The 'C' Word

Being part of a couple means compromise. But compromise and change are one and the same thing; as you are compromising you are also changing. You can’t help it.

At the start of any relationship you are just you. Your habits, your personality, your beliefs, what you like, what you don’t like, are all genetic, organic, nature, nurture whatever you want to call it, they are all a result of you and only you.

Then you meet someone. At first you are still yourself, and maybe that’s what makes it so interesting, two people meeting and exchanging new and exciting ideas, maybe that’s what creates the spark. But then you begin to share your life with them and you begin to pick up parts of each other; a different point of view here, a new way of doing something there. Your experiences are shared, your vision becomes one and the same. And then, before you know it, you are no longer you. You are a version of you that only exists as one half of this particular couple.

They say that people who have been together for a long time begin to look like each other. I’m not sure I believe that. But there is no denying that people who have been together for a years are apt to finish each others sentences, and share an outlook on life, much like they share a tube of toothpaste or a duvet.

It’s not a bad thing. In order for people to coexist happily, changes are necessary.  It starts with telling your new guy to put the loo seat down, or listening to an album by an artist you had no desire to listen to before, seeing something from a different point of view. Then fast forward a few years and you are creating a home together, putting that ceramic cat away that you thought was so cute but the new love of your life gags at the notion of, eating food that you both like, going places of mutual interest, and your life becomes one. And it involves a huge element of compromise.

But what happens when a relationship ends? At first it’s like a little holiday. Suddenly you can eat food you never bothered to cook before because your ex didn’t like, stay up all night with the bedside light on reading, or wear those god awful trainers she hated. Because, for the first time in a long time, what you do won’t bother anyone. It’s like being able to breathe again. All those things that you were compromising on, suddenly there is no compromise, and it is liberating.

Then as time passes and the ceramic cat comes out of the loft, you begin to see glimpses of the old you. It’s someone you recognise but can’t quite put your finger on. And suddenly there’s a moment… hang on, I know you! You’re the person I used to be.

There’s nothing wrong with changing for someone. Indeed, it’s not something even the most confident, self sufficient person can avoid. And nor should we. The change happens gradually, without consciousness or reason, logic or thought, and it’s natural. But it’s only when you spend time alone that you begin to see yourself for who you really are.

I never really understood the “finding yourself” thing. What were they on about? I don’t need to find myself. I’m right here. But sometimes we give so much of ourselves to others, whether as part of a relationship, a job, becoming a parent; that we begin to lose ourselves into the bargain. And it’s when we realise we are lost that we need to go looking for ourselves.

But old habits die hard, and it takes a long time to peel back the layers of the person you had become as part of a couple and regain control of who you were before, who you are as a whole of one person.

The sad thing is that people fall in love when they are organically themselves. And it’s that person that someone loves and wants to be with. The couples that make it work are the ones who become versions of themselves that are still attractive to one another. The change is good. And the change is romantic. It is the ones who have changed a little too much, or in the wrong way, that find themselves alone or in an unhappy relationship.

Maybe love isn’t about compromise at all. Maybe it’s about finding someone who doesn’t change you. Or for whom the change is attractive and all the more loveable. And if you feel like yourself, really yourself with someone, that is true love. And when you feel like you are lost, you know it’s time to leave. But it takes time to see how much someone will change you, and how far you will need to bend in the breeze of a relationship, and sometimes that takes years, a lifetime even. And that makes it all the more scary and difficult to go looking for yourself, but all the more refreshing when you truly find yourself again.

Those were the days

On Sundays there is nothing I like more than buying a Sunday paper, putting some good music on, and sitting in the kitchen with a coffee, reading it from cover to cover while trying to ignore the children. I don’t have a newspaper delivery because I never know which mood I’m going to be in and therefore choose my paper that day to what seems to fit; clever and posh (Times), like to think I’m clever and posh and also fancy being riled to fever point about the state of government/NHS/judicial system (Mail), clever and a little bit pompous (Telegraph), clever and like to think I’m different when really I’m the same (Independent), can’t be bothered with pretending I’m clever or different and just want to read who’s had a dodgy boob job/spent too much money/left their wife (tabloids). Anyway, my choice this week was the Sunday Mail, not actually because I fancied getting paranoid at the state of our nation, or because I was in the mood to tell myself I was posh or clever, but because I’m skint and it was one of the cheapest (and it also had half price restaurant vouchers advertised on the front - which incidentally, I’ll never get to use because I’m too skint).

Inside there was a brilliant article about old home remedies. Some of the best ones included hanging a dead mole around the neck of a teething baby to relieve teething pain, sticking the head of a child with whooping cough into a hole in a local field, opium for nervous dispositions (I’ll bet) and praying. I am not a huge history fan, because look past the romanticism of the pretty dresses, elegant manners and comely male heroes all you’ve really got is uncomfortable underwear, a depressingly short life span and bad dental hygiene. But the simple, non hysterical and totally uncontrolled nature of their approach to medical problems seemed really refreshing. A world away from the way we live right now.

