No fear

Yesterday was my 34^th birthday, yay! Careening wilding towards middle age (when does middle age start anyway?) and I am officially (after a debate with the man about when a decade becomes early/mid/late) now in my mid-thirties.

I don’t like pondering on my age, so I simply don’t do it. It’s not something I can change, and yes we would all love to be 21 again (although I was actually quite depressed at 21 having still not learnt to be happy in my own skin, so I’ll take 25), but why be down about leaving behind wrinkle free skin, a level of personal freedom that you just can't appreciate and being able to seriously wear a crop top in public, when there is so much more to look forward to in old age? Having perfect teeth (false of course) and not needing to worry about fillings, being able to get away with huge social faux pas without a murmur of complaint from anyone else and spending the day watching telly and grumbling about the new presenter on Countdown, entirely guilt-free.

So anyway, I hadn’t expected much from my birthday. There comes a point when you just have to accept that your birthday isn’t as big a deal as it was when you were five. You can’t expect the same number of presents or a huge birthday party and chores still need to be done. And you don’t go to bed plump from birthday cake, or with a smile on your face knowing that kids will be talking about your party at school all week and you don't get to wear a pound shop plastic princess crown for the day, because birthday’s as an adult are no different from any other day. But the man outdid himself this year, and organised a morning of rock climbing for the two of us at Reading Climbing Centre.

I’m not great with heights. In fact I have rather a long list of fears. Heights (although technically not heights, just falling from a height), flying (although technically not flying, just being in a plane when it plummets to the ground) etc… all the usual phobias many of us are plagued with.  But the man knew that I really wanted to give rock climbing a try. Not because I thought I would particularly enjoy it, or be good at it, but because I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it, despite being shit scared.

So when we arrived at the rock climbing centre, we were given harnesses and these weird shoes to put on and shown into a huge hangar full of climbing walls up to the ceiling and very serious looking people of all ages, all looking incredibly blasé about the fact they were hanging on a wall 40ft from the ground. There were a few bouldering walls (lower walls for climbing with no harness - “no way am I going on that with no harness!” was my instant response) and a large number of 40ft walls. We were immediately led to a small (!) 20ft wall to practice on. I was first up. There was a point half way through when I suddenly realised that I was actually wearing a harness and climbing up a wall, and not sitting at home watching The Fabulous Baker Brothers as I had been telling myself (my new happy place - food + posh totty = food pornography for women), and I panicked slightly. But I ignored that and got on with the job in hand. The feeling of relief when I quickly got to the top washed over me and I sat back in my harness and abseiled to the ground, grinning like a crazy person. Having proved we could do it, we were then told we would be climbing the big walls and I honestly thought the instructor was joking. And you want me to go right to the top? Er, no you’ll never get me up there!

But a strange thing happens when you are climbing and you think you won’t make it. There’s a kind of distance warp, where you’re so focussed on what you’re doing that you kind of forget where you are and how high up you are. You just climb, one foot at a time, one hand at a time. And suddenly, all muscles screaming for mercy, you reach that final hold and realise you made it to the top. And that’s when you can look down and see for yourself just how far you’ve come.  

Wearing a harness, I climbed 4 different 40ft walls, and I even managed to get myself to the top of one of those bouldering walls, without a harness. But I'm so glad I did. The feeling of pride and excitement that I had actually done something I thought I wouldn’t be able to do far outweighed the discomfort of being terrified or the embarrassment at having my arse stared at by complete strangers for a whole 60 minutes.

We can’t choose whether or not we’re scared.  But we can make a conscious choice about whether or not to continue in the face of that fear or allow it to stop us in our tracks. There’s no point in fighting fear, because frankly it’s not going to go away when you are 40ft up from the ground dangling from a rope, but you can go on despite being scared. One foot at a time, one hand at a time.

Thanks to Reading Climbing Centre for a great lesson, and thanks to the man for taking me. xxx

Little kids are just like teenagers, only smaller

My good friend Laurie Sontag at Manic Motherhood wrote this http://lauriesontag.com/?p=846 brilliant post last week about how teenagers are just like three year olds only bigger. It got me thinking, little kids are just like teenagers, only smaller…

They don’t speak, they grunt

Son number two, who is yet to perfect the art of speech, usually gets his point across with a series of “urr urr urrrrrr”’s and “nnn, nnn nnn’s”, often as a request for food. Son number one, a little older, regularly forgets his manners and morphs into Kevin. “Get me a drink” “Turn the telly over” “Come here now” are favourite demands. But right now, while they are little, I am willing to make the effort. I say the usual “what’s the magic word?” before answering their command. But after years of thankless slavery as a mother and being talked to like a piece of crap, I am waiting for the day when I can grunt back “Piss off and get it yourself. I’m not your slave anymore.”

