tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4908607381304107052023-11-16T08:18:02.386-08:00micro-chasmssmall concerns from behind the front doornicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-51332485422932192972010-05-10T05:21:00.000-07:002010-05-10T09:01:14.990-07:00Can you walk a little faster?So I haven’t done this for a while. I haven’t had anything to say, or at least not that I wanted to write down. No, actually, I don’t think I’ve had anything to say. I had a few of weeks when life seemed as though it was happening in super-realism – just living it was a wonderful, privileged full-time job, the idea of talking about it second-hand on the internet seemed perverse, completely unnecessary and frankly a bit dirty. But my husband asked me about my absence this morning, and his look of distain was anything but understanding, so here I am, talking about nothing again.<br /><br />My relationship with the whole world of blogging has always been a very inconsistent and amorphous thing. What started as a personal need to express myself to something other than the washing machine turned quickly into an exciting adventure in cross-Atlantic and Euro-union camaraderie. For a while, it was the funnest thing in the world to have soul mates in New York who I’d never share a glass of wine with, and critical advice from Germany from someone I suspected might actually be a teenage boy. <br /><br />But then the whole exercise settled down into a much more rewarding place. Being read by people I actually know, who’s shared opinions and life-outlooks I really admire. It’s ironic that the more internet forums and writing groups and comment boxes I shared with, the more I just wanted to reach for my phone and arrange a Friday night around the dinner table with real people. The blogging universe is unimaginably huge, and the successful contributors unbelievably dedicated. But more than that is the simple fact that you have to have a lot of faith in the whole thing as a purposeful industry, which is tricky when you spend more than a healthy amount of time wondering what your professional worth is. There are no rules, no deadlines, no commissioning editors and no end to the amount of time you can spend doing something with no job-description style function. It’s the grown-up equivalent of reading the huge pile of magazines under your bed when you’re supposed to be cleaning your room.<br /><br />Of course these observations are all just nonsense, and the internet is what the internet is: a limitless way of being creative that my whinging desire for boundaries isn’t going to contain. And it’s not even fashionable any more to say ‘I’m too old for it all’. Get with the programme or just get lost frankly. <br /><br />So, this isn’t the way this post is going to end. This is a blog after all, so here’s the obligatory self-confession bit about ‘what I have noticed of late’. (And hopefully it will tie in nicely with the reason I’ve been absent. No modern technology is going to change my opinion of good old-fashioned essay writing skills.) I have, of late, been feeling horribly pedestrian, in both thought and existence. It’s a term that a very un-pedestrian, but fabulously self-aware, friend of mine coined, and I love it and her for that. For me, at its most basic, it’s when you buy a new pair of jeans, and you know they’re a bit safe: too wide in the leg, too high on the waist, but they fit. It’s not earth shatteringly awful, but that’s the whole point – it’s just pedestrian. So in preparation for a full-time return to a weekly spot in the fabulous sparing arena of blogs, I am going to up my game, chuck out the jeans and try to shun the easy options. I’m not just going to observe the high-definition world going on around me, I’m going to blog about it. God, I feel like standing and saluting. I might even tweet.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-82111756569276844832010-03-22T10:37:00.000-07:002010-03-22T10:39:16.776-07:00Life extractionAbout four years ago I had some major root canal work done on (under?) one of my back teeth. Bear with me, I’m going to try and make this interesting. It was when my baby boys were teeny, and having some time to myself – albeit in a dentist’s chair with a high level of anxiety, and some – was actually pretty intoxicating, and the fact that it took six visits to finish the job seemed well worth the dollar and the pain.<br /><br />Anyway, the bad news was that it was never truly a finished job, and it’s taken a course of serious antibiotics every six months ever since to keep things under the intrusive-pain threshold. But now the dentist will take it no longer, and has given me an ultimatum: extraction or he closes the pharmacy. <br /><br />However, despite the fact that I’m now facing a 90-minute dentist appointment in less than a fortnight, I’m suddenly really looking forward to an end to the constant fuggy achey hungover feeling that I now realise the infection has inflicted on me for far too long. And it’s also occurred to me that a lack of these constant feelings might significantly alter my behaviour? How many of my personality traits are infection-fugg induced? How long is my fuse? How much nicer is the real me? <br /><br />And what if this whole improvement-though-extraction exercise works in other areas of life, not just aural enhancement. I sacked my cleaner this week after weeks of irritation about the fact that I was paying her to do very little for far fewer hours than she was billing. (I know it’s a minefield to mention I have a cleaner after witnessing the storm of anti-staff protest Tim Dowling received by admitting he employed someone to hoover his floors. I don’t have quite as many readers as his Guardian column though, so by the laws of proportional representation, the worst that can happen is that one of you might be feeling a twitch of irritation in the tip of your little finger. Bummer if it’s you. What’s the chances!)<br /><br />Anyway, life is definitely better for having extracted the cleaner. So what’s next? Are there other things that need to go? Other people…? I’ll get back to that one when I’m feeling braver.<br /><br />But how about an extraction of expectation? I generally hold a fairly high level of it with regards to both me and the world, and hence live with the persistant low-level pain of disappointment. However, on Friday I sat happily though an evening that, on paper, should come in way under expectations: the school quiz night. My team contained an unfeasibly large number of broadsheet journos, who knew pretty much everything (in fact, everything) while I have to be honest and admit to genuinely knowing almost nothing. And, thanks to the final dose of anti-biotics generously prescribed by my dentist, there was no alcohol in my glass to disguise my almost complete lack of knowledge. <br /><br />But I had a great evening. Turns out some of my closest friends also know nothing, and sparkling grape juice isn’t so bad if combine it with your body weight in gherkins. And I was the one who recognised the theme to ET when everyone else thought it was Star Wars. You can’t extract a wasted youth.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-9283554085308068662010-03-08T12:10:00.000-08:002010-03-08T12:12:59.165-08:00Death does not become usI’m not sure I like funerals. I’m on my way home from my second in the space of a month, and I’m starting to wonder whether they are a good thing or not. Certainly in both cases the reason for us all being there was premature, heart-breaking and difficult to justify even if you had a sense of a higher purpose, which I don’t feel I do. But I suppose that’s fairly common of funerals. They are filled with utterly breath-taking gulping sobs of sadness, however much you try and put a positive spin on them. <br /><br />No, I don’t believe the person with top billing would be serenely telling us all to be happy for the life they’ve just left behind, if they could communicate anything – nor would they want us to stop crying or beating our chests. They had no intention of dying. They want nothing more than to be there in the room with us. And in that circumstance, it would be a nicer room, because it wouldn’t be a crematorium. No need. No-one’s died.<br /><br />But of course they have. So twice this month I’ve had to witness people I love suffering the indescribable pain of loosing someone they love. And I’m just not sure about the whole funeral thing anymore. <br /><br />It’s very public for starters. You’re basically offering yourself to the public as a living focus for the person everyone has lost. And it’s your job to make everyone else feels a bit better. They showed up, they supported, they tried to make things that tiniest bit better. In return, you have to show them how much their support has helped. Look, I’m still standing, I’m going to be okay. There will be cracks whenever anyone hugs me for more than a brief second, but that’s ok too, that’s all in the script.<br /><br />Maybe it’s a chance to practice your new vocabulary in support-group surroundings. I rather than We, After rather than Before, Now rather than Then. Roll it around, see how it feels. Maybe shared grief is easier to cope with. I’m sure my family were all really happy to be able to spend time together today, but really, at a funeral? Isn’t this when you want to curl up into a tiny ball and weep, not make small talk with people who never called enough. All this because someone decided that funerals are an important way to say goodbye?<br /><br />Well I don’t buy it. The need to say goodbye is mistakenly on the list of necessities in life. As is the idea that time passing is good. Anyone who’s suffered the searing pain of loosing someone’s love will know that the thing to fear most is time. The idea that the more of it that passes, the less you’ll feel the pain, is appalling. The only remaining connection between you and the lost love is the pain. If that goes, you’ll be alone.<br /><br />So how about we don’t make an occasion out of saying goodbye. How about we leave the lingering presence of the person we love hanging, unfinished, unpackaged. Would that really be worse than a funeral? I heard someone today ask the eldest daughter of the bereaved family where she got her dress from, and rather than being confused at the banality of the question it was the only time I saw her properly light up all afternoon. She looked amazing, she had a new frock, it mattered. It’s what her dad would have said, too. <br /><br />Funerals are important for shared grief, to celebrate a life, to start to say goodbye. Maybe. Or, run. Run for the hills, and don’t worry about the rest of us. We don’t need to see a brave face. You’ve been cheated, and it’s not fair. It’s completely not fair. Weep.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-68334119082714139232010-03-01T12:37:00.000-08:002010-03-01T12:42:51.648-08:00Presenting: a new meThe last time I did a presentation was on a one-day training course in Basic Presentation Skills, and my audience was a bunch of equally terrified, equally young non-presenters who were overly appreciative of my stuttering efforts purely so I would be equally as gracious about theirs.