Just buying paracetemol and Anthisan (a cream for bites, stings and nettle rash, highly necessary given the top end of my garden has weeds and nettles taller than son two) from Tesco requires involvement from a pharmacist. I have to get paracetemol over the counter because apparently without speaking to a pharmacist we are not qualified to purchase more than 8 doses in one go (I have two young boys, 8 doses of paracetemol is about a weeks worth if I’m lucky, so I get the “big” pack from over the counter which lasts me ten days instead of six). When I asked for them yesterday, the pharmacist said “have you used both these medications before?” What state are we in as a nation if the powers that be have decided that we are unable to purchase basic medical supplies without proving we have used them before without inadvertently killing ourselves? Is it just where I've been reading The Mail or does that seem a little scandalous to you?

And this was just for basic painkillers and nettle rash cream, it is nothing compared to the grilling you get if you are attempting to buy medicine for children, particularly cough and cold medicines. For those of you unaware, they have recently and very rapidly changed the age limits on cold medicine for children. One particular brand (come on Mums we all know the one), went from suitable from 3 months to being unavailable to any child under six, in the space of about one year. Because, apparently, all mums were force feeding it to their babies so they would be knocked out for twelve hours and the mum could have some peace and quiet, or that is what you are made to feel each time you buy it.

Sometimes I long for the simplicity of the old approaches to non-emergency medical care. Yesterday son two (running around in the jungle garden wearing nothing but a nappy and welly boots) came running to me screaming because he had been stung by a stinging nettle. Going for the old school method, I looked for a dock leaf. As I rubbed the leaf onto his bare skin his screaming did not abate, I said “any better?” “Nooooooooooooo” he cried. And there explains why we no longer hang dead moles around the necks of teething babies. The old school methods might be simple, uncontrolled and a little bit exciting but most of them just didn’t work. Shame really, because I would have loved to have shown up at a mother and baby group when my boys were teething with them adorned with dead rodents. It may even have caught on, because at least in the procurement of dead moles mums would not have had to get past prickly pharmacists. Not like the old days though, when they would have just been on the shelf alongside the opium: “Ounce of opium and three dead moles please” Those were the days.

Be careful what you wish for...

A few years ago in my not so dim, but what now feels like an incredibly distant past, a single friend came round to my house to meet my baby son. She floated through the door in a cloud of perfume, perfectly coiffed hair, all skinny and irritatingly "together." I greeted her, saggy boobed, no makeup, unwashed hair, heavily overweight (still in maternity clothes four months after pregnancy) and dripping milk from my mummy udders. We had a long chat, her discussing her turbulent love life and her exciting job. My side of the conversation was limited to breast pads, baby poo schedules and sleepless nights. My semi-suburban life as a stay at home mum, in a settled relationship, it’s seemingly dull monotony, not bad, not amazing, seemed frankly unremarkable compared to this glamorous life she seemed to have. And the main thing I remember from that day is that despite her proclamations that she was envious of my routine and security, I experienced an overwhelming jealousy that her life was so exciting, and filled with drama. I believed that that was it for me, my drama days were over. My life would be settled and comfortable, not amazing, but not bad, for the rest of my living days. And I clearly recall saying “God I wish I had some drama in my life”.

Fast forward about five years and I am getting what I wished for, in spades. And just when I think one drama is finally over, another one, far more unbelievable than the last comes along. I’m not going to discuss the ins and outs of it (I think I over share quite enough thank you), and you wouldn’t believe me if I did. Let’s just say I am awaiting the call from Jeremy Kyle to propose a two hour Christmas special with lots of close ups on the audiences dropped jaws, as each ridiculous turn of events is revealed.

But I am now pretty much reaching drama saturation point. This week, after the most recent chapter in my stunningly remarkable (and not a good way) life unfolded, I drove to visit a friend and spent the entire journey laughing manically at the irony, and the ridiculousness of my current situation, after wishing so fervently for drama all those years ago.

The old saying “be careful what you wish for” keeps ringing in my head. Is all this of my own making? If Paulo Coehlo is right and the universe really does conspire to give you everything you want, am I now just living the result of my wishes?

I don’t know. But I know that I feel physically wrung out and emotionally drained by everything. I am past breakdown territory, I am into the manically laughing stage, goodness only knows what the next stage is. There have been times I was worried I would end up rocking in the corner muttering to a banana about my messed up life, but as I pass through each subsequent stage of the process I realise it’s all normal. Crying or manically laughing, spending days in my pyjamas, even conversing with a banana, does not mean I’m weak or messed up. Because really, shit happens, and you have to allow all of it to run its course before you can move on. Attempt to skip a step and you go back to the beginning. Maybe you have to give yourself permission to be completely broken before you can put yourself together again.