They are more like you than you think

Fighting a stubborn two year old is hard enough without your mum merrily pointing out that you used to make the exact same face when you refused to put your shoes on. And I know there will come a time when my kids come home with a bizarre haircut that I can’t stand and mum will be at the ready with the picture of me with an elfin crop that I thought was so Demi Moore at the time, but in hindsight made me look like the Star Wars kid from You Tube. But tiny kids are just little mini me’s. Last week BFF was stunned when her son, also two, responded to her presentation of a flannel to wash his face with the much used mummy expression “don’t even think about it”. You can’t really argue with that.

They never sleep when you want them to

After a few years of motherhood you soon forget what it actually feels like to go to bed and wake up feeling refreshed and renewed. Little kids often can’t sleep through the night because they’re “scared”; want a drink or need to express more random requests like an overwhelming desire to sleep on the floor rather than in their bed. I relish the thought of the moment they want to sleep all day, and I honestly won’t care whether it’s in their bed or on the floor. Just being able to sleep past 5am is a luxury I am quite excited about. But as one friend recently pointed out, teenagers are no different from little kids except their routine is back to front. They stay up all night, then spend the entire day in bed when you want them to get up and clean their stinking pit of a bedroom. Which brings me to…

They are minging

Little boys are gross. They are gross from the minute they discover they can pick up all manner of hideous things with their curious little fingers, and then drop them when something more interesting comes along, right through to teenagers who wear the same pants day in day out and never clean behind their fingernails. I have given up wishing for a perfectly clean and tidy home, but there are times when I try to regain control. I once found a crusty old cheerio behind a load of books, encased in a deep layer of dust and of indeterminable age, but this didn’t detract son number two from swiping it up and happily munching away on it. There was a smell I couldn’t quite place coming from under the TV cabinet, so, approaching with caution, I investigated. I discovered, along with Mummy Pig and Miss Rabbit, 2 small plastic soldiers and a couple of dice (or die, whatever); a mouldy apple with two bites taken out of it, a vast amount of dust and I kid you not, a chocolate chip cookie stuck to the wall, defying gravity. Learning from the Cheerio incident, I kept son number two well away from the freak cookie and only narrowly saved him from feasting on the mouldy apple. Which brings me to my next point.

They will happily eat crap, but refuse a lovingly prepared healthy and delicious meal

No one wants to have fussy children, so we all work really hard in the early days filling our freezers with millions of tiny frozen cubes of liver casserole, salmon mash and a vast array of vegetable cocktails. But then suddenly your lovingly prepared meals are met with a solemn shake of the head and a bizarre list of rules; nothing can touch on the plate, nothing white, I don’t like potatoes I only like chips, I’ll eat cheese but only on pizza, I will only eat peas on a Wednesday, etc. Similar to teenagers who refuse your meals before rustling up random and disgusting concoctions in the toastie maker, then leave you to clean it up.

So yes, teenagers and little kids are very similar indeed. But at the moment I can always ask for a kiss or a cuddle and get one, and snuggle up on the sofa with them in front of innocent telly programmes, soaking up their adorable cuteness. Can’t see them letting me cuddle up to them when they are trying to watch Cribs and eat their tinned spaghetti and banana toasties.

How to be a good mother or I’ll take a large helping of social pressure with a side order of guilt please

I watched a programme the other night on Channel 4 called How To Be a Good Mother. Always wanting to improve on my confused mothering technique, I tuned in, expecting to get a few tips on how to counter nappy rash without having to do nappy off and ending up skidding on a poo, spilling a hot coffee in the process. Or get a fussy child to eat more than one kind of vegetable. But rather than the how-to I had expected, it was the story of six women doing some wonderful, and sometimes downright barmy, things in the name of motherhood. And they all felt that they had got it just right. But if I’m honest, I didn’t learn anything that helped me, just that I’m kind of glad that I didn’t eat my own placenta.

