

What started out as a pure Mummy Blog quickly turned into a "little bit of everything" blog. I wrote about politics. I moaned about advertising. I wrote some dubious poetry. Before I knew it, my blog had become part diary, part soapbox, part literary experiment and all pretence at sticking to a theme had evaporated.

The question is, does this matter? Part of me is disappointed by my lack of discipline and scattergun approach. I know the golden rules of blogging, and I know that it is very hard to engage long term followers if you constantly change your focus or style (mostly I try to be funny, but sometimes I can't help but be serious). Plus you're never going to be blog of the day on Mumsnet if you're not actually writing about being a Mum. 

Another part of me is perversely pleased that my blog is such a rambling mess however, because you know what, that's what life is like. I am a whole, complicated person, as we all are.  Being a parent is inextricably linked to all the other roles and experiences in your life, and while I am a Mummy and my blog could thus be described as a Mummy Blog, I am not ONLY a Mummy. So many female bloggers (and really good ones that I read regularly) describe themselves as "A Mum to Fred and a Wife to Barney" and I often think, great, but it's 2016 not 1956 - who are you in your own right? I am of course a wife and mother and that is a big part of my identity, but I'm also a manager, a runner, a writer, a singer, a (lapsed) clarinettist, an atheist, a feminist (or at least a liberal egalitarian, whatever that is), a reasonably decent cook, a daughter, a clumsy clot, an MSc holder, a great problem solver, a flat pack construction whizz, an appalling tennis player, a frustrated ballet dancer (damn you strapping Dutch genes!)...  I could go on.  All of these things do not fit with the one dimensional stereotype of a "Mummy", and I'm proud of that.  If my blog is about anything therefore its being different and complex, which I guess I knew all along, given my profile and chosen moniker...

So no, my blog is never going to get a million followers, and I'm never going to make a fortune off it, but I'm fine with that. It would be lovely to have a loyal following, but a lack of it isn't going to stop me writing, and to be honest, if you take away the imperative to attract and keep followers, it gives you more freedom to write what you want.  Plus I don't have the time or inclination to go chasing readers or the stomach to promote brands and host adverts, so a handful of post views a month and zero income is just fine by me. And hey, if one of my readers turns out to be a fellow scatter-brained flat pack loving odd-bod, and they find kinship in my blog, well then that's just peachy.

Colonoscopy capers

After repeated doctor's appointments and a range of inconclusive blood and stool tests, yesterday I finally got the chance to receive a definitive diagnosis on my gippy belly issues, by way of a gastroscopy (camera into my stomach) and colonoscopy (camera up the bum. Lovely.)

For those of a squeamish disposition who don't cope well with Too Much Information, I would advise you not to read on. Neither procedure is particularly pleasant, though to be honest, the prep is the worst bit, if only because it induces symptoms far worse than those that prompted the investigation in the first place.  To be diagnosed and thus cured, you have to make yourself sicker - it's faintly ironic.

The whole thing starts with a couple of days of eating a "low fibre" diet - essentially the opposite of everything a doctor might normally tell you to eat. White bread, white pasta, white rice, butter, cheese, and no fruit, veg, nuts or wholegrains. Sounds kind of fun in theory, but it's a bit of a blood sugar roller coaster in reality.  Then, 24 hours before the procedure, comes a total ban on solid food and ten (TEN?!) senna tablets, the purpose of which is a bit unclear as you follow this 'gentle' laxative with two rounds of Picolax, which produces an effect akin to being washed out by a fire hose on full. Repeatedly. For hours.

Once I had accepted this was happening, it wasn't too bad. I just wish the evacuation hadn't kicked in midway through cooking Duckling's tea, necessitating multiple dashes between the loo (upstairs) and kitchen (downstairs) to avoid pan fires / put foodstuffs in bowls / stick on the Thomas the Tank Engine film / check Duckling wasn't choking or throwing himself or his dinner out of the highchair. Typically, Drake waited until Duckling was fed, bathed and in his PJs, I'd missed two knocks on the door, a call from my Mum and I'd angrily hung up on a "accident claim line" caller ("No, I haven't had an accident in the past three months but I bloody well will if you don't let me go back to the toilet!") before he came home. By this point the fire hose bursts had become a little more intermittent and I was in full story reading mode, so there was not much left to do.  He did kindly fetch me a mug of hot marmite water though. Mmm, delicious.