Shit often happens when you have done nothing to deserve it and this is the worst kind, because it's completely out of your control. But when it is out of your control you just have to sit back and enjoy the ride (by enjoy I obviously mean despise and wish it was over).

But, always one to look on the bright side of things, I have made new friends, who may one day be old friends, and old friends have reconfirmed themselves as being the most wonderful in the world. So there is one thing in my life that is sorted. I just need to cling onto that.

Just keep smiling. Smiling and counting my blessings, asking for help where it’s needed and focussing on the fact that one day this will all be over and things will be maybe not amazing, but at least not bad, again. I dream of that day, because by god am I going to appreciate it when it finally happens. And I will always think very, very carefully before I wish for anything ever again.

Trust...

We wouldn’t get very far in life without trust. All relationships are based on trust, trust that this person, whether it’s your mum, your lover, your friend, or the slightly questionable man in the kebab shop scratching his nuts then smelling his fingers (it’s the finger smelling that makes this situation all the more suspicious) before serving up your chips in pitta bread with salt and mayonnaise, will not hurt you, betray you, or add a little extra something (like Ecoli) to your food. Just think, if you trusted no one, you wouldn’t even be able to leave your house. You wouldn’t be able to trust that the mechanic made your car road worthy so you wouldn’t be able to drive; you wouldn’t be able to trust that some driver won’t mow you down in the street so you’re stuffed before you even walk out the door. But then you also wouldn’t be able to trust the builder who built your house, you could wake up (or not) in a pile of bricks at any given moment. Yep, I’d say trust (or maybe lack of paranoia) is pretty important in having a life worth living. Those people who say they trust no one have really not thought that statement through.

But, paranoia aside, at what point do we start to really trust people? Does it take years to nurture or should we trust until we have reason to think otherwise? And after the trust is gone, can we get it back?

I’m a fairly trusting person, so when I meet someone new, be it a friend, a date, whatever, my instinct is usually to trust first and question later. I always try to look for the positive side of someone until the opposite is glaring me in the face. It takes a lot for me to lose trust. But many people do things differently. They are suspicious of everyone, and wait for trust to be earned before they give it away. And I wonder if those people are any happier or safer than me as a result?

Life in itself is a gamble. And, as my trip down paranoia lane above proves, we also take a lot of things for granted. If we thought every single little thing through we’d all be pretty miserable and not a lot of fun to have around.

If you look hard enough you can always find reasons not to trust someone. If you let your mind stray just a little and question someone’s motives, you can turn the most innocent of things into a potentially massive betrayal. And if you don’t nip those thoughts in the bud, you can make not only your own life, but others too, a misery.

The funny thing is the least trusting people are often the ones who are not to be trusted themselves, in my experience anyway. I trust people, I suppose mainly because I know that I can be trusted. Those that don’t trust are often the ones who are shady by nature. If someone doesn’t trust me, my first response is to wonder whether I can really trust them.

Trust is often overlooked as the most precious thing, but it must be encouraged and nurtured. Many people say that trust is impossible to get back once it’s gone. But, like every emotion, whether or not to trust is ultimately a choice. I have been betrayed and trusted again a few times in my life. OK, maybe things are never the same but that is just the way life is. I’ve spent too long in my life worrying about things that didn’t happen (and some that did, but did worrying about them before they happened help me in the event? Er, no). And not trusting does not make life any nicer or easier, in fact it makes everything more difficult. So I will always choose, at least try to, trust. It’s not always easy, but that is my choice. And hey, life is never easy.

Was Shakespeare right when he said “love all, trust a few, do wrong to none”? Because, to me, love and trust go hand in hand. I couldn’t love someone I didn’t trust. But do I love all those that I trust? The kebab man? Hmmm, maybe I do at 2.17am on Sunday morning (come on admit it, we’ve all declared our love for the kebab man in a drunken stupor. Just me? Wow). But I do believe Shakespeare was right when he said love all. Although if he were alive today, I certainly would not expect to see him in line at my local kebab shop at 2.17am on a Sunday morning, I really don’t think he’d be able to get past the finger smelling. Few would, but chips is chips. Especially when you are very drunk indeed.