By far the strangest of these women was the placenta lady. She makes placenta prints (which is exactly what it sounds like), umbilical cord charms (wrapping a portion of umbilical cord into the shape of a heart then drying it out and hanging on ribbon for people to display in their homes), and finally cooking the placenta, then drying it out and grinding it up into capsules for the mother to take every day as a kind of hormone supplement. She apparently took a bite of her own placenta and was even paid to go one ladies house straight after the birth to whip up a placenta smoothie, which the mother then downed with glee. Aside from the placenta mania, this woman has received a lot criticism for saying that those mothers who have had caesarean sections do not have as strong a bond with their children than those who have had a natural birth. She said that, as a result of being a caesarean baby, she can’t look her own mother in the eye. So she has got to this age, had two children of her own and NEVER looked her mother in the eye? I believe that everyone has a right to their opinion but this was yet another unthinking sweeping statement that does nothing but make those women who couldn’t have a natural birth feel crap about themselves, bravo lady. Seriously, well done.

There was another mother, a “continuum mum” (google it, I did), who practiced elimination communication. No nappies, just being so at one with your child that you somehow know when they want to wee or poo. Sounds dangerous to me, but apparently works if you are willing to sleep with your child (with no nappy on?), not use a pushchair (even when walking to Asda for shopping) and dedicate every moment to looking out for that telling poo face on your child. If using nappies makes me a bad mother, then I’ll take it on the chin, and the thought of carrying son number two around ALL THE TIME makes my back ache, being the solid little wriggling lump he is. This mother was also so adamant she was doing the right thing that she had a pop at working mothers, believing that any detachment whatsoever from your child is harmful. Again this woman seemed to have zero tolerance for anyone not doing things the way she did.

As always when I watch or read something about how other mothers do things I was left wracked with guilt and depression. Have I done everything wrong? Would my children be worse off for having me as a mother?

I think it’s great that some women don’t use nappies, and that some women breastfeed so long. It’s even great to eat your placenta if that’s what you want to do, I wouldn’t eat it because I don’t like offal, but that is just personal taste (and I do draw the line at the umbilical cord charm, I don’t care how pretty it is when the veins catch the light), and I certainly wouldn’t judge any other mother for the choices they make. Overall I think all mothers are brilliant in their own way. But what makes me so angry and frustrated is the way many mothers, some of these included, are so adamant their way is the right way that they slag off anyone doing it different to them.

There is no right way of being a good mum. Being a good mother does not mean breastfeeding or formula feeding, it has nothing to do with staying at home or going back to work, and just because you eat your placenta does not a good mother make. A good mother answers their children’s needs, does what she can to keep her kids and everyone around her happy, but is also flexible, in that she can adapt to the changing needs of her children, realise that she doesn’t always get it right and be open to new ideas.

We all want to do the best for our kids. We all want to be excellent mothers, but the fact is ALL mothers fuck up their kids to some degree, however “good” we think we are, it’s just a matter of how much. And we won’t know that until they grow up and look us in the eye, or not.

Keep it simple

The first ever grown-up self-help book I owned was purchased aged 19, when I was first venturing into the world of work and finding it hard to juggle housework, levels of “stuff” and becoming an adult and having to do things like buying my own stamps. It was a massive book, Dorling Kindersleys K.I.S.S (Keep it simple series) Organising Your Life. It was very informative, full of new and exciting ways to write to-do lists, then organise tasks according to priority and time needed, in number and letter format. The irony of such a huge tome described as “Keep it simple” containing an incredibly complicated format just to write a few things down was completely lost on me in those days. But I was reminded of that book this week after a conversation with Big Bro.

My big bro is a bit clever really. You learn a lot about someone when you grow up together, in fact he probably knows me better than anyone.  He has an admirable knack of pointing things out to me in a way that I understand, without winding me up, getting me stressed or sounding like he’s putting me down. Like when he explained to me that my thought process is like a bomb going off, sending thoughts and ideas flying off in every direction, whereas many other people think in a more logical fashion. That little nugget has helped me out many a time when I have felt like no one really gets me.

And he’s gone and done it again. In a conversation we were having where I basically had a moan and said that I don’t have enough time to get half the things done I SHOULD do, let alone those I WANT to, and generally feeling a bit overwhelmed by life, he said “Look, you have a complicated life. What with the kids, housework, your blog, your baking, cooking, working out, and now your part time job… you don’t make life easy on yourself. Just try and keep things simple. You will probably find that life is much easier.” It was a light bulb moment, or an A-Ha moment if you are an Oprah fan (nothing to do with the 80’s pop band, whatever happened to them?).

I thought my good old bro had shown me a real revelation and couldn’t wait to discuss it fully, at length and in lots of detail with BFF (because that’s what girls do). So imagine my surprise when I discovered that this idea was apparently a common observation.

“Ohmigod bird, seriously at last. I’ve been trying to tell you that for, like, ever!”

“Really?”