<br /><br />Add to this background info the fact that my husband is a professional presenter, and that almost everyone I know is way-above-averagely competent at talking in a clear and ordered manner about whatever topic you might offer them, and you begin to get a picture of someone who might be a little out of their depth had they been asked, for example, to present to a room of 30 business men. In two days time. Especially when a positive outcome would mean a huge amount, professionally, for a significant group of the afore mentioned brilliant public speakers.<br /><br />I’m planning on getting through it with the help of several sleepless nights, a lot of talking to myself on the bus, a spare pair of non-snag tights in every pocket and a new top. It’ll be fine.<br /><br />The main problem right now though is that I’m not even up mentally to the new top purchasing. I’m sad to say that several nights of excess in all the drinking, talking and kitchen-dancing areas has rendered me incapable of normal function. It’s finally happened. I am too old for it all.<br /><br />It’s come sooner than I predicted, especially since I have put in some solid ground work to prevent it happening. I always knew that at some point it was going to become unpleasant going to bed with two bottles of cheap Bulgarian red swishing about inside me. So I took care of my progressively aging body by treating it like a Majestic temple – with each birthday came another 50p on the bottle price, another few minutes of consideration of the label and a few hundred feet more of prime vineyard slope in the mix. My plan was to hit 40 with a couple of bottles of fine vintage coursing gently around my extremities – surely no damage can be done if you take these things seriously?<br /><br />Good plan, badly executed. It seems that while the body grows older, so does the mind, and it forgets to remember the rules. Not every night, I’m not crying out for help. But the point is, when it does happen, I can’t stick to the ‘one good bottle and we’re off home’ rule. It becomes a ‘fridge, wine rack, beaker, bottle, whatever’ kind of rule. <br /><br />But it’s not feeling so much fun anymore, and the aftermath is horrible. And now it turns out I have to present, and be seriously presentable. I think it’s time for a change of habit, a straighter road, a clearer intention, and maybe a new top.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-59165144211118786442010-02-22T14:25:00.000-08:002010-02-22T14:40:04.224-08:00And the crowd goes wildSo, I'm laid in bed listening to the curling in Canada. There's no need to point out the absolute pointlessness of listening to a sport that in itself has got to be the most pointless example of a mis-spent youth. If you're not even watching the Olympic awkward-lunge-and-letting-go followed by the maniacal Olympic ice sweeping in full flow, the sound of one stone hitting the other stone isn't going to tick many entertainment boxes.<br /><br />But I didn't have the energy to sit up and watch, so I listened. With raised eyebrows. I had the energy for that at least.<br /><br />And then I noticed something. The man whose job it was to let go of the stone with an obligatory expression of unbearable seriousness (yes, I could hear it), was then screaming instructions down the ice to his Olympic domestic brushmen to scrub harder, longer, softer, in a more sportsman-like manner... I don't know what, but the urgency and anger in his voice was quite alarming. Was he really taking this so seriously? Was he really so angry? <br /><br />It’s kind of odd that we Brits like curling, and I don’t mean for the obvious reasons that it’s no more suitable as an Olympic sport than hoovering. The thing is, we’re quite good at it, aren’t we? And don’t we hate it when other people are good at things? Isn’t that the true definition of Britishness, ‘to be of a disposition of perpetual resentment and distrust of anyone who can achieve, and to only have a natural leaning towards the under dog, [caveat: until they start to achieve]’. <br /><br />So, we like the curlers, even though they’re pulling off their second Olympic medal winning sports page domination. We fell in love with them as underdogs in 2006 and in 2010 we’re still lovin’ it. <br /><br />But, anyway, it’s ok after all, because even if we don’t follow the book with our love of curling, we certainly do in defeat – our state of mind of choice. So the final British curl is about to be cast down the ice, and the over emotional Canadian supporters started singing the national anthem. Theirs I mean. And our guys couldn’t concentrate – but most importantly the sweepers couldn’t hear their instructions. That’s the actual factual explanation of our subsequent failure. After four years of practice, pre-breakfast broom training, late nights studying their instruments and endless cancelled family holidays in the hope of Olympic glory, the sweepers couldn’t hear Mr Angry shouting ‘sweep’ so they didn’t. Or couldn’t. So, the match was stopped, everyone had a nice cup of tea, and the crowd was calmed. But the seeds had been sewn, and our skipper chucked a bad ‘un and we lost on the final stone. <br /><br />I know this isn’t the kind of thing I usually choose to dwell on, but I felt a huge sense of national pride in the whole sorry episode. My kids enjoyed watching the curling almost as much as they enjoyed watching the bobsleigh team coming down the run on their heads. A friend once quoted someone perceptive and told me 'If ironing's all your good for, you better be damn good at ironing.' If it works for sweeping, I might have found my answer to navel gazing.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-57601796182499519882010-02-16T11:40:00.000-08:002010-02-16T11:50:34.432-08:00Who do you think you are?A question was posed in the pub on Friday evening. It was the one of those rare spontaneous evenings where an unexpected babysitter lead to a last minute decision to head to Soho for drinks that taste much better and work much faster for the simple lack of organisation that went into them. <br /><br />Anyway, in this gin-fuelled hedonism granted by a small space on the heaving pavements of Dean Street, my husband posed the question. Who do you want to be? Not what – which is essentially a career question, and one that he knows me well enough not to approach even with an extremely long barge pole. How many caveats, excuses, angry accusations, guilty denials and general despondency can one question inspire? The ‘what’ question is tainted for ever now with the echoes of school bells and after-taste of petit filous, let alone the shadows of the glass ceiling and a four-year CV gap.<br /><br />So it was ‘who’ that was questioned. And not one of us (we had a couple of other over-excited escapee parents with us) could answer without turning it in to a huge joke. Hardly appropriate considering the gravity of the question. Hardly surprising considering the inappropriateness of the timing of the gravitas question.<br /><br />Years ago, I was on a uni coach trip to Amsterdam, and we were playing games to entertain ourselves in anticipation of the main event. One game involved someone asking questions to everyone else in order to guess which one of us we had chosen to be ‘it’. The questions had to be of the ‘what type of song would this person be’ variety, and I was asked what item of clothing ‘this person’ would be. It so happened that I was ‘this person’, so my answer was ‘a big baggy cardi’. <br /><br />Only you would ever describe you as a big baggy cardi, so the game was over fairly quickly and awkwardly at that point. <br /><br />And the embarrassment of my completely exposed lack of aesthetic pride still haunts me, particularly because it also exposed my clear lack of inner belief. Why couldn’t I think of one nice thing to say about myself out loud? I knew there were better things about myself than my penchant for shapeless knitwear. I knew it, but I didn’t believe it enough to vocalise. And that was when I was young and thin, and life’s boundaries were self-imposed. Now I’m not-so, and life’s boundaries are super-imposed. And life is richer, but the ‘who’ question still inspires a knitwear-based response. Maybe it’s now a cashmere one, but there’s not much extra self-confidence woven into the stitching. <br /><br />How is it possible that almost 20 years later I can’t answer the ‘who’ question because I know that the list of things I think need changing is essentially pathetic. You can’t get to 38 (bloody hell, 38) and be entirely disappointed in yourself. I like myself a lot actually, but I would never admit that to anyone. Mainly because I assume that all they see in me are the few things that will always be unattractive or unnecessary. <br /><br />So, who I’d like to be: someone who could name an item of clothing that they both liked and could honestly associate themselves with. I’d also really like to be someone who doesn’t worry that they might have said something a bit rubbish in 1992.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-62883715188695213582010-02-01T13:39:00.000-08:002010-02-01T13:46:46.911-08:00The ListI wasn’t going to do this this week. I had decided to have one Sunday night when I didn’t lie awake worrying about what, who, why and whether I could be creatively interesting enough to entertain myself and a few significant others with a posting. A musing about my relatively untroubled, unremarkable life over the past week, and all the incredibly unchallenging things that haven’t been playing on my mind. Then I found myself writing lists instead. <br /><br />Lists are great right? I don’t really know anyone who doesn’t love a good list when it’s presented in the right way. I think they’re actually the only things that really galvanise the different parts of you life. The longer and fuller your life becomes, the more spurious the links between the different areas of your life become. <br /><br />Compartmentalism is a natural state of survival, so lists are like those yoghurt-pot-and-string telephones linking all the boxes together. There’s not much that links the necessity to both own and put on a posh ‘client skirt’ with the hurried playground planning of a new-school-mum’s social – other than the to-do list you’ve made to help you overcome the fact that you’ve had no time to either prepare for, or avoid, either event. <br /><br />The Ocado list provides a direct link between your aspiring social needs, your fridge, your newly embraced fascination with iPod apps and your hatred of the general public when armed with a shopping trolley. It also provides an essential link with your husband. You can sit quietly at the kitchen table, together, on the same side, sharing input in the list. It’s quality time.<br /><br />Anyway, there’s not much more to say about lists. That’s the great thing about them. They’re pure, they work. I’m not interested in the psycho-analytics that could go behind why we love them. They’re neatness and order in an otherwise chaotic world. It’s even good to list your most hated things. Everything can be made easier with a list, even guilt.<br /><br />So the list that has spent most time buzzing around in formation this week is the music one. Those soundtrack to life songs that wriggle around as ear worms for days before becoming weirdly prophetic. These are mine.<br /><br />1. Single ladies (Put A Ring On It); Beyonce & my eldest, her biggest nine-year-old fan <br />2. I’m Being Eaten By A Boa Constrictor And I Don’t Like It One Bit; Reception music class<br />3. Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood; Nina Simone<br />4. Neon Rainbow; The Box Tops<br />5. The Wanting Comes In Waves; The Decemberists<br />6. Happy Birthday To Me; my littlests putting in some early practicenicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-83798613128925838452010-01-29T02:46:00.000-08:002010-01-29T02:49:30.280-08:00GUEST FRIDAY - Hazel GouldA good friend of mine went on a last-minute-late-night date last week that began with a phone call at 10.30pm, and ended at 5.30am at her flat with two large G & Ts and Emergency on Planet Earth at top volume (our parents turned to Rumours for nostalgia, we look back to Jamiroquoi to channel our early youth.) They both passed out, and when they got up he went to work. I imagined the scene: him stumbling into the office with a can of coke and a wry smile and saying to his colleagues “mate, I only went to bed at 6, I was wasted. I’m probably still pissed” and then sitting down to do a day’s work. Of course, this story has nothing to do with me, but my daydream did remind me of a time when a lack of sleep was something to be proud of.<br /><br />Sleep is a precious commodity for the parents of the very young. Hours are collected like gold bars, as if we could stash them away for a rainy day; we barter on the nursery trading floor, selling midnight lullabies in exchange for lie-ins and cbeebies at dawn for breakfast. It’s a bear market, investor confidence is low, and all we really want are “just five more minutes”. <br /><br />It seems to be a commonly accepted truth that the person who is working in the morning needs sleep in order to function properly and the person who is at home with the baby can easily get through the day with two hours sleep and a strong coffee. Biology and the politics of parental leave meant that more often than not there is a clear gender divide in the first months. Lots of couples, during the early days, decamp the daddy into the spare room to sleep all night, leaving the mother to deal with the baby because “he has to work” and “there’s no point in us both being tired”. Of course each family has its own internal logic, and it is not my place to judge the choices of parents who are doing their best to raise their children. But I do wonder if the tyranny of work needs to be challenged from time to time.<br /><br />Is it not the same men who, pre-children, were drinking until 4 in the morning and rolling into work rubbing the stamp from their hand with a dab of red bull on a tissue, who now, after having a baby, need to approach a day’s work like an Olympic event: it seems that he needs to be Rocky (young and fit and training for the fight of his life) to tackle his in tray. Meanwhile there is a woman at home looking after their 10-week-old baby, with no idea what to do or how to do it, or worse, a toddler tearing around the house desperate for attention and activities, who is expected to parent, quite literally, with her eyes closed. <br /><br />Biology has a large part in our downfall. Nature plays a cruel trick on pregnant women, making a good nights sleep impossible throughout the 7th and 8th months. And for breastfeeding mothers, night feeds are hers responsibility and hers alone. For all the convenience and comfort that breast feeding gives, it makes the partner’s role in the middle of the night practically irrelevant. For a lot of women, by the time they return to work, feel the freedom and pleasure of taking the bus alone, drinking a coffee, having a conversation with a colleague and realise that work is often by far the easier option, it is too late to redress the balance.<br /><br />I was very lucky*. My husband took to nighttimes like a bat. He would leap out of bed at the first snuffle and deliver my son to me, with a clean nappy, and he would be there to put him back in his cot when he’d had enough to eat. It wasn’t such a big thing, but I knew I wasn’t alone. When my daughter came along, it was very different. It took a lot more than a snuffle to wake either of us up, and feeding her and getting her off to sleep was like falling off a log to me. Her birth coincided with a very difficult and stressful time at work for him, so much of the nocturnal activity was my domain. It was fine, I did it, and I didn’t resent it, but I was eternally grateful that first time around, he had been jigging the baby back to sleep and giving me a cuddle when I was crying with fatigue and frustration<br /> <br />We imagine that raising children is done on instinct and that the only muscle that is really needed to be in tip top form is the heart – the rest of the body can sail to hell in a handbasket. It’s true, of course, and if you love your children and keep them fed and warm, I really believe that it’s hard to go too far wrong. But I also know, that after a run of bad nights my patience is at zero, my fuse is short and my creative, physical and diplomatic energy is non-existent. The kids have a pretty uninspiring day and so do I. When I go to work feeling as tired, something about the air hitting my face, the paper cup of coffee, the banter and the focus keeps me going. <br /><br />Sleep deprivation is awful, it’s painful and depressing, but it is part of the story of parenting. The night that my husband just gave up trying to get our son to sleep and watched an entire Thomas DVD at 2am is already part of our folklore. Those nights are the way we earn our stripes, our love for our children is tested almost to the limit and we learn that however much we might want to throw the crying bundle out of the window, we don’t. No body likes feeling that it’s impossible to cope, or that somehow they are underperforming at work, but for the 2 years or so that sleep is so fragile in babies, it’s worth it, just to know that you were in it together, and you came out the other side. <br /><br />*At some point I will launch a campaign to stamp out the word ‘lucky’ when referring to having a partner who is so kind as to look after his own child. Now is not the time. I am lucky to have him, for all sorts of reasons.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-53453984694514312202010-01-25T12:01:00.000-08:002010-01-25T12:07:31.838-08:00Tell me on a ThursdayThere are two ways of embracing change. The first is to embrace it. This is the way that involves excitable announcements, late-night planning conversations, lists, photos, maps, associated purchasing and public celebrating. <br /><br />The other way is to see potential change as a vertiginous cliff edge that should be kept clear of, preferably with the assistance of fences, warning signs and a strictly enforced let’s-never-visit-this-place-again policy. <br /><br />My husband loves change – particularly the hours of internet research and aforementioned late-night planning conversations it inevitably allows. Which is either an indication that his life is perpetually disappointing or underwhelming, or it’s a sign that he thrives on the adrenalin of constant movement and reorganization.<br /><br />I, on the other hand fear change like the grim. Maybe not fear, that makes it sound as though I have no control over it. On the contrary, I simply work very hard to prevent the need for it. I am the master of its irrelevance. It rarely gets the chance to take root. Which is probably why I love surprises. They offer absolutely no time to worry about the after effects. <br /><br />So the outcome of our completely opposing attitude towards change is that any conversations based on the future have, in recent years, taken place around the kitchen table, a couple of empty dinner plates and far more than the recommended number of empty wine bottles. And more often than not it’s approaching midnight on a Thursday. Thursday is the new Saturday in our house – if Saturdays were ever actually the night to get accidentally and focus-loosingly drunk in your own house in order to make any progress in decisions as far reaching a next Easter. Maybe Thursdays are just the new Thursdays. And really the only looser is Friday. <br /><br />We used to make our decisions walking around Waterlow Park, officially London’s best-kept secret. Now I have to have a glass of something French and a resolve to not take any previous resolves too seriously for a few hours. We’ve had loads of lost Fridays over the years, and I’ve been party to loads of lovely decisions while pretending not to mind about having the carpet pulled from under me and life-change plans swing slowly into motion.<br /><br />And then, eventually and inevitably, comes Monday morning, and the under-medicated cold light of day. The changes that seemed so easily embraced while my reality was being massaged by the hypnotic glow of weekend family life are suddenly once again a threat to everything I base my stability and happiness on. It’s a puzzle; one easily solved no doubt by a few weeks of abstinence.<br /><br />Footnote. Things I have omitted from my observations: 1. I fear change because my father left when I was 11. I mean, really, what cod psychology tish 2. The main source of our ‘change’ debates is the subject of secondary schools, and the possible suggestion that I might detach myself from my heartbeat and move out of town. Let’s see just what real fear can achieve.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-40874752944902035392010-01-18T09:05:00.001-08:002010-01-18T09:07:39.779-08:00The deciding factorDo you ever wonder who decides things? General, omniscient things I mean, not whether Mariah Carey is interesting enough to be the cover story of a Sunday supp magazine. (I would suggest the correct answer to this is no, but evidence would prove otherwise.) Who decided the bus routes, the national fear of spiders, that Brussel sprouts are only eaten at Christmas? Under duress? <br /><br />Maybe it’s an eldest child thing, but decision-making is close to my heart, and I consider myself pretty good at it on the whole. I’m certainly prolific. I can decide all day, sometimes for fun, sometimes to avoid actual activity, sometimes to annoy my family, and occasionally to progress our lives in some meaningful way. But mainly it goes unnoticed I think. When people expect you to be decisive, it becomes a bit lost as a skill. <br /><br />I’m trying to put some positive ticks on my CV of self-belief and inner confidence at the moment (at the moment, right…) and I think, as long as it doesn’t overflow into bossiness, that being decisive is a good trait. Some people are professionals, social and cultural deciders – those people who commit to a book, or a TV show, or a new season’s colour, and their decision is the tipping point for that thing becoming universally acclaimed. It’s not just that they have personal success in their particular field, it’s that their mind is revered for being made-up well. I’d like to give you some examples, but Simon Cowell is as far as my January mind will take me. He surely has the Deciding Factor.<br /><br />January is a hard month for being decisive. Your general will to live is a little deflated, your alcohol, sugar and caffeine intake dangerously low and shaky, rookie decisions easy to fall into. TV adverts are my downfall. Everything looks like an essential purchase when you’re cold, hungry and skint. I’d be happy to pay a small premium to be allowed to watch Channel 4 without adverts in January. <br /><br />Anyway, I think I’m going to have to make a really difficult life-work balance decision soon, and it’s making me feel like a complete beginner in the game. If God had meant us to be indecisive and just try and have it all, why did he bother to invent guilt? Or was that Eve? Is that the truth about original sin – the temptation bit is easy to live with, but the guilt of having made the wrong decision is crushing.