Disconnected

Note: Rusty Cogs

This is my first blog post in months. I wrote it last weekend but wasn’t brave enough to post it. I have had the most crippling writers block, probably down to a severe case of the “I’m crap”’s. So I’m rusty and it will take me a while to get the cogs moving again. A serious knock to the self confidence sent me into myself and had me questioning everything I ever believed about myself, not least whether or not I should be writing at all. But I’m back, and although rusty I will now be blogging regularly again. Because in the middle of the storm, for all the questioning and uncertainty, the one thing that never changed was how much I love this, I know it is where I’m meant to be. As my fingers touch the keys bits of dust and remnants of my past are flying from my knuckles and mind, revealing a new and shiny me beneath. It will take time to build my confidence again, and the new and shiny me, like new skin, is very raw and fragile, but I’ll soon toughen up again. The first few steps are wobbly, and fearful, but Paulo Coelho said “If you only walk on sunny days, you will never reach your destination.” And I have places to be.

Now on with the blog post, it’s called “Disconnected”…

A note to the wise, if things are bad, never, ever say “it can’t get any worse” because it always can. 2012 seems to just keep kicking my ass, so from now on I have given those around me permission to punch me in the head if I ever say it can never get any worse again. So as a result of the repeated ass kicking (and in preparation for the head punching), I just needed to get away. Get away from everything and everyone and have no reminders of anything around me. Completely disconnect from the world and let my mind begin to heal.

So I blew a small fortune on a room at 4* Norton Park Hotel. It’s only fifteen mintues from my house, so no wasting any of my precious one and a half child free days travelling. And when I discovered that my one suitcase, handbag and laptop bag wasn’t quite enough luggage for 22 hours away from home, I could pop home for that Tesco bag of last minute essentials (magazines and gym gear, so I could make use of the gym facilities – got to get your moneys worth).

Anyway, I feel safe, yet alone and that is what I need right now. I need to spoil myself and feel decadent just for a night. Apart from staying with friends and family I have not been away for five years, not even for a single night. So it’s not so much a mini break, more a break down avoider. I can’t afford treats like this, but we can live on baked beans on toast for the rest of the month (did you know that baked beans on toast is the most nutritionally complete meal you can get? So we can now happily and without guilt dish out beans on toast knowing that we are probably giving them a more balanced meal than the organic pumpkin risotto with free range bacon and a medley of seasonal fresh vegetables that took us three hours to make and another three to get them to eat). And eating baked beans on toast for a couple of weeks is preferable for all of us than me having a nervous breakdown.

All I want is some time to myself, just think about me. Relax and unwind and not be bothered by the outside world. Turn my phone off then not turn it on again until I leave tomorrow, after check out and a day spent abusing the spa facilities.

So of course the first thing I did when I arrived in my room (after doing a victory lap, then jumping on the bed and squealing with excitement) was connect my phone to the hotels wi-fi, check in on Facebook (I am currently taking every opportunity to check in whenever I go anywhere remotely exciting, because it’s a rare treat to do so) and text a photo of my hotel room to Mr K (nice big hint of the quality of romantic mini breaks I expect to be taken on). Hardly disconnected. So I then turned my phone off. Went to the spa and did some swimming, steam room, swimming again, steam room again. Heaven.

But while sitting in the steam room, allowing my mind to wander and my muscles to unfurl, I had a sudden panic, what if there was an emergency with the kids? So I turned my phone on and texted their dad with the hotel phone number and my room number. Ooh and while I’m at it I’ll just check the Facebook for comments, and reply to these few texts I have just received. And turn phone off again.

From the moment I arrived until midnight, I turned my phone off for an hour then back on to check messages and Facebook and then off again. It’s kind of defeating the purpose of turning it off all together. But I need my phone. I need my apps. I need my note taking app (in case by some miracle this crippling writers block clears), I need it for the time (I never wear a watch) and I need it to know that I always have access to Mr Christian Grey (who lives in my Kindle App) when I need him.

My mum said that in her day life was so much easier. You didn’t have Facebook, text messages and emails detailing everyone’s feelings. “In fact,” she said “we didn’t really have feelings, we just got on with it.” I have been imagining a life without Facebook (and feelings) a lot lately, believe me, and I think it would be sheer bliss, life must have been so much simpler. But, like my mum said, we can’t really live without these thing; mobile phones, Facebook, the internet, they are available so we have to use them, to not use them is to miss out. Yes, we can all snottily say that we could happily live without it, and we have all experienced the dark side of Facebook, but it’s such a great way of staying in touch, and getting support when you’re having a bad day, and finding a silly pointless picture that makes you smile through your tears. And how about promoting your business/blog/book for free? We need to accept that these days, we can’t live without it.

But after a night in my hotel room, I woke up at 5am, and then gave up on any more sleep at 650am (it’s not the kids that need sleep training it’s me) and decided to make use of the “executive desk” feature of my hotel room and start this blog post. And I have now decided that is it. No phone today. Everyone knows where I am and can reach me in an emergency. No one will worry because I haven’t replied to their text or updated my Facebook. I am going incommunicado. For eight hours. All very retro.