“Yeah don’t you remember when you were insisting on making all your own bread because it made you feel like you were really providing for your family, AND it would save you £200 a year, and you were trying to do it at the same time as making Son 1’s complicated birthday cake, and I said just pop to Tesco and buy a loaf and you refused?” [I don’t have a bread maker so making my own bread was a bit of a mission]

“Er…”

“And the time you were visiting relatives and rather than just buy a bunch of flowers on the way there like other people, you insisted you just HAD to make them some cookies AND then make a gift bag out of coloured paper with a cellophane window to present them in?”

“Yeah but…”

“And then last week when son number one was going back to school the next day, and it was the first day of your new job, you decided that on top of everything else you needed to do that day you also had time to rip out the airing cupboard in the boys room?”

Hmmmm, I have to admit she had a point. The more I thought about it the more complicated I seemed to have made my life. I had 32 clementine in my fruit bowl, slowly getting more and more dried up and I fully intended to make most of them into 5 of Nigella’s clementine cakes (Nigella has great recipes for using up old fruit rather than throwing it away). Making the clementine cakes would involve 2 dozen eggs and over a kilo of ground almonds, another shopping trip, not to mention cost, mess and time, then what the hell would I have done with 5 clementine cakes anyway? My freezer is already full with last weeks batch cooking exercise (in order to stop me from having to cook every day I had a great idea to fill my freezer with homemade ready meals, meaning that I spent 3 days chained to the cooker, creating a huge amount of mess, plus the added stress of cooking up the sixty quids worth of meat I had purchased before it went off, on top of my normal - already did I mention pretty busy - life… simple? Erm, no).

So the last few days I have been trying, as much as possible, to keep it simple. No more getting up at 6am for an hour work out before the kids get up (meaning early nights, special trainers and more washing), I’m back walking son number one to school, and now son 2 to preschool too. An hour and a half of walking a day more than makes up for that hour of exercise.

Life is complicated. And there are some things that you just can’t change. Kids need constant care and attention, as do relationships, work is essential but most everything else is just trivial complication which we don’t need. Keep it simple.

The clementine’s went in the bin. Sorry Nigella.

This was my one hundredth post! J

I'm Back!

Happy New Year! Bet you wondered if I’d ever be back on the blog, well here I am. But don’t blame me for my long absence, blame the schools for only just going back. Jeez that felt like a long school holiday.

So we’re back proper and it’s all change. Son number 2 is now at preschool (God help them) and for the first time in five years I have two mornings a week when I don’t have to deal with nappies, jigsaw puzzles with three missing pieces (and the distress caused by said missing pieces) and incessant Fireman Sam on the telly (silence is golden, nothing but the whirr of a laptop, bliss).

It’s kind of weird being so free, but also exciting. I can now start looking at building a career of my own. I get bored easily and need a regular switch up to keep me motivated, 5 years in the same daily routine has been unheard of for me since my school days. So I need this. I need it so badly I am like a greyhound desperate to get out of the trap. But old habits die hard, and as desperate as I am to do something for ME and for MY career, I have to resist the urge to take the opportunity to do some uninterrupted housework (I have never been a good housekeeper so why try and change that now, square peg, round hole). I may get bored easily but that is why I love to write, the endless possibilities for new opportunities and in fiction at least, plenty of new characters to get to know. So here I am, writing, and looking for new ways that I can make a career of it (or at the very least entertain people and earn some cash).

I don’t believe in New Years Resolutions. Saying that you are going to start dieting on January the first or have your last fag at midnight is just a recipe for disaster if you ask me. There is still all the Christmas chocolate to get through (is it me or is there more and more chocolate every year? I feel like my childhood was virtually Dickensian in its lack of festive fayre, my kids practically have to wade through a sea of Roses just to get to the toilet) and frankly who wants to spend the last few hours of a party gagging for a fag? But I still love the feeling of newness you get from a New Year, and the endless possibilities for change. Which is why my New Year Resolutions last for an entire year. That is I make a decision that this is going to be the year I…

Last year it was this blog, Book (wine and moaning about men) Club, and getting fit. This year I will be building on last years triumphs but mostly focussing on my career, earning some cash and fun, fun, fun.

I worry I am getting boring in my old age. I have learnt however, that I need to accept my limits. Through a lifetime of trial and error I now know my limits are: 2 glasses of wine, one vodka tonic or just stick to the Appletize because my hangovers (and resulting shame) after any more than that are just not worth it. But I have a sneaking suspicion that I may be a bit of a Fun Bobby (those of you that don’t watch Friends – Fun Bobby was Monica’s boyfriend who turned out to be an alcoholic and was no longer fun when he stopped drinking) when it comes to alcoholic beverages. Maybe I’ve been drinking socially so long I have forgotten how to let myself go when I don’t drink? Maybe I need to work on my confidence.