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-68288159033465141842010-01-11T02:10:00.000-08:002010-01-11T02:20:34.997-08:00Time poor, intentions waning<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLucvLXKBeuero80ORUhBgI4pT1KBHLR8GrRMG1FhUXoaOJ2pswc5sM2SQTHBs1NYPAnhRB5uNXdFBHFnxfvGS9Mj64JK_STTJ7seqgLEZqRvv5Ginxlxn2c3_aURcCopCPXGxMUQ8z4dF/s1600-h/lego+pic.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLucvLXKBeuero80ORUhBgI4pT1KBHLR8GrRMG1FhUXoaOJ2pswc5sM2SQTHBs1NYPAnhRB5uNXdFBHFnxfvGS9Mj64JK_STTJ7seqgLEZqRvv5Ginxlxn2c3_aURcCopCPXGxMUQ8z4dF/s200/lego+pic.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425424841741414274" /></a><br />Novelists have always been at the top of the achievement ladder for me. Admittedly they might not be as good at saving lives as medics, or preventing world wars as teachers but, aside from performing a solo flute concerto at the Albert Hall or having several diplomatic languages under my belt, they have done the one thing I’d most like to do before I die. Or maybe even reach 40.<br /><br />Like anyone who has ever put a pen to paper for purposes of enjoyment rather than to compose a shopping list, I am slightly convinced, in the dark hours of the night, that I could one day be sipping champagne listening in anticipation to the Booker prize results from a table two metres from the prize podium. The problem with my particular novel is that it has no content. None whatsoever. I am an efficient jobbing writer – give me a brief and I’ll research, interview, type and file. Coming up with ideas isn’t my forte. Which is one of the reasons I started this blog – to try and squeeze some self-initiated creativity out of my stoney imagination. And even that was someone else’s idea to be honest.<br /><br />The thing is that there isn’t enough time in the day to commit to novel writing. And with statements like that it’s easy to see why I call myself unimaginative. But in my January ideal, the things I am hoping to add to my meagre 24-hour days are already a bit over-excited. I’m supposed to be running in the morning before anyone else gets up to make up for the classes I’m missing now I’m back in the office; getting to an office for all the hours the kids are entertained with Jolly Phonics and Greek gods; spending more quality time with the children when they’re not in state childcare; ensuring my vast musical knowledge is passed onto my daughter by hovering menacingly outside the study during her daily cello practise; trying to stop the little ones breaking up all the fantastic Lego creations made by the adults over the holidays, and of course find all that extra time to plan how best to not eat or drink anything that will take no time at all to lodge itself permanently to my hips. <br /><br />And, the most annoying thing is that I’ve started to stay awake at night trying to work out how to collect extra hours for the day – which would be the perfect answer to everything if I were at all productive at 3am. Sadly I’m not, in the least. However, my half-awake dreams are getting more and more fabulous and action-packed, so maybe a best-selling series of teen novels about an anxty 30-something female super hero who never actually makes it to the gym but can kill literally hours of valuable time fretting about the optimum running order of her to-do list will be a highly-acclaimed success.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-30696063229979577292010-01-04T04:48:00.000-08:002010-01-04T04:52:14.383-08:00I am resolvedWe all know the children are our future. We'll treat them well and let them lead the way. I can't claim to believe that they are all possessed with inner beauty, but you get the gag. And so it is with a calmness and serenity (that anyone who's met me for more than one glass of wine will probably not recognise) that I passed this New Year's Eve with a newly digested understanding that it's not all about me anymore. That the small people in my life need increasingly more of my energy than it takes to move their possessions from one room to another. But also that getting the balance between supporting and dictating is a delicate one, and probably one I’m going to be focusing on for a few years’ worth of resolutions to come. <br /><br />My particular style of dictatorship centres on control of the small things. By literally never being able to let an issue drop, never not getting the last word, I have been sub-consciously instructing my daughter in the art of debate since she lay gurgling on her changing mat. We can now entertain ourselves for hours by hurling asides up and down the stairs in a highly-skilled attempt to be the one who will get the final say over which jumper she will wear today, or other pressing matters. Being persistently right in every small nurturing issue is a burden I can live with – being challenged on the correct ply of jumper is a fight I am up to. <br /><br />I think there is a credible gender distinction suggestion to be made here. I think women know full well that later in life their grown-up children are going to remember the basic mechanics of their childhood – good and bad – in terms of what mum did. Dad's part will be different in every family, and carry huge value no doubt, but mum's influence will have saturated to the psycho-analytical level. By focusing on the small things – the importance of never leaving the house without three layers; always putting tops on felt-tip pens – you can go some way to avoiding any memorable involvement in more critical character-building decisions that your 30-something offspring will doubtless throw back in your face. If we hold to the assumption that dads don’t do detail, or concern themselves too much with consequence, then when the issue at hand is not how to read the Sunday papers uninterrupted, it might as well be whether four is too young for a hotmail account. Or an iPhone. <br /><br />And so the small issues are mine. However, after four festive days in a remote cottage in Dorset with more than enough arguments over which width of scarf is most suitable for the sub-zero temperatures, I realise that somewhere between suggestion and instruction is a valuable mediation area. And at the heart of my new clarity is the understanding that there is a clear distinction between self-awareness and self-obsession. I am self-aware enough to know that a tendency towards self-obsession is dangerous. Worrying about trying to achieve the perfect level of motherhood has become in danger of taking over my life. Letting go of control over irrelevant issues in my children’s lives is also about preparing for the fact that one day I won’t be the relevant or most influential person in their adult lives. Rightly so.<br /><br />The result of all this slightly muddled sense of inappropriately focused attention was that for the first time ever I couldn't think of a resolution that I could articulate without feeling a bit embarrassed. A whole glossy magazine’s worth of disappointing female failings could be lumped into a general 'try really hard to be better' resolution, but I couldn't admit that to my 9-year-old when she asked for fear of being hideously responsible for her first dose of emotional anxiety or physical self loathing. Instead, I told her I was going to try and be less controlling, and less concerned with the things I couldn’t control. Breathe, and, relax.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-83482150012232204032009-12-24T09:43:00.000-08:002009-12-24T09:44:58.238-08:00GUEST POSTING: by Hazel GouldIt’s coming on Christmas and they’re cutting down trees: I feel OK about it though, because it’s a renewable crop and growing lots of trees, even if they’re destined to be felled, has to be a good thing doesn’t it? But as we are all beginning to feel that our Christmas gift from Copenhagen needs to be sent back and exchanged, I am recognizing more than ever that it’s not just the thought that counts.<br /><br />I do my bit. I recycle, I communally compost, I don’t have a car, I have two pairs of Howies jeans. What was once a cute and quirky little collection of re-useable shopping bags: A New Leaf, Portland, Oregon; Back to the Earth, Leeds; Bags that Won’t Cost the Earth, Brixton Wholefoods; is now a mountain of unbleached cotton. It may prove in years to come that jute is just as bad as plastic, but my addiction to tote bags illustrates my commitment. I have used cloth nappies for both my children, viewing disposables as a treat only for high days and holidays. I haven’t been on a long haul flight since week 16 of my first pregnancy. It’s slightly by default, but with two children holidaying closer to home is the obvious, as well as the ethical, choice.<br /> <br />I’m no angel though. I transgress in the most energy inefficient ways. It began when I was staying at my mum’s. My mother is an intellectual and not known for fastidious housewifery, but she is the best laundress I have ever encountered. It is a dark art that I have never mastered. After a bath, I asked her how she got her towels so warm and fluffy. She drew me in close, and whispered, ‘I tumble them’. <br /><br />And so, I tumble my towels. I’m not proud, but how can it be wrong when it feels so right? Since this revelation, my housekeeping has veered further and further towards the 1950s triumph of science. After a heady, but ultimately unrewarding affair with eco balls and essential oils, I compromised by using earth friendly washing powder. But it doesn’t work for me. Despite myself, I want my clothes to smell of chemicals that smell like cut grass. Ecover has all but been totally phased out. And while I know that tea tree is a natural disinfectant, I still want bleach down my toilet.<br /><br />I don’t say this as a climate change denier; I say this as someone who knows how vital it is for us to act. So why is it so hard to make those tiny sacrifices? I think it’s because whilst I have the luxury of choice, I can choose to carry on regardless and not ever look at what the impact of my fluffy towels really is. For me climate change means some unseasonal plant growth, I am not living in a reality where I’ve lost my husband to a tiger attack or my home to an advancing shoreline. To stare that reality in the face would mean it’s admitting what is happening, and I fear that I can’t live with that. Perhaps on some level, that’s exactly the rationale behind the limp agreements from Denmark this month. <br /><br />Climate change is a perfect example of how the comings and goings of an average household impact on the world outside. Just as a butterfly that flaps its wings in the jungle may cause a cyclone in the desert, the bleach flushed down my sparkling white bathroom porcelain may poison a fish, starve a gull, drown a polar bear. <br /><br />Dickens knew what he was doing when Scrooge underwent his transformation on Christmas night, and shows us how the actions of one man can impact so many. The long dark nights of winter, and the celebration that punctuates, is a time to reflect, a time to give, a time to act with kindness and with spirit. I’m not religious, but I love Christmas for its warmth and generosity. I have listened to the comings and goings of Copenhagen and read the reports from the front lines of climate change telling of people whose lives and livelihoods have been decimated. I have seen the ghost of Christmas future, and I don’t like what I see. Just like Ebenezer, it’s time to recognize that by making small changes I will ultimately make my world, and the world around me, not just a better, but a viable place to live. So I’ll carry on doing my bit. But this year, I’ll do it with bells on.