Retro Repost: Idols, Gurus and Eric Cantona

I haven't had time to write a new post today. Not only have I been into the office for meetings (love having "meetings", it's so terribly grown up), but my Dad has been here building me a micro office (by micro office I mean a desk in a cupboard in my bedroom, but "desk in cupboard" does not sound as professional and important as micro office). I needed somewhere I could work that was away from the kids (no longer will my printer spew out old pieces of toast or be found choking on Lego men who had gone in there "to get a tattoo"). So the days of not posting new blog posts will soon be over because, rather than lying in bed night after night not being able to sleep (and worrying about what tragedy will befall my printer the next day), I'll be able to walk two steps into my micro office, blog away into the night, smoking out of my window (the fact that there is a window in there takes it even further from cupboard towards proper office) like a proper writer.


So with this lack of time in mind, rather than dash off a third rate hurried piece, I decided to do a Retro Repost of one of my early posts (ever so slightly edited). It's of March 2011 vintage, and it's called:

Idols, Gurus and Eric Cantona

Some people I know are so self assured. They know exactly who and what they are. I don't know who I am. I have (and will probably continue to) spend my life trying to answer the constantly nagging questions "who are you, what are you, why are you here, and just WTF are you doing?" Sometimes I think it must be so much easier to be one of those people who live without the constant chatter of questions, enquiring, pushing me to find answers. Frankly it's quite exhausting. But at the same time, looking for the answers means I'm constantly striving, and it's the times when I have given up on the striving that I have been at my lowest points, and the times when I'm looking for answers that I feel the greatest sense of fulfilment. 

I wonder how these people know the answers? How do they have this peace within them? Would those who believe in reincarnation think the unquestioning people have been reincarnated so many times that they have answered all the questions? And those of us still stuck in the investigative phase are all newbies?

Last night, for want of anything better to watch, I watched a film called Looking for Eric. It's about a down and out guy who has zero self confidence and his life is looking pretty bleak, until his idol Eric Cantona appears to him and starts coaching him in the ways of the world, and very quickly his life is turned around. It was a good film.

For some people, life seems so easy, they just get on with it, get through life without the endless questions and analysis. But for the rest of us, frantically zigzagging through life, trying to make sense of it all, we need a bit of help. And we often find help in other people, idols, gurus, whatever you want to call them, people who inspire us. Just like the man in the film was inspired by Eric Cantona, by channelling or thinking about people we admire, we gain confidence and a focus.

How many people wear WWJD (What Would Jesus Do?) bracelets? You can now get bracelets asking "What Would insert the name of your idol here Do?" for pretty much anyone you can think of, now or in history.

Most of us don't actually know what we're doing in life, and many of us face situations daily where we simply don't know what to do. From the big questions: "Should I buy this house?"" Should I have a kid?" etc to the relatively small and seemingly unimportant "What should I wear today?" Asking ourselves "What would this person who we admire do?" can give a focus for our thoughts. Often we don't even know the person personally, or if we do, maybe we wouldn't want them to know we are channeling them, lest they think us creepy or wierd. Many times we don't know what they would really do but imagination is a pretty powerful tool and sometimes just by imagining something you can find an answer.

I am willing to lay myself on the line here and admit to having a style crush on a friend. Some people just seem to be born with an innate sense of style, elegant and always right for the occassion, and always age appropriate. I, however, I was born with a totally schizophrenic style sense, never able to decide what I like, going through the complete spectrum of outfits, sometimes dressing too old, sometimes dressing too young, sometimes wearing it all at once. I think I have unsuccessfully tried just about every fashion and fad throughout my life. About a year ago I got so fed up with feeling like I was always getting it wrong that I started asking myself "is this something Soandso would wear, and what would she wear it with?" before every purchase I made. That I'm aware of this person doesn't know I do this, and I wouldn't tell her because I wouldn't want to make her feel uncomfortable (or think I was creepy and wierd), but unknowingly she has really helped me out. I can't say I am now getting it right all the time but I do now have a better focus when I'm out shopping, because frankly, the choice is so overwhelming it's no wonder I was getting it wrong a lot of the time. Once I started doing this I noticed other people who "fit" the look I was trying to get. And now I have a number of style "idols" I draw on when I'm out shopping.

Let me just clear something up right now. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery but blatant copying other people is tantamount to not only social death but complete loss of your true self, which doesn't help in your quest to find yourself and who YOU are. At the furthest end of the scale you also have stalking which is just plain scary. I am not talking about copying or stalking here. I'm talking about being inspired by people. I wouldn't go out and buy the same top as my style crush for instance (we have a different body type so I would look like a knob in it anyway), just trying to give myself a sense of direction. A psychological style sat nav if you will.

I am like an information sponge but more than that I like to soak up other people. Most of the people in my life are idols in some way, because they all have certain points or traits which I admire. You can find something great in everyone, if you know what you think is great you can find it in people. I think we all (quite often unconsciously) emulate people we spend time with, particularly if we admire them. I don't think it's necessarily genetics that are to blame for us ending up like our parents...