So anyway, what can you expect from Write or Wrong I’m Doing It Anyway in 2012? Well, there are a few things I really want to try which I’m sure won’t escape comment on my blog (horseriding – it’s never too late to learn, pole dancing, ahem sorry pole FITNESS – ditto, and indoor rock climbing – you will never get me on the edge of a cliff but I kind of like the idea of those indoor rock walls, warmer and frankly, safer). 

The biggest challenge in life is not to stagnate; when you stagnate you may as well be dead. It’s so easy to let life pass you by because it seems too much hassle or too scary to change things. Trying new things and constantly looking for ways to change is the only way to keep things interesting. And if you don’t try new things, how can you know what you like and what you don’t like? What if it turns out I love riding in the countryside with the wind in my hair and a strong steed between my thighs (don’t be rude, I was being poetic)? If I’d never have tried it I’d never have known, and what a shame it would be to miss out on a lifetimes worth of something I love.

So my New Year’s Resolution this year is to try everything. Take all my opportunities and have some serious fun. Even on an Appletize (served in a wine glass because that makes you feel like you’re having a “proper” drink).

Happy New Year to you all, I wish you the very best in all your new endeavours.

Happy Christmas!

Seeing as this is my last post before Christmas, I wanted to do something really special. Maybe something a little profound about peace on earth and good will to all men.

Well, a week into the school holidays, kids driving me insane and already pissed off about the giant turkey taking up valuable chocolate space in my fridge, I have little to say about peace, my house is anything but peaceful. And having been to town 3 times this week, and each time been stuck behind a shuffling shopper who has to stop every two seconds to get harassed by a charity collector or a fake perfume seller, even my good will is running at an all time low.

So to cheer us all up I decided I would find out some fun Christmas facts that you might not already know of. Impress your family and friends with these babies at the Christmas dinner table:

• Christ was born on December 25^th right? Well, probably not. Biblical boffins estimate that Christ was actually born sometime between 6BC and 30AD, so there is a very real possibility that Jesus is sitting up there on his cloud shouting “But its not my birthday!” every year.

• Christmas pudding started as a kind of sweet soup, made of raisins and spices. Doesn’t sound any more appealing than the Christmas pudding we have today.

• Up until Henry the Eighth, who first brought turkey to our tables, Christmas dinner in the England was a pigs head. This makes me grateful for my poor old giant turkey taking up fridge space.

• A big part of any British Christmas dinner table is the crackers. For anyone who doesn’t know (apparently many nations do not) these are cylindrical cardboard items that bang when pulled between two people, and one person is “lucky” enough to “win” (note the sarcasm) a paper crown which is either too big for your head or so tight it rips the second you put it on, making you paranoid about your freakishly large head. The cracker also contains a pretty rubbish joke (or sometimes, in posh crackers, a Christmas fact) that is read out for everyone to groan to, and a utterly useless gift, I almost always get a big plastic paper clip (too flimsy to clip any of my regular sized paper let alone big stuff) or a lonely single dice (fun).

• The Christmas wreath is meant to represent Christ’s thorny crown. But there is a contrasting view that holly and ivy kept gremlins and goblins at bay, who liked to come into warm homes during Winter (probably not the same kind of Gremlins from the film though).

• Chocolate coins represent the money St Nick gave to poor children at Christmas time.

• There are twelve days of Christmas because this is reportedly the length of time it took the wise men (or kings, depending on which version of the story you like) to reach baby Jesus when they went visiting. Maybe this is why they chose gold, frankincense and myrrh gifts, as apposed to a box of Celebrations, which lets face it would not have lasted for two days in the hands of peckish men (except maybe the Bounty’s).

• Most male reindeer shed their antlers around Christmas time, so Rudolf is either a female reindeer or a male wearing clip on antlers just for the tourists.

• The poinsettia is actually native to Mexico. Its name comes from Cuetlaxochiti which means “flower that wilts”, very apt considering when I bought my poinsettia this year the checkout lady said “Oh these, I call them buy and die plants”. Which is why I always get one, it’s the one plant I can buy without the guilt associated with inevitably killing it.  

• A brilliant Christmas game played in medieval times, called “Hot Cockles”, involved one blindfolded person being “struck” by another person. The blindfoldee then had to guess who cast the blow. I can’t see this catching on today, as this would be likely be used as an excuse to punch an annoying family member in the face (or maybe that’s just me).

• There is an old wives tale that says bread baked on Christmas eve will never go mouldy, so fire up your bread makers tomorrow.