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-53047943897189050992009-12-21T05:05:00.000-08:002009-12-21T05:16:03.820-08:00Today I Will Notice<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBCanODavgtHtMs0mJFa7Zp-vrs0ENq4X0cGDS2ZeKqb0P7yt4H1DMOwK0n4n8jJinYYf_vwVQrObolKERXFu6677-qAfxNCp2KALYD5b8GxtRA4oMcQThTSYrvvQHnqOLqpCLbZ41o_6L/s1600-h/Picture+2.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBCanODavgtHtMs0mJFa7Zp-vrs0ENq4X0cGDS2ZeKqb0P7yt4H1DMOwK0n4n8jJinYYf_vwVQrObolKERXFu6677-qAfxNCp2KALYD5b8GxtRA4oMcQThTSYrvvQHnqOLqpCLbZ41o_6L/s320/Picture+2.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417677051643208850" /></a><br />Grace Coddington, creative director of US Vogue and ‘surprise star’ of The September Issue, a film for which the only real surprise is that it was made at all, made one lovely, poignant comment in among a lot of arguing about rails and frills. She said that her father had told her never to fall asleep in a car because that’s when you do your best noticing, find inspiration, see the world as new and interesting all over again. <br /><br />My sister and her family have just arrived home from their new home in Brisbane for Christmas, to be greeted by snow. It’s 39º in Brisbane. Snow is an unimaginable miracle. For us, the idea of leaving the house without four protective layers, ski gloves and an emergency frizzy-hair preventing hat in every pocket is an unimaginable luxury. But the look on my niece and nephew’s faces as we pulled away from the concrete of Terminal 3 very early yesterday morning into snow-sprinkled dawn-dappled suburbia was pure noticing gold. They haven’t learnt to stop looking yet, however jet-lagged and grumpy they are. <br /><br />And so, Grace Coddington, here are the amazing things I noticed while looking rather than concentrating:<br /><br />1. North London houses do have gardens, some of them quite sizable, and all of them completely magical at 5.30 am when thick with crisp, fresh, icy snow. <br /><br />2. The clarity with which you understand the Radio 4 news when it’s 5.30 am and there are no children, other cars or general outside activity to distract you is extraordinary. I formed current-affairs based opinions on the trip to Heathrow for the first time in years.<br /><br />3. There is literally no-where more wonderful to be than in front of a long-haul Arrivals door five days before Christmas. This is where the world is happy, and where everyone cries with the simplicity of that. <br /><br />4. My sister and her family chose to take their Arrivals moment in slightly un-Vogue attire: shorts, t-shirts, flip flops and Santa hats. I will literally never forget the sight. <br /><br />5. Seasons are evidence of an extraordinary truth – that it’s really really cold here and really really hot just over there. On the same planet. The planet that sometimes feels so small and claustrophobic, but is actually so huge that we can live on it together but in a completely different time of the year. <br /><br />6. There are flowers growing in our local park, in the snow. Maybe that's something that should scare me, or maybe it's the just the one plus side of global warming.<br /><br />7. There’s a restaurant opposite St Pancras station called Eataly. Admittedly I didn’t see this today, it was last week, but isn’t that just the most fabulous name for a restaurant? It’s impossible to say without a fake accent, a hand gesture and a smile. Thanks Grace.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-4934887369872820722009-12-14T05:46:00.000-08:002009-12-14T05:59:50.308-08:00The devil wears trainersI’m writing this on the bus, thanks to the wonders of modern technology and the wonders of my husband’s inability to ever put things back where he found them. I am locked out of the house, on my way to his office to collect his keys, while mine will be found later in his coat pocket. And in a spectacular addition to the fun of this outing, I have just come from the gym, so I’m feeling really excited to be heading into normally-clothed-professional-land with trainers and sweaty hair. <br /><br />Actually, aside from the trainers shame, my main emotion right now is fear. Of myself. Until a few moments ago, I was literally beside myself with anger that my keys weren’t in my bag. And I mean body-shaking anger. How could anyone be so stupid as to borrow keys and not replace them? How can a just world exist if I am on the outside of my front door unable to open it? My anger, and the breathtaking pace of its appearance, was shocking. I think I might be deeply troubled. <br /><br />I have more evidence than just the keys. Recently I bought a dress and I bought a size too big. You’d assume this would be quite a pleasant experience, but sadly when I went to exchange it they didn’t have a size smaller, even after some lengthy stock-room rummaging. So, even though I'd actually worn the dress so was very much in the wrong on both size and ethics, when she very politely offered me a credit note I was so incensed and irritable with the shop assistant that even my four-year-old son turned away in shame. <br /><br />Then, after sulking for too long in the changing rooms trying to find something half as nice, I was late back to the car park and discovered I’d fallen just five minutes into the stay-all-night price, which was about double the price of the dress I didn’t now have. It’s hard to describe the exact emotions that surged, but darkness was all around as I stared with pure hatred at the lovely man doing his job behind the glass. But in fact, and unfortunately in terms of any important learning process, he was explaining that he’d let me off the extra charge, and put back the clock with a cheery smile. I magically transformed back into the kind, polite woman my mother brought me up to be – instantly. Deeply troubled and possibly possessed. <br /><br />I met a friend’s wife for the first time last week and it threw me into a bit of a decline over the whole snappy, angry personality thing. Sitting next to her in my black dress (in fact, aforementioned dress in wrong size, nice symmetry) over my black jeans with my black and white Converse I realised that I had become a sort of stay-at-home widow by mistake. Understated cool I was not – colourful, stylish and seriously interesting looking she was. My wardrobe is sartorial embodiment of my bi-polar personality: deceptively comfy and wearable but with an almost clean sweep of black and grey and all a bit irritably ill fitting. <br /><br />However, while a complete colour-palette transformation of my wardrobe is a bit out of the pre-Christmas budget, off-loading some of my anger concerns has made me feel a hundred times better and calmer. So it’s win, win. No longer need I be angry that I’ve got nothing but mummy nonsense to write about – who needs to be clever when you can just psycho-analyse in public.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-24019106492172499072009-12-11T09:45:00.000-08:002009-12-11T09:49:30.234-08:00GUEST FRIDAY: by Hazel GouldHot Monogamy<br /><br />A good friend once told me that she had found a book in her parents’ bedroom entitled Hot Monogamy, counseling married couples on how to keep things alive in the bedroom. It is written into our DNA that any mention of the sex lives of our parents or their peers will induce dry retching and a constricting of the airways, but it’s not the disgust that I remember. It’s the pity. How sad, I thought, that a couple could be getting it so wrong, they have to refer to a book to make it right again. <br /><br />In my early 20s, I thought that the key to happiness in love was simply this: finding the right person. Informed almost entirely by romantic comedies, I knew with certainty that the struggle was all in the preamble, and that once I had decided to seal the deal with a man who felt the same as me, the credits would roll, and the ensuing 40 years would play out in the reflective glow of our perfect first kiss.<br /><br />During my wedding ceremony, my eloquent, intelligent, nervous husband mispronounced his vows and promised to stay with me through ‘Aversity’. Our preamble had been filled with fight and moving apart and coming back together, we had already had our battles and the idea that there might be more to come was so alien to us that we couldn’t even speak it. We had done the graft, and from this day forward, it was going to be plain sailing. It never occurred to me that the ‘hard work and compromise’ that was spoken about would actually ever be hard work. It never occurred to me to ask why rom-coms rarely get a sequel. <br /><br />My husband is a good man and a great dad, we make each other laugh, we are respectful of one another, we are kind and supportive. I am, two years into my marriage, happy, but we’re not Hugh Grant and Andy MacDowell, and we have our rightful share of grievances.<br /><br />Yesterday, as he left for work under the cloud of an unresolved row, I remembered the experience of another friend. During a year of living an East Coast/ West Coast life with her boyfriend, they had religiously read the same books at the same time so that their nightly conversations had some focus other than the boredom and loneliness of being separated by 3000 miles of land mass. My husband and I live in the same house, but we too are conducting a long distance relationship of sorts. The burden that he carries of our financial well-being and my desire for more help, time and sleep all prove to create a distance that physical proximity doesn’t always bridge.<br /><br />As in so much of my married life and my parenting, I find myself doing exactly the thing that I promised myself I would never do. Not because I’ve given up, or given in, or run out of ideas, but because all of a sudden, the very thing that I dismissed as pedestrian or pointless seems to be exactly the right thing. It turns out that I’m not the mother who takes her 12-week-old baby to India, and I do have to bribe my children to eat vegetables. In that moment, as I formulated the sentence 'let's have a two person book club' I suddenly realized that I am that person. We are that couple. We do need to work at it, and we may even need to take some hints and tips from travelers further down the road than us. For us, it’s not our physical life that needs spicing up, it’s our intellectual one. It is Hot Monogamy for the brain.<br /><br />So what is it to be? The mini book club? A weekly date? Comandeering a column on the family calendar for ‘quality couple time’? Actually I think it’s easier than that. It’s just about remembering that the man who walks through the front door at the end of the evening is not to blame for everything that goes on behind it, and the woman that he finds there is more than the badly-fitting bra and the snot-smeared jeans might suggest. Just like taking your coat off indoors so you’ll feel the benefit, the one conversation we that have in 10 which veers away from the big four (work, money, children, food) has the power to take me right to a place where he and I are simply two individuals who are together because we choose to be, not because of contracts, children, bricks and mortar, and beyond. I value our time together more than I ever did pre-kids.