My night was fairly sleepless, though thankfully I only had one howling session from Duckling (who is sleeping terribly at present and was in bed with us by 2am) as I unceremoniously bundled him over onto Drake's side of the bed and rushed to the toilet. Nothing like pooping while a toddler wails "Mummy! Where you gooooo?! Boobie Mummy, boooooobiiiieee!" outside the door.  Come the morning, I  managed a few minutes extra sleep while Drake (who had kindly taken the day off to escort me to and from the hospital) took Duckling to the childminder.  However, being the practical multi-tasker he is, he had also booked in to have some scaffolding put up on the side of the house and a few blown window panes replaced. My lie in was therefore totally ruined by clanking and swearing outside the bedroom window, and the need to clear our windowsills of five years of accumulated crap. Plus the need to empty myself of my remaining crap.

Once installed in the hospital I was given the usual flattering bum revealing gown to wear (no sign of the 'modesty pants' my letter promised disappointingly) and entertained my nurse with some fainting as she put the cannula in for my sedative. I reassured her that I have notoriously low blood pressure and faint a lot (particularly after 24 hours of no food and major bowel evacuations) so it really wasn't a big deal, but given the frequency with which she subsequently checked I was still alive, I'm not sure she was convinced.  Then, when I had recovered my poise and my blood pressure had returned to something close to living, it was off to the endoscopy suite, where I was asked, for the fourth time, my date of birth and whether I had any allergies (none, apart from nurses with cannulas apparently), before being wheeled in to meet my consultant. Who if I'm honest, I may have a teensy bit of a crush on. Somewhat awkward when you know they're about to stick a camera up your bottom.  Glad I'd trimmed the hedge (front and back garden, just to be sure).

In the event, the endoscopy was actually more unpleasant than the colonoscopy, mainly because it involved some involuntary gagging and an odd banana flavour throat numbing spray. The sedative was nice, but it had largely worn off when it came to the colonoscopy, so I remained awake for the whole thing and watched the little camera go on its merry journey round my colon.  It was surprisingly interesting, even if I was faintly concerned a lurking conger eel or tunnel web spider was about to leap out at us at any moment. It's possible the sedative may have had more of an effect than I realised. 

In the end, nothing of any interest whatsoever was found, meaning the official, definitive diagnosis is: I have Nothing Serious.  Whether this Nothing Serious is a food intolerance, irritable bowel syndrome or something else remains to be seen, but for now, I am simply happy that I can get on with my life without perpetually wondering "but what if...?". And that I can eat normally again. Oh Soreen, how I missed you....

Surviving the annual haircut humiliation

As you may have gathered, I am not a lifestyle / beauty / fashion type blogger. I just about know my eyeliner from my eye shadow and my Primark from my Prada, but looking perfect does not feature high on my priority list - even less so now I'm a Mum.

Trips to the hairdresser always feel like a voyage into a foreign land therefore, fraught with the potential to show myself up as some clueless outsider, totally unfamiliar with the ways of the locals - you know, the ones who wear lip gloss, perfume, proper heels and bat-wing tops (my hairdresser today had fronds on hers that I was convinced she was going to accidentally snip off at any moment) and know about fashion. The unashamed, dedicated focus on appearance makes me feel uncomfortable and frumpy, even though I normally don't give much thought to how I look.  I never see the same hairdresser twice because I can't face the horror in their eyes when they figure out it's been a whole year since I last had a trim. It's ridiculous because I know I'm not really being judged, but I still feel as if I'm letting them down by allowing all their hard work to grow out and go frizzy, and convince myself they're going to label me as a failure to womankind and give me a shoddy cut.

So, as I sat down in the chair today, I told my usual fib about it being about six months since I'd last visited (ahem) and vaguely gesticulated that I wanted some hair cut off. As ever, this was not enough for my stylist du jour and a full beauty exam began: how much hair she should take, where did I want my parting, how many layers did I need, what shape should my fringe be, would I prefer the glossing or moisturising treatment, was the water temperature OK...  Mostly I just answered "err... I'm not really sure. What do you think?" like an unprepared amateur who would probably agree to a lime green mohican if someone suggested it was "on trend" right now.

Then came the lecture about how I should look after my hair (invest in a decent heat protector spray and always leave your home hair masque on for an hour covered in a hot towel girls!) followed by some twaddle about cuticle smoothing and hydroxy amino peptides (I may be paraphrasing). I wanted to shout "look, I'm out of my comfort zone here. Please just cut my damn hair!". But I didn't because my hairdresser was perfectly well-meaning and lovely, and was just doing her job - infinitely better than I ever could I might add (as Duckling's first haircut will attest. Wonky tufts are in for the under threes, right?).