• Eating a mince pie on each of the twelve days of Christmas is believed to give you good luck for the following twelve months. Finally, a Christmas food tradition I can get on board with.

Have a brilliant Christmas, peace and good will to all men (and women)!!! J

Nurturing their independence

I must have read every single parenting manual going, Gina Ford and Elizabeth Pantley have existed happily next to each other on my book shelf for many years now. But I never found one single approach to suit me and my family. I tried the attachment parenting thing. Breast feeding on demand (did that with son one, I was a human dummy for a year, ended up with incredibly sore boobs and a general disregard for my own privacy – I once answered the door to the postman with a boob out, having just been feeding and forgot to put it back safely into my bra), co-sleeping (I couldn’t sleep for fear of rolling onto baby) and baby led weaning (slightly more successful with son number two but then again, he will eat ANYTHING – even the crusty old Cheerios he finds down the cracks of his car seat – maybe this is a minor success for baby led weaning).

Now that son number one is five I am trying to nurture his independence and encourage him to try more things, even though he might be a bit scared, because I don’t want him to grow up to be over coddled and terrified of the world.

We went to visit my dad yesterday, he has 4 dogs, all Springer Spaniels (and I thought my house was hectic). So now that I am trying to do the independence nurturing thing, when we took the dogs out for a walk I encouraged son one to hold the least pully dog on the lead by himself. We didn’t have dogs when I was a child and I was absolutely terrified of them until I was well into my twenties. You don’t actually realise how many people have dogs unless you are afraid of them. To a dog phobic it feels like there’s a ferocious beast lurking around every corner. I don’t think we’ll ever have a dog as a family (son 2 is enough of a substitute) so I want my kids to experience dogs in a safe environment so that we stamp out any potential phobia at a young age.

So anyway, he was doing really well, until dog saw the field from where it would be released from its lead and lurched forward to its freedom. Son number one, being sensible and responsible, did not let go of the lead until he had flown through the air and been dragged along the road for a few feet, grazing hands and knees. He was crying and demanded a plaster but was relatively unscathed and even helped me hold the lead on the way back (I didn’t want to allow fear to fester), although he did say “I don’t think 5 is as big as a dog” which was his was of saying that maybe he was a bit too little to hold the lead all by himself. He had a point, maybe there is a limit to giving independence at 5.

But sometimes kids just take their independence whether you like it or not. The other day I had given the kids a sandwich, leaving the bread board and bread knife (safely I thought), out of reach on the kitchen sideboard while I nipped off to answer a call of nature. When I returned, son 1 proudly announced that he had cut his own slice of bread. And there he was, with the most perfectly sliced piece of bread I had ever seen. “And I was careful and didn’t cut myself” he said, grinning happily. I congratulated him on his triumph, while explaining the dangers and asked him if next time he wanted to do something potentially dangerous he should ask me first, just so I could be around to make sure he was ok.

But after the initial shock, I was actually pleased. Despite never allowing him to use knives before, he wasn’t scared of them, knew to be careful, but was confident enough to give it a go, and more importantly, not lose a finger in the process. Yay, a minor success as a parent (although admittedly a potential fluke).

My problem with parenting “approaches” in general is that most of them seem to adopt a one size fits all attitude. For me, every child is different, and the best thing you can do is find a way that works for you but more importantly, your child. Breast feeding on demand did not work for me, but I wasn’t put off breast feeding altogether. Son 2 had a strict breastfeeding routine and fed until he was a year old (before he realised that he could get a much fuller tummy from a big plate of dinner and went off the idea). Son one has shown he can be sensible and responsible, but I can’t see son two ever, ever, being allowed anywhere near a knife, even aged 18 he will have to live of crusty old Cheerios unless people are around to serve him proper food.

Time flies...

So that’s son number one’s first term at school completed. First nativity play. First school Christmas dinner. First set of school shoes completely and utterly ruined (note to self, waterproofing spray is worth the extra money, Clarks shoes maybe not). It only feels like a few months ago rather than over 5 years, that I was overdue and awaiting arrival of son number one, let alone number two. I hear myself saying it more and more these days, (I must be getting old) where does the time go?

The weeks don’t seem to be as long as they were years ago. I remember as a child the time between Bonfire Night and Christmas seemed to last forever. So desperate were we to get to the festive period. Now Christmas and Bonfire Night all seem to be a part of the same festive blur. In fact, add Halloween to that too.