When I started this blog post (this morning, while battling screaming kids and mounds of mushed up Shreddies on the kitchen floor) I was mainly thinking about the writer Gretchen Rubin. I have mentioned her before in a blog post, I won't go into it too much now but I recently read a book she has written called "The Happiness Project" where she sets herself resolutions to live by with the goal of increasing her daily happiness. It's a fantastic book and if you want to know more you can check out her blog at http://www.happiness-project.com/. The point is, she really inspired me. And it got me thinking about all the people in my life who have inspired me, pretty much everyone I have ever met has given me something I could learn from, often an impulse to do something or change something I don't like. Once I started thinking about it I was seeing inspirational people everywhere, and this was just in the space of a few hours. Our kids, our families, our friends, writers, artists, celebrities... they all help in our quest to do better, be better and find answers.

BRRRRRRING!

OK, I admit it. I’m feeling a little overwhelmed. This happens to me every now and then, I suddenly realise just how much responsibility I have and how utterly disorganised, and therefore unprepared for the responsibility, that I am. To be responsible you really need to be organised. And to be organised you really need to be responsible. So the fact that I am neither often leaves me in a bit of a muddle.

I’ve been winging it a bit these last few months: “self confessed disorganised person in utter chaos shocker”. But my usual system of keeping the disorganisation at bay has (almost literally) gone out the window. About a year ago I set up lots of reminders on my phone, the idea being that I would be told what I needed to do and when so in the mornings we would get to school on time, my houseplants wouldn’t keep dying because I had forgotten to water them and I’d always remember to put the bin out rather than running down the road shouting at the bin men “Wait! I cleared out the shed at the weekend and my wheelie bin is overflowing with dried up sample paint pots and punctured paddling pools, you HAVE to empty it!” But then I got annoyed with it…. BRRRING!:  “water plants” BRRRING!: “wash bed sheets” BRRRING!: “brush kids hair” BRRING, BRRING, BRRRRRRRRING! One day I had a mini breakdown over a particularly ill timed BRRRING!: “make kids packed lunches” I think even the neighbours heard me screaming “Shut UP! I can’t do this anymore”, and I only just managed to restrain myself from launching the damn thing out the window. So I deleted all my reminders and have since been flying solo.

But I now have even more to remind myself of than I did a year ago. Which means son number one is going to school unironed, and often, shock horror, with unbrushed hair, I don’t think any of us have had clean bed sheets for six weeks, and yes my wheelie bin is now so full I have to get the step ladder so I can climb inside it and use my (dwindling through forgetting to eat) body weight to squash it down. Becoming a wobbly bag of bones smelling of wheelie bins is not an attractive prospect.

So it is time to reinstate the reminders. This needs to be handled delicately though, to avoid a repeat of the “make kids packed lunches” debacle (shudder). Which means that not only do I need to find the time to actually input the reminders but I also need to prioritise the reminders so I only put in things that are of utmost importance and not remind myself to do absolutely every little thing (easier said than done, more is more surely?). Son number one not becoming a dreadlocked child of nature and being shunned by his school friends is rather important so the hair brushing one needs to be in there. And eating lunch myself is also of high priority. But reminding myself to wash up every evening might be pushing it a little, the piles of empty plates and mugs in the sink should be enough.

I suppose it’s all about habit really. When was the last time you forgot to clean your teeth? You don’t forget because it’s a habit, and your teeth feeling all rough and gross to remind you even if you do forget. But, at risk of sounding like a terrible mother, remembering to clean someone else’s teeth is not quite so simple, especially when that person is five and doesn’t care if they have dog breath, and when you are also trying to remember that the cats need deflea-ing and son number two needs to take in a photo of himself as a baby to preschool, which means replacing ink cartridges on the printer and locating some printer paper. The thing is, none of this comes naturally to me, I’m a free spirit. I was far better suited to my life as a student or living in Ibiza, when I only really had one or two things to remember (go to lecture or go to work) and anything else I did (or forgot to do) just wasn’t that important.

A friend said to me a couple of years ago that one day I would wake up and go “Oh shit, I’m a mum, how did that happen?” and but I think she should have warned me that one day I would wake up and go “oh shit, I’m a grown up. How did that happen?” Because it’s only just dawning on me that not only am I a mum, but I also have a house to maintain, and be responsible for whether or not the roof is leaking and that crack is looking a bit dodgy. When I was part of a twosome none of it seemed like a big deal. There’s always someone else you can rely on to remember to do things (and blame when things get forgotten).

But I can’t think about all my grown up responsibilities too much because it gives me brain strain. That’s why I get my phone to think about things for me, so I can be all airy fairy and pretend I’m still free as a bird. Maybe another reminder might be in order: BRRRRING: “reality check”.