<br /><br />So it turns out that I was wrong back then, when Hot Monogamy was nothing more to me than a sign of something I would never be. I do have to work at it, but I was right too. I did find the right person, it’s just that now I know that the right person is the one who makes the hard slog worth it.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-70519719828568066322009-12-07T04:34:00.000-08:002009-12-07T04:38:10.368-08:00The Curse of the MummyI had some feedback on my blog last week in a slightly unsolicited way from the editor of a lovely national magazine. Someone it might be quite handy to please in fact. The general verdict was that she liked my writing (hurrah) but thought the whole ‘mummy’ thing had been done to death (quote, and boo). <br /><br />My first reaction was to agree actually. My instinct is that that I don’t enjoy reading about other people’s experiences of wiping baby puke off their laptops as much as I enjoy a good yarn about windfall tax plans, celebrity misdemeanours or what people are wearing in New York. These are things that are definitely worth blogging about. <br /><br />But then I thought about it a bit more, and I remembered that there were a few things I still hadn’t got a clear handle on about motherhood, and I recalled a couple of friends mentioning the same thing. And I thought about how much better it made me feel, sometimes, putting my thoughts on keyboard, or reading about how badly someone else’s life skills were serving them in their particular domestic war zone. <br /><br />And I thought about another comment I’d had on the whole blogging thing, about how people don’t like to read other people’s abstract musings. How there needs to be a linear narrative, a direction, an end point in sight. Then people will follow, come back, support. The advice came from a man and, without getting all Hélène Cixous, I think we can agree that this opinion has been somewhat dissected and challenged over the years. However, he had a point – men don’t like to muse as much as women. While the internet helps women to share, it helps men to market. <br /><br />So maybe what it comes down to is originality. You can offer anything for discussion if you do it with originality. Take Slummy Mummy. Banal and tedious, or insightful and witty? You don’t have to answer that, but in a world where it’s sometimes difficult to remember whether your career is on hold for the family or the family is on hold for your career, being creative about the whole situation and sharing, musing and boring anyone who’ll give you five minutes of screen time makes motherhood feel far more professional as a profession. <br /><br />There’s a Stephen Fry quote outside the British Library that I think sums up the ever-expanding world of internet musing: ‘An original idea. That can't be too hard. The library must be full of them.’ And long may plundering the past and musing about the present be potential insights for all our future posts.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-60110472098741084942009-11-30T04:33:00.000-08:002009-11-30T04:38:25.078-08:00It's not easy being wrongI’m working on a couple of options for the opening of a conversation I need to have with my kids – specifically the nearly-nine-year-old. It’s a delicate matter, but one that’s consuming me, so I need to show both compassion and kindness and strength of conviction.<br /><br />Option one: ‘I’m going to look for a full-time office job so you can go to playcentre every night after school and hopefully you’ll find someone there who will take care of your every need without irritating you so much that you find it impossible to talk to them without barking and when I do come home in time for a quick bedtime kiss you will have forgotten how much I annoy you and try to constantly ruin your life and we will be friends again.’<br /><br />Option two: ‘I used to talk to my mum like this and trust me, you’ll regret it one day.’<br /><br />Option three: ‘I’m telling. Daddy. And Granny. And Santa.’<br /><br />So my daughter talks to me like an angry teenager already. I can hear my mum laughing all the way to the corkscrew. Becoming a mother is, among other observations, like opening a huge, unapologetic picture window on your childhood and all the things you’d either forgotten or successfully repressed. All the behaviour patterns, friendship concerns, relationship issues that you’d rather not re-live on are right there in front of you in the form of small people who look a little like you and a lot like someone you fell in love with and frankly expect a more mature attitude from.<br /><br />Every time you face a decision-making moment with your children, and you reach the answer that will define your parenting method for the next stage of their lives, there’s an accompanying supportive smile from a grandparent. Supportive and piteous. And loaded with dry amusement. You realise, mere hours after hospital discharge, that the bundle of newness you’ve brought into the world is also the very thing that will turn a spotlight on every minute of every emotion you’ve ever brought your mum.<br /><br />Which hopefully, and certainly in my experience, is a good thing – once you’re over the inclination to throw a teenage tantrum every time advice is offered.<br /><br />The thing is that I always thought I’d be better at this bit than the playgroup and nappies bit. I always thought my strengths would be with children who could reason and opinion, and so far it’s exactly that which has flawed me – in the most irritable, defensive and sulky foot-stamping way. I can’t do it. I can’t be ignored and shouted at for offering the wrong chocolate biscuit or wanting to wash their favourite clothes. It’s exhausting, and depressing.<br /><br />If I’d written this before the weekend, it might have alluded to some slightly judgemental observations I had about other people’s parenting skills. I had a definite conviction last week that I knew kids who’d been let go too soon, interest had been lost, mothering downsized, and I was determined not to cave, however hard the challenge. After a weekend of getting it wrong, I’m not so sure. Mother and daughter relationships are impossible to understand unless you’re in them, and even then it’s a bit hazy. What I do know is that the lessons from granny are gold dust. And that being able to watch my mother-in-law bring her precious teenage girls through the darker years with such hands-on understanding, compassion and carefully levelled monitoring is a complete privilege. If getting it wrong is noisy, getting it right is a quiet but extraordinary victory. Go Nanna.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-27514821084787265522009-11-23T06:23:00.000-08:002009-11-23T14:36:27.545-08:00Boy power<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjteVC8I6Hj5g45UeRcClB6xYQo8WHpN6J8ug9wK1UIiLnDzQoTlxyyL3P1dGo0zrgjCvow0hCUp49356Oabo34YR74mKPArJAE1VuXc2PvLv2qotq_rvxJwHGsOHGYay9GuIr7Cq7_XvBf/s1600/Picture+1.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjteVC8I6Hj5g45UeRcClB6xYQo8WHpN6J8ug9wK1UIiLnDzQoTlxyyL3P1dGo0zrgjCvow0hCUp49356Oabo34YR74mKPArJAE1VuXc2PvLv2qotq_rvxJwHGsOHGYay9GuIr7Cq7_XvBf/s320/Picture+1.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407305735412799250" /></a><br />Catherine Millet (or should I say Catherine Millet, 60, Writer) wrote yesterday in the Observer that she likes her men younger these days, because they have more energy than middle-aged ones. And, more newsworthy perhaps, that she’s ‘cool with mixing sex and work’. I thought this was a fabulously random view to share, and I’d like to agree with her, on the second point. But then I work from home, so my options are limited to either my husband or any male houseguests, which seems like a tricky game to play. So my opinion is slightly less risqué than hers maybe. <br /><br />However, it does highlight a very particular problem with home working – an issue that I approach with trepidation for fear of implying something I don’t mean. Basically, there’s no-one to flirt with. I don’t mean the ‘sex and work’ thing that Catherine Millet, 60, Writer is referring to. I mean the very different style of social interaction that occurs when you talk to a man rather than a woman.<br /><br />I love the company of women, and have always had amazing friends to confide in, support me and inspire me in a way that is very particular to women. My girlfriends are consistently the perfect antidotes to almost anything that’s wrong in life. But, like almost everything good in life (marzipan aside) the magic doesn’t work if it's all that's on offer. <br /><br />After two long years working on The Lady magazine, that very special ladies’ weekly taught me two important life lessons. Never to work in Covent Garden on minimum wage again, and never to work in an entirely all-female office again. You only need a post-boy, or an ad man, or even a male boss – just someone to break the tension.<br /><br />Fundamentally, women make friends on a different level to men. I crave ‘moments’ with virtual strangers as evidence of my competence, intellect and general niceness. I worry so much more about what women think of me than men. And trying to have that level of intimacy with a bunch of women you spend most of your waking day working around, with the added pressures of strip lighting, crap coffee and shoe envy, is a rich breeding ground for that most deadly of viruses – passive aggression.<br /><br />I generalise, I know. And of course neither office politics or flirting potential are gender defined. But from my experience, everyone feels more inclined towards another working day after a slightly awkward journey in the office lift with the person who caught your eye just one too many times at the Christmas party last year and, 11 months on, you’d completely forgotten was still in the building.<br /><br />So now, working from home, I’m spending too much time in my own totally passive aggressive company. Or struggling with the complex politics of my other working environment – the playground. <br /> <br />Last week was the school’s parents’ association AGM – the closest I’ve been to a proper meeting in weeks, and an exciting chance for some actual debate, discussion, maybe even a need for a follow-up meeting-ette to finalise the carol-singing running order? Anyway, someone, female, made a completely ridiculous comment, which I raised an eyebrow at just as she turned to scan the room for signs of dissent. She saw, I died an inward death, and left the building as my cheery goodbye was greeted with a turn of the back. Meanwhile, a dad I’d practically scowled at held the door open and walked me to the car.<br /><br />Whilst I’m keen to point out that this is not a pre-curser to any kind of sex-work relationship, there's no denying there was an air of palpable excitement that a man had shown up to the meeting at all. Now if I could just get the unenergetic middle-aged man who sells me pre-school cereal bars every day to smile at me, my working world would be as diverse as it ever was.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-58843481726015954822009-11-18T00:35:00.000-08:002009-11-18T00:40:30.071-08:00GUEST WEDNESDAY: The Nanna Diaries<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIYjiv5lXaQQw8NGpkoQDfPs4dvWuIirAp2vgp0CLb-DJa0wdDu3Eu120eUAwlP4syD3BT5En4_5hCPIuQXU3MqNS210d4mMwCJfg2M9G-Ng2Tnzqo_xBflf8V5kS7qfzfG3XvA2ohTaDb/s1600/Picture+1.