Could it be that time is actually speeding up? Is there some great conspiracy out there that is magically changing all of our clocks and making each minute actually last half the time? If that is the case, why do the days when the kids are at there most annoying seem to drag? But no matter how much hard work the kids are being, and how often I have a bad afternoon, it doesn’t seem to change the fact that the weeks and months pass by quicker than I’d care to mention.

It’s ironic that some days we wish the time away (I can’t wait for them to get to bed so I can have some me time), and others we wish time would stand still (one day they’ll grow up and I’ll be surplus to requirements).

The man has a theory. The older you get the faster time goes because each unit of time becomes a smaller percentage of the time you’ve been alive. So a 4 year old feels like a year lasts forever because it’s a quarter of their life, but to a 34 year old it feels like no time at all because it’s only a 34^th of your life. Move over Stephen Hawking. It’s a pretty good theory, and I wonder how accurate it is.

I like to think of my Facebook picture as “recent”, but in reality it is nearly a year old. I need to change it for a slightly more haggard version before I get done for false advertising. Why does it feel like that picture was taken only a few weeks ago, but at the same time, when I think of how much I have done this year I realise it feels like a different person and a different life altogether?

Time supposedly flies when you’re having fun. So does that mean that our kids (who think ten minutes is a very long time) are bored out of their skulls and us grown ups are having a whale of a time? Seems a little unfair given the amount of energy we put into giving our kids a good time (usually at a cost of fun for ourselves).

There is actually scientific evidence to back up the theory that time flies when you’re having fun. The University of St Thomas, Minnesota, for instance, conducted an experiment where they asked people to comment on their enjoyment of a task set, secretly switching a stopwatch during the task to make one group think that the task lasted 5 minutes, and the other 20. The group who believed the task lasted only 5 minutes, reported greater enjoyment than those who thought it had lasted 20. I would love to know what the actual task was, and who the people were who took part. Different people would report more enjoyment in different tasks. If you set a watching TOWIE task to me and the man, I would report a dramatic quickening of time, but the man would probably report a drastic slowing down of time and increase in general malaise.

There have been many scientific experiments about our perception of time and they all conclude that yes, time does indeed fly when you’re having fun.

So maybe the cure for time going so fast is to have a boring, unpleasant life. I think I’d rather have a speedy happy one, rather than miserably dragging it out just for the sake of it.

I’m quite happy that time flies. Apart from the odd less than positive comment from the man (“we’ll be old and dead soon” – what a cheery thought), as long as time is flying I’m having a great time. I must be. Science says so, and you can’t argue with science right?

Whose Christmas is this anyway?

Like many people around the world this weekend we ventured into our loft (and hopefully unlike many people around the world also discovered a leaking roof, ah what a great time of year), to recover several boxes of sparkly stuff and adorn our house.

I keep hearing people say that Christmas is for kids. But I love Christmas. And kids get play time, toys, millions of dedicated TV programming time, an almost guaranteed birthday cake and party every year (to which all the guests bring presents) and someone else to cook, clean and earn money for them. Let’s face it, they get it pretty cushy. Grown ups get the crappy end of all of that. Frankly, as adults, we deserve Christmas. So if one more person says to me “Christmas is for kids” I might be inclined to whip them with a clipboard holding my “Reclaim Christmas for All” petition.

So anyway, we got our decorations down from the loft. Our Christmas decorations are pretty much limited to tree (and it’s adornments), one set of Santa lights for the playroom and a tiny glitter Christmas tree I got from the pound shop a few years ago in an effort to spread the Christmas joy to my kitchen, which now sits at a bit of a wonky angle. I do love it when people go absolutely mad with their decorations. We often drive around just to look at folks outdoor displays. I would love to have a house like that but I can’t help but imagine the work (not to mention cash) that goes into creating these masterpieces, so may I take this opportunity to thank those who put in so much effort for the rest of us to enjoy.

When son number one was 2, we didn’t have a tree. Not in a sad way, it was just that we lived in a flat with only one living area and we knew a two year old couldn’t be trusted with one. So I made a tree using sugar paper cut outs of handprints, it still got ripped up but at least I didn’t have to keep redecorating it.

Now we have a house and a sitting room. Note I call it a sitting room, not lounge and not front room, because this is a grown ups room, where no toys are allowed and children only under supervision or permission from adults. We also have another two year old, but we have a nice room in which to keep a tree away from his inquisitive little fingers.

Well that was the plan anyway. We hadn’t even got all of the boxes down from the loft before we had a broken bauble being trodden into the carpet, all the boxes and bags ripped open and tinsel and pinecones spread all around the house. Kids just don’t get the organisation that goes into unpacking and packing up Christmas decorations, least of all a two year old who just sees baubles as sparkly bouncy balls (takes a good few broken ones before they realise that they don’t bounce) and pine cones as a potential food source.