Talk Is Cheap

I love talking, I love listening and I love questions, both answering them and asking. Bob Hoskins said “It's good to talk” (those of you who don't remember that are too young to understand the delicate nuances running through this blog). I love talking so much I used to talk in my sleep according to my parents. I always had "talks too much" on my school report. I'm the one who never shuts up, overshares, and desperately fills every little silence with words, words and more words. I feel like if two people aren't talking there is a void filled with, well, nothing.

I like it when people talk. It makes me feel comforted, at ease and that I can trust a person. You find out so much about a person from what they say and the questions they ask. Someone who talks a lot must be trustworthy right? They say it’s the quiet ones you should watch out for.

But the truth is words are so easy to say. They are the lazy person’s choice, sometimes even the deceptive person’s choice. It's easy to say I love you, I'm sorry or I'd do anything for you. You can say it from the comfort of your sofa. You can text it from your phone. You can click "like" on Facebook. You don't actually have to do anything at all.

My life, indeed all our lives are a constant quest to make sense of the world, and find the best way to express ourselves. As a writer, words have always been my expression of choice, surely there is no better way to communicate?

But I have begun to realise that sometimes what we say doesn't necessarily match up to what we do. And the very fact that it’s easier to say than do, means that what we do says far more about ourselves than what we say ever can.

You can lie with words, but it is very difficult to lie with actions.

It's very easy to say "I'm sorry" but it’s much harder to show someone you're really sorry with your behaviour.

It's very easy to say "I love you" but much more complex to prove your love by doing.

And it’s very easy to say I'm a good friend but it’s only through our actions that friendship is proven beyond all doubt.

They say actions speak louder than words and as I grow older I am learning this is one old adage that rings especially true. Just because someone says something doesn't necessarily mean that it’s the truth. You have to look at what they do in order to see the real person underneath.

The truth is talk is cheap. We can all rattle on about how we love someone, are sorry, would do anything for a person etc but only through our actions do we really speak what is in our hearts.

We are all busy and have little time, and as a result, we are getting selfish with the time we take to show people we care. But there are some people in my life that consistently say far more with their actions, the things they do, than the things they say. Being there when you feel lonely says “I am here for you” more than a phone call, and a cuddle says “you can trust me” more than a text. We need to focus more on what we do rather than what is said, to show people how much they mean to us.

I don't like to consider myself needy, but like most people I like to give and receive "proofs of love", little markers that tell someone they are special, or cared for, whether that is a friend, family member or lover. I have always listened to the words, feeling they are most important, but as I grow older I am realising that it’s the actions that give the greatest proofs of love.

Talk is cheap. Silences don't need to be filled, and a quiet moment is not necessarily a void. A quiet moment can include a touch, a look or an embrace, and it’s those things that really speak the truth of what is going on inside.

No Lies - The Truth About Motherhood

I’m at the age where all of my friends seem to be having babies. It’s lovely really, photos of brand new little people seem to be popping up on Facebook daily. But along with thinking how cute they are, I can’t help but look at them and their innocently blissful new mummies and think "if only you knew the truth". Everyone knows that having kids is hard. But no one tells you quite how hard. Here are some of the things your mum conveniently forgot to tell you (probably because she knew damn well that if she did she would get no grandkids).

No Sleep

You are totally prepared for lack of sleep with a baby. Everyone talks about sleepless nights, you know it’s going to need to eat and crap round the clock, that’s a given. But no one can prepare you for how that lack of sleep actually feels. And, more importantly, no one tells you that it can last years (nearly 6 years and counting for me, and apparently doesn't get much easier). And still no one tells you that when and if your kids ever do (miraculously) sleep through the night, your sleep pattern is so fucked you wake up every two hours anyway. Just like if you do happen to get the chance of a child free lie in, it just means you’re wide awake in bed cursing at 630am on a Sunday morning instead of wide awake preparing breakfast and changing nappies (and cursing under your breath).

No thanks

Kids are not grateful for being born nor are they appreciative of the sacrifices you have made to give them life. Don’t try to get them to understand or empathise, a ten minute monologue about the amazing life you had pre-them (complete with a “look how good I looked in my crop top” trip down memory lane with the photo albums) will be greeted with a blank look and “can I have a KitKat?”

No rules

You WILL turn into "one of those" mothers and you WILL break all of your own self imposed rules. The “I’ll never bribe my kids” rule goes out the window pretty quick when you child is having one of those “my child will never behave THAT way in public” moments.

No escape

Just as you are happily telling everyone you got no stretch marks whatsoever in your pregnancy, you finally lose the last of the baby weight and suddenly your tummy looks like a family of snails has crawled all over it. And no, fake tan does not cover stretch marks. Trust me.