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 44px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIYjiv5lXaQQw8NGpkoQDfPs4dvWuIirAp2vgp0CLb-DJa0wdDu3Eu120eUAwlP4syD3BT5En4_5hCPIuQXU3MqNS210d4mMwCJfg2M9G-Ng2Tnzqo_xBflf8V5kS7qfzfG3XvA2ohTaDb/s320/Picture+1.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405360021682597682" /></a><br />I follow just three blogs at the moment: Micro-chasms, The Hermitage and Wgafwit and, I think, within those I am really getting a diverse world view. <br /><br />The Hermitage is following the life of Traveller and Artist (and I'm sure many other things) Rima – who lives the life that I should be living myself, being sure that I am of rambling Traveller if not Circus folk descent. She draws like an angel, and deserves to be a Blogger Legend (viz: Bleg). I don't like outdoors, animals or anything broadly termed 'nature', but I do like trailer-life. I miss my Traveller friends sorely – and the long muddy paths, on-site coffee, weeing on wild garlic and hearing the distant dogs. But for now the nearest I can get to it is to follow Rima. <br /> <br />Wgafwit is the mind-child of my beau-frere, Nicolas, who has only one post so far and its particularly interesting because it's a man blog (viz: Mlog). Men write equal but different and I really enjoyed it.<br /> <br />Ah now, Micro-chasms. Written by awesome daughter-in-law who has asked me to present at Guest Wednesday, and my mentioning her blog along with Hermitage and Wgafwit, follows on from her recent post about how her generation define themselves.<br /> <br />Well, how things have changed. I did a straw poll of how my friends define themselves by profession and it went something like this: retired, semi-retired, retiring, part-time, and me very full-time. In there are therapists, social workers, teachers and hairdressers, confirming that many of those who survived the sixties and didn't become crooks or bankers went into support professions. Each and every one is a parent.<br /> <br />Let me immediately re-assure those who suffer angst as to how they are currently defined, and who ponder long on the relative values and definite battle grounds of full-time employee or stay-at-home parent, that this doesn't last. Now, in our fifties and sixties, the main pre-occupation (sadly) is how soon one can retire from a career that seemed oh so important in the early days. In my tribe, we never say ‘That person is a retired doctor, dentist or lawyer’; rather that they are either retired or not.<br /> <br />As to the war zones: well, I have seen older people crave acceptance from their adult children who cannot forgive them for pursuing a career, and equally I have seen full-time mothers seek appreciation from their adult children who find it difficult to see why or what that parent gave up exactly, and why they are expected to feel guilty.<br /> <br />So you see, it really all doesn't matter a jot; I'm sorry to have to say this because it will disappoint many who are justifying their ways of life in the way that women always have felt necessary. I believe it's all about being able to support the children that we bring into the world. If you’ve have a spouse who brings home six figures plus, well lucky for you. If you have had to take two or three rubbish jobs to pay for it all, then welcome to a different world.<br /> <br />The only thing that really makes me a bit frantic is when people think that they have the top jobs by right or that they have worked harder than others. As everyone knows, my favourite downtime occupation is 'tipping' and last week one of the men who is employed there told me that he works a seven day week at £6.75 per hour. Rain or shine. He doesn't love it, he just does it. The people who own it earn thousands. Not because they are more clever, rather that perhaps they got the breaks. Which would be fine if they paid him what he was worth. So maybe the whole thing is about equity and fairness and, dare I say it, sharing what we have in a just way.<br /> <br />Maybe that's the same for us. We have to decide what we want; decide on what we are fortunate to have, and not to waste time on how others see us. And look forward to retirement.<br /><br /><a href="http://nannadiaries.blogspot.com/">The Nanna Diaries</a>nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-87756089389880697542009-11-16T04:54:00.000-08:002009-11-16T05:00:59.687-08:00Design for lifeI heard a brilliant phrase last week – told to me by someone trying to explain the difference between the advancement of Japanese mobile phones compared to the US models. I honestly don’t remember why this conversation took place, there was red wine involved for sure, but I’m glad it did for this little gem: A camel is a horse designed by committee. So the Japanese have got far better phones because they work together and put all their best ideas in one model that’s super useful and fit-for-purpose. Not just pretty.<br /><br />I knew instantly I heard this analogy that it struck a deep personal chord of recognition, but it took me until last night when I was going through the bath, teeth, story, bed routine to work out why. I am the camel – my kids are the dedicated committee working tirelessly to mold, tweak and manipulate me into a super efficient human machine of provision. Any unnecessary thoroughbred tendencies I might affect (polished fingernails, freedom of thought etc) have been filed down and phased out by a tri-positional assault from my highly effective design team, so the current model of me is perfectly streamlined and efficient for their needs. <br /><br />If this sounds bitter, it’s not meant to be. I’m delighted to call myself a proper mum, particularly because it’s something even my Granny is a bit surprised I’ve managed to achieve. But becoming perfectly honed for one very specific task might be the reason I’ve started to notice that disappearing thing happening, the thing that grumpy old women claim is worse even than the wolf-whistling of their glorious past.<br /><br />According to my design instructions, my heart is full only of love, my intentions are only to provide and serve, and any aesthetic concern is a frivolous waste of battery power. At least that’s what the grey hair and, let’s call them laughter lines, would attest to. There’s a growing amount of physical evidence that I am definitely the mother and not the au pair. <br /><br />It’s not as though I was ever a teenage beauty queen, but neither was I constantly untucked or unironed. It’s hard for a perpetually self-disappointed woman like myself to admit, but I’ve have been generally easy on the eye. I think. Anyway, whatever the past held in promise or photographic evidence, it has really let go. Six months ago I went on holiday feeling like a woman with a surprisingly large family for my tender years. Six months later and I have just spent a morning finally downloading the photos, and deleting any evidence that I was even present when the plane took off. <br /><br />So is this it, the age when I start to slowly disappear? I feel as though the me I live with is based to a frighteningly large degree on the me that people responded to. If I’m no longer visible, am I still me? And when I meet new people, how will they know who I really am if they can only see a tired, wrinkled and wobbly version of the person inside? <br /><br />There’s a finer line than I thought between the glamorous excesses of the high-speed gallop around the racecourse on a Saturday afternoon and the long trudge through the desert. But, while I have always had a bit of a phobia about horses’ legs being too skinny for practical use, and I am proud to be fit-for-purpose, I’m not sure there isn’t still room for a few more flashy apps and unnecessary features before I saddle up and head for the sunset.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-74036855371090735092009-11-11T02:47:00.000-08:002009-11-11T04:09:16.747-08:00GUEST WEDNESDAY<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH3Ol0r6pYQ0511OMuf2y9ek9x8FL7XXAIr3A4fdJ16A0_KbcofzE1XO8p4ePT2d8T-0SPn6AK-Vf2gv9ZUsC4T3Xo4qBh4WMfdBfqkoRudTMbc5WF5_KSVZPOvN6BKy1HoDKfmcoD6pTo/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 86px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH3Ol0r6pYQ0511OMuf2y9ek9x8FL7XXAIr3A4fdJ16A0_KbcofzE1XO8p4ePT2d8T-0SPn6AK-Vf2gv9ZUsC4T3Xo4qBh4WMfdBfqkoRudTMbc5WF5_KSVZPOvN6BKy1HoDKfmcoD6pTo/s320/Picture+1.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402815740176163026" /></a><br />I’m going home on Friday. As an English girl, even after 12 years of living in Denmark, I still refer to England as 'home'.<br /><br />I’m going to London to spend time with some very good girlfriends and I am so excited. I’m also looking forward to the precious 'me' time that comes so rarely when I get away without children.<br /><br />Imagine, flying on my own for once! I’ll be able to read my book, plug in my headphones and not worry about small feet kicking the seat in front. It won’t be me having to ensure that everyone has drinks, snacks, books, snacks, toys, been to the toilet, clean nappies, and did I mention snacks? And there’ll be the added bonus of other people’s kids crying on the aeroplane not bothering me one bit – I’ll be able to shut it out because it won’t be my responsibility (or I suppose I could offer a sympathetic smile and help to reach the overhead locker).<br /><br />Once in London, I am going to be such a tourist. It has been ages since I was there last and I am looking forward to drinks and eats in Soho and a stroll through Camden. We’re even going to make it to a show.<br /><br />I intend to do some serious shopping. Of course, I’ll hopefully make it past Selfridges and maybe even Harvey Nics. But I’m also going to be sure to stock up on the ordinary English things that I miss in Denmark: Tate and Lyle’s Golden Syrup, self-raising flour, proper teabags, salt and vinegar crisps, Marks and Spencer’s underwear, and pretty much everything from Boots. I’ll have to pop into WHSmith’s just to breathe in all the magazines.<br /><br />These things sound trivial. And they are. In the big scheme of things I happily live without all of them. But they remind me of my roots. Perhaps it is only something you can appreciate if you have been away for a while, but if you grew up in England, you can take any boring high street and there’ll be something that reminds you about your teenage years. It might be the local pub, HMV, or the pick ‘n’ mix at Woolworths (err, sorry, no-one can have that one anymore). I know that this probably doesn’t say anything good about the generic nature of the British high street, but it’s the memories associated with these things that are worthwhile.<br /><br />However, regardless of my ingrained 'Englishness' and my desire for some good old-fashioned fish and chips, when I am back in England I actually feel quite foreign. I can’t remember the queuing etiquette or the correct way to fill out a lottery ticket. I haven’t a clue what’s going on in X-Factor or Come Dancing. I don’t know the right way to use the word minger and I am not 100% sure who all the politicians are anymore. And, after years of getting used to the Danish non-existent customer-service experience, I get quite startled if anyone in a shop actually speaks to me.