So I was already feeling the pressure and didn’t even attempt to do my usual nice organised tree decorating, with my Now That’s What I Call Christmas CD playing in the background, a cup of tea and a mince pie. I gave the decorating over to son number one (supervised by the man) while I took other son up to bed and away from the chaos.

I came down to find the tree, usually tastefully decorated with just the right mix of traditional and contemporary pieces, positively groaning under the weight of our entire Christmas decoration collection. The man had apparently tried to explain that we don’t usually use ALL the decorations, just some of them, but son number one, in his enthusiasm, could not be restrained.

We also let son number one have an old broken fibre optic tree in his bedroom to decorate and another tiny fibre optic advent tree, which plays very irritating Christmas music, the epitome of tackiness but there is no accounting for taste and he loves it. So the few decorations that had escaped being put on our main tree have ended up on those. And he does love to take all the decorations off and redecorate it, so proud is he of his very own Christmas tree.

OK, maybe my enthusiasm for Christmas decorations is waning some what, and doesn’t have the same vigour as that of a child. But that doesn’t mean it’s not for grown ups. I work hard for my Christmas damn it and I am determined to enjoy the Christmas spirit if it kills me. Maybe we have a few broken baubles and our tree chocolates won’t last the week, but I’m not doing all this work just for the kids. With all the Christmas shopping, cooking, planning and let’s face it, stress, us grown ups need some Christmas joy just to get through it.

Girl in uniform

I remember a time when I despised uniforms. I would deface my school tie as much as I could possibly get away with, wore it tied in the latest styles (long and skinny, short and fat, short and skinny but NEVER how it was designed to be worn), I’d take my skirt up so you could “see what I’d had for breakfast” (incidentally, I’ve never understood that saying, I don’t and have never kept Weetabix in my knickers), or bunching it up at the waist and then dropping it down just for inspections.

Now I love uniforms. Not just in a “ooh he looks fit in his white naval uniform a la that film from the eighties that I can never remember the name of” kind of way. Although, personally I’ve never been a big fan of that white uniform, possibly down to a general aversion to white knowing how difficult it is to keep clean. But I do like a nice man in a uniform. Anyway, I digress massively from my point.

I can’t see any negatives to uniforms. Sure at school I said I hated it (as did all of us, funny how we said we all hated them because we wanted to show our individuality at a time when we all would have done anything to fit in), but I think deep down secretly it was a relief. I didn’t have the confidence to come up with something stylish to wear day in day out.

Lucky, lucky people who get up every morning and have a uniform to put on.

For those of us with uniform free jobs, and not blessed with a natural “even looks good in a bin bag” sense of style, trying to come up with something to wear day after a day is tedious, and not having much time because you have two other people to dress (admittedly one in a uniform, yay) means it is easy to end up with the “covered myself in glue, wandered into wardrobe and wandered out wearing whatever has stuck to me” look. If I had a uniform all that would be a thing of the past.

Schools use the standard line that a uniform makes everyone feel like they belong and avoid difficulties arising when people can’t afford the latest trends. But I suspect that the real reason we have school uniforms is because one clever mother, many years ago, realised that having to think of something to wear every day was just a pain in the backside.

I don’t even enjoy shopping (although the man would disagree with that statement). Sure I love having something new to wear but the elation is relatively short lived when I get home and realise I’ve got nothing to go with whatever I thought looked good in the shop but in the cold light of my own bedroom accentuates how utterly out of proportion my boobs are to the rest of my body (and not in a good way). Besides, my mum always taught me to try on anything before buying it, a lesson I have never faltered from, so many a bothersome hour has been spent in a tiny changing room, with a screaming child pulling the curtain back to reveal my greying knickers to some poor unsuspecting fellow just waiting for his wife to hurry up so he can get home.

Nope, give me a nice uniform any day. I reckon schools should offer a uniform service to mothers as well as the kids. Then we could all get kitted out at the beginning of the new term together. A terms worth of clothing would arrive nicely packaged in cellophane all at the same time.

I’ve often thought that I should come up with my own little uniform, some trousers (non-iron) and a couple of t-shirts and jumpers embroidered with the kids names (they are, after all, my employers). But that would just be weird. So I am stuck with trying to think of something to wear every day and the irritating rounds of futile shopping that go with it. Still there could be worse things. I just need to stay away from changing rooms with uncomfortable looking men hanging around outside, although that is possibly a good rule to live by anyway.