It's not that I don't care how I look. I am a feminist and as such I dislike society's excessive focus on the perfection of women's bodies, but I'm also a realist and I recognise that, male or female, to get on in life it helps to look a few steps removed from a tramp (no offence to tramps). I do like to wear clothes that flatter, my wardrobe is certainly not empty, and I just about still care enough to put some concealer and mascara on before work. I just can't take the beauty industry seriously or get enthused about the detail of "glamour" because it just seems so shallow and unimportant in the grand scheme of things.  Plus looking permanently perfect must be damn exhausting. Hats off to you if you manage to pull it off - particularly if you're a parent.  Given the choice between an extra 10 minutes in bed, and poker straight hair, the bed wins every time for me.

All this said, I would be lying if I said I didn't give my new hair a little swish and admire it in a few shop windows on the way home. It IS undeniably nice to feel a little bit beautiful sometimes, which is why I still put myself through the uncomfortable process of going to a proper salon, rather than just going DIY.  Plus not looking like this all the time just makes me appreciate it all the more - I'm just glad nobody (not least myself) expects me to keep it up.

Needing God (or not)

Following a lengthy chat about our respective health issues this week, a Muslim colleague of mine told me I was in her prayers. As an atheist, I appreciated the sentiment but found responding a bit awkward, so I just said thank you, and that she was in my prayers too, in a non-religious sort of a way. She laughed and said "I am always amazed that you're an atheist - you're so together. How is it that you don't need God?" This wasn't a challenge, it was a question borne of genuine curiosity, and one I never really got to answer as our legal rep appeared and started grumbling about IR35 legislation.

The question has played on my mind since though. The assertion that I am "together" aside (umm, nope), why is it I don't need God? I suspect the answer is pretty simple - I don't need God because I've never had Him (Her / Them) in my life. God has never been who I turn to in a crisis. It wouldn't occur to me to seek his reassurance, blessing or guidance, and my moral compass has never been calibrated by the Lord. My fellow humans, my instincts and the rules of the society I live in do these things, as do the principles of fairness, equality, acceptance and compassion by which my parents raised me. I still need a structure of values, but for me, this doesn't come from religion.

Not needing God doesn't make me superior, or more intelligent, or more "together". It's just the way it is.  I was raised an atheist, and am lucky to have a support network around me that means I have never had to turn to a deity for solace. I can completely see why other more pious souls may be concerned for me, or worry that my heathen ways mean I might lack focus or purpose, or indeed that I need redeeming pronto to avoid an afterlife of eternal fiery torment. Just as I can't imagine living with God, if you do have him in your life, it must be very hard to understand how anyone could live without him. He is woven into the fabric of your existence and underpins your sense of self. If I'm honest, there are times, when things are very bad, when I wish I did have someone to pray to, so I could feel like I was doing something proactive to change my circumstances. But I could never really bring myself to pray seriously, because I know in my core that no-one is listening, and, even if they were, it seems unlikely that they would answer the prayers of someone who has so vocally denounced them as a mere fairy story her whole life.

So I talk to my family, I talk to my friends, and I do everything in my power to make things better by myself. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, just like prayers are sometimes answered and sometimes they are not. And while I would like more certainty and control at times, mostly I'm OK because I know that life is essentially chaotic and random and there is nothing I, or any other person on this planet can do to change that. When we've done our best and things don't work out, well then that's just how it is. It's oddly reassuring to know that it's not God's will or his punishment, just as good things happening aren't his reward. I don't have to feel guilty (unless of course I have done something wrong) or let down, or tested, or wonder why this was in God's design - I can just say "shit happens" and after I've processed and healed, I can move on. In theory at least...

So I don't need God, but that doesn't mean I don't need the compassion, beauty, wisdom or love that he brings so many - I just seek these things down here on Earth, in science, nature and other people. And I don't consider myself superior for not believing (unlike some outspoken atheists) because, despite all the logic and evidence that God does not exist, religion is fundamentally about faith, not evidence, and I cannot say for sure that I would be an atheist now if I had been brought up with God in my life. I understand why so many do need him and if he brings them comfort and clarity and makes them a better person, then who am I to question on denigrate that? Of course if God provides them with an excuse to harm, exploit or shun their fellow humans, then that's a whole other matter. But that's a post for another day.