<br /><br />So, at the end of the weekend, when I reluctantly say goodbye to my girlfriends, I will again be able to happily say that I am going 'home'; back to Copenhagen and all the familiar things that I have, despite myself, become accustomed to there.<br /><br /><a href="http://redheadwords.blogspot.com">http://redheadwords.blogspot.com</a>nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-28764937653096642672009-11-09T08:54:00.000-08:002009-11-09T09:00:57.799-08:00Holding it together<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVDEz3LxAkhaHME70VBu5-yfLzdzYb-jDhYmKcYeM3CKG6F8kLMJHjiarQVJJcrYOoJM9KkUaDK7tCKuDAx4bDUnqr-SosuVR5jMUIlZiqU0_wRbVNWoa8ROa-q5x4oebSLIscwBMZTmQq/s1600-h/kibby.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVDEz3LxAkhaHME70VBu5-yfLzdzYb-jDhYmKcYeM3CKG6F8kLMJHjiarQVJJcrYOoJM9KkUaDK7tCKuDAx4bDUnqr-SosuVR5jMUIlZiqU0_wRbVNWoa8ROa-q5x4oebSLIscwBMZTmQq/s320/kibby.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402149863336231202" /></a><br />Our cat just left home. Not entirely of her own volition, but she was purring. She’s been rehoused, repackaged and relocated to her country retirement estate. No longer is she mistress of a Georgian town house with a garden smaller than the bathroom. She’s got land, a chocolate box cottage and cows to play with. And a new mummy who will actually seek her out for comfort. <br /><br />It’s incredibly hard to talk about cats without losing a certain degree of dignity and sanity, but seeing as I’m fairly convinced this is a subject that could never reduce me to an emotional heap I’m going to try. She was a member of the family after all…<br /><br />In fact, now she’s gone, I’m a bit concerned that maybe she was the glue that held the family together. Obviously as parents we are consigned to loving adoration and pride for all eternity, but are siblings not really just a small collective of people with shared experiences and memories? The only other people in the world who truly appreciate the unique boundaries of their allotted parents and what rubbish breakfast cereals they choose. <br /><br />It’s only as a child that you have a proper handle on what it is to be a sibling. Once you’ve left home, the sister you never allowed beyond your bedroom door for fear of total destruction of your carefully catalogued LP collection becomes something different. The brother you regularly relied on for nothing more than flopped-hair friends and a steadying arm home after the ‘no alcohol’ youth club disco is to be admired, talked to, befriended even. They are the people you could have been had you set off from the same starter's gun but run side-step on a different trajectory. <br /><br />But when you’re living the halcyon years of early childhood, your siblings are a sort of odd essential – most of the time they steal your stuff, your attention and your place next to Daddy on the sofa, but they are always there to share an incredulous, raised eyebrow at the nonsense of the world your parents are making you play in. <br /><br />Obviously there are a few other deep-rooted emotions, in most cases, but on a day-to-day basis maybe the fact that my kids shared responsibility for ignoring the same cat might be a crucial factor in their relationship. The cat was certainly the only consistent reason for coming home from holidays for the past five years.<br /><br />On a personal note, she gave me something specific to worry about during the medical nightmare that was my twins pregnancy – clearing up the toxic cat poo every week without my mother in law finding out. (As the famous French proverb goes, ‘Cats, flies and women are ever at their toilets’. Real proverb.) But she had to go, for medical reasons of a different, respiratory nature. And while there have been tears a plenty from the angry collective of under 9s, I realised as I found myself absent mindedly stroking her while finalising her transportation that I had never truly given myself up to her. She’s always been a cat, and my heart is made of ice. <br /><br />The gorgeous little thing will be missed. And we’re getting fish after school today. They’re much easier to dispose of when the time comes.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-10514212054456593922009-11-04T02:28:00.000-08:002009-11-04T02:28:44.840-08:00GUEST WEDNESDAY: by Hazel GouldThere are three kinds of mum friends. The ones you are pleased to bump into at the park, the ones you actually arrange to meet up with, and then the rare and wonderful ones who become real friends. Those women with whom baby talk can segue into relationship talk, work talk, life talk. All three kinds can be life savers. On a bad day, a friendly face pushing a swing next to you is all it takes to remind you that you are a sentient adult. A coffee with someone who is also navigating toddler tantrums or charting the waters of sleep and wakefulness in a new born is an invaluable support. But it’s that extra understanding that you get with some women which gives a unique space to be the thinking, political, funny person you are, without having to make any apologies for also being a mother. <br /><br />I spotted my best mum friend across the circle at my first NCT meeting. My husband teased me over my new love affair, and I laughed along, but he tapped into the way I felt exactly. I had met my parenting soul mate, someone who was like me, was going to do it like me, and who wanted to be my friend. Our affair began while still pregnant when we hung back from the other women in the group, walking home from a pre-baby get together during the early days of maternity leave. As we took a different direction from the others, I knew that we would be friends, and I cherished it like a teenager. We romanced each other over coffee and cakes and strolls in the park. From baby massage to mini music we learnt our new trade together and slowly unpacked our lives in the process.<br /><br />Being on maternity leave is a totally democratising experience. We were, in those early days, completely equal. Both at home, with our babies, with acres of time to fill. Bliss. Like any first flush of love, the beginning provides a canvas for you to paint a perfect portrait of yourself, leaving out the flaws and imperfections. But then it was time to go back to work. She to her high powered, long hours, high profile, high earning job and me to…<br /><br />I have always been freelance, and my working life has been sporadic at best. Even before children, I was on maternity leave of sorts. I’ve never earned much money, had the need for office clothes, or had a job title. I’m a bumbler, and I probably always will be. My lack of direction and drive has been a constant disappointment to me and despite my best efforts and many sleepless nights, the desire to succeed has never been strong enough for me to really make decisions and push myself. Having children has provided a perfect foil for putting off my career once more.<br /><br />So, career-free and newly abandoned by my friend, being on maternity leave morphed into being a Stay At Home Mum. Frustrated, bedraggled and with a new sense of desperation to get my house in order, I put it off again, and a second pregnancy followed quickly. And what joy I felt when I heard my friend’s voice on a crackly phone line saying “I think I need to talk to you about double buggies”. Not only would she be around during the little babyhood of my second but this meant we would be the same again! Forget the job, forget the money. We are mums of two – war vets – doing it together.<br /><br />But the gulf was too wide to cross. We are still friends of course, and see one another regularly, but it has changed. Her second maternity leave was supported by her full time nanny who she kept on, so whilst I struggled on buses with the double buggy day in day out, she skipped off to mummy -and-me yoga and sat in coffee shops reading the paper. As I grew more tired, slower, more resentful, she sat back and enjoyed her newborn in a way that I could only dream of. And my attempts to fit us back into the same hole seemed more and more desperate by the day. <br /><br />As even the just-coffee-mums can only squeeze me in on their one afternoon away from the office, I feel more and more like a Shirly Hughes drawing. I am living in Alfie gets in First, and all those around me are the busy working mothers that I presumed I would be. My mother-in-law who raised children in the 70’s doesn’t understand why I’m not organizing coffee mornings, and baby sitting circles, completely ignorant of the seismic shift in the lives of most middle class families over the last 30 years. <br /><br />So what do you do when you are the one left behind? Hunker down and carry on potato printing? Cancel five years from your diary and mark your life “to be continued”? Move to the suburbs and make friends with the other Stay At Home Mums who I’ve done everything I can to distance myself from? Or finally make that shift and really start valuing what I do everyday, stop looking at my achievements as second rate, and start cheering every meal I make and every nappy I change as the vital acts that they are.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-490860738130410705.post-44616081167433166742009-11-02T05:07:00.000-08:002009-11-02T12:00:52.561-08:00Strength in numbersLast night I went for supper with a collection of really successful women – the lucky kind, who can sum up their life achievements in one word: doctor, barrister, novelist etc. I spent most of the evening waiting for my ‘About A Boy’ moment where everyone finds Hugh Grant charming until he admits to doing nothing for a living. This involved a lot of Cava drinking to ensure I was fully occupied every time it looked as though the conversation was leaning towards me and, specifically, my daily time sheet.<br /><br />To be fair, there were also a significant number of equally successful women around the table who, like me, would have to do a rambling Ronnie Corbett-style explanation of their professional lives. And no doubt many of the one-worders would swap at least a couple of their pencil skirts for a few more after-school pick-ups. So there we are, back to basics: there is no way of doing it easily. The hardest bit about being a woman isn’t trying to have it all, it’s about trying to work out which bits you actually want anyway. <br /><br />And if it’s hard for us, here’s evidence that we’re not making it any clearer for the next generation. One of my new high-achieving friends told us over supper that her daughter had written an essay at school using the word strident, and had come home delighted that the teacher had commended her for this. She’d informed the teacher that her mum used the word a lot because her mum was a feminist – and that her best friend probably wouldn’t know the word because her mum wasn’t. When my friend tried to assure her that this other mum was surely a feminist, she was told ‘She can’t be, she’s still married’. Ouch. <br /><br />So, inspired by the vastness of other people’s experience, knowledge, understanding, confusion and amusing anecdotes, I have decided to stop navel gazing alone. My brilliant and talented friend Hazel will be appearing in the first ‘Guest Wednesday’ blog, and if she’s not cleared everything up by Thursday and you’d like to join the circus, let me know. Then next time someone asks, you can say ‘Blogger’.nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583723246110933436noreply@blogger.com1