But despite all this there are also good things that no one tells you, and they can (almost) completely cancel out the crap stuff.

No expectations

Especially when they are little, kids can be surprisingly appreciative of even the tiniest acts of love. Son number one said he wanted a surprise when he woke up the next day. I said OK, planning on wrapping one of his long forgotten toys in shiny new wrapping paper and presenting it with a ta-da (which probably wouldn't have worked with him but would have worked with son two. Kids are totally gullible up to the age of three after that they are so shrewd and observant they can spot fake enthusiasm a mile off). Anyway, me being me completely forgot my promise and in the morning son one burst into my bedroom demanding his surprise (they also have an elephantine memory). Bleary eyed (after two hours sleep) and hostage in my bedroom with no tools at my disposal besides my phone I quickly scrawled a cute drawing on Sketch Draw. This may seem a little tight as surprises go, but I’m regularly presented with a drawing on a scribble pad as a "surprise". And so proud was son number one of his surprise that he insisted I print it out so he could put it up in his bedroom. He even made me a thank you card the next day.

No really  bad times

Even when things are as bad as bad can be, a cuddle with your kids can make everything OK, if only for that moment. Their cute little bodies all curled into yours and their smell (even the little boy smell is comforting in miserable times), is like all the best feelings in this life rolled up into one snuggly little package. Gangly legs and arms and little pot bellies that on an adult would look out of proportion and unhealthy but on kids just looks cute. Stroking those pot bellies (and hearing the ensuing giggle) is better than Prozac.

I like to speak the truth, and this post was really just an act of public service. And it’s not the whole truth (I don’t want to be responsible for single-handedly ending the human race). Congratulations (and best of luck) to all the new mummies out there.

A Girl's Gotta Eat

As you may have noticed I haven’t written a blog for two weeks now. Events happened which turned my life into something straight out of an episode of Jeremy Kyle. Which is wrong on so many levels: I have regular dental check ups, I don’t even have my ears pierced let alone masses of gold hoops and thankfully, there is absolutely no question about the parentage of my children, or me for that matter. Anyway, when all this happened I tried to write my blog, really I did, but every time I sat down the only thing that came out of my fingers was “aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrggghh” or a rant that sounded like I should be sitting on one of those blue chairs wearing a white puffa jacket, badly applied makeup, leggings and high tops. And I knew that nothing at all was better than that. But I’m back now.

Amongst all this, I decided to stop internet dating, because maybe I wasn’t ready for a relationship or even dating so soon after such a life changing event. As Big Bro said, I needed to work out who I was before I could even think about or know what I needed from a relationship. But in the last few days I have been getting a bit bored and, dare I say it, lonely.

And there it is. Lonely. The word that no single person likes to dare utter, lets bury it in the simple joy of painting chairs and fabulous girls nights out.

Don’t get me wrong, there are some great things about being single. Not having to share the TV (or worse still sitting in separate rooms, knowing that you should really be putting in more effort to watch Fringe rather than cookery programmes, because lets face it, you would have done at the beginning of the relationship – I was sort of seeing a guy recently and agreed to sit and watch the entire Alien trilogy with him, such is the need to show a new man how fun an exciting I can be, thankfully I never did have to do that, anyway, I digress), not having to listen to another persons snoring or snuffling all night (except of course when the kids come in with you), and your pretty dresses are no longer wedged into the wardrobe between a ten year old suit and a million unworn shirts.

But my return to internet dating is not born out of a need to watch sci-fi or share wardrobe space, rather than a need for some male company, getting dressed up to go on a date, and that excitement and distraction from life’s day to day dullness that comes in the form of a cheeky text message from someone you have yet to learn everything about. I really don’t expect to find “the one” on a dating website. I like to believe I’ll meet him when we both reach for the last pack of all butter croissants in Waitrose (despite the fact that I’m rarely in Waitrose and when I am I’m usually wild eyed and stressed, accompanied by two sticky, screaming children, if Mr Right did see me he would probably surrender the croissants and skidaddle). Sometimes though, just the thought that I could meet the one is enough. Because, in my darkest moments when I begin to worry that I could end up alone and single forever, with the standard millions of cats and piles of unread newspapers around me, that thought alone is enough to get me back on the dating website quicker than you can say “single persons supplement”.

And the crux of it all is, well (sorry mum) but a girl’s gotta eat. Not just in a (sorry mum) sexual way, but in all the other little ways that having a date or the early stages of a relationship enriches your life. Discovering someone new and exciting, watching TV you wouldn’t normally watch and those early morning cuddles that start your day with a smile.

OK so maybe I haven't, and never will, come across my fantasy dream hunk (wow, that’s a phrase straight out of a 1980’s edition of Just17) on a dating website. But you have to ask yourself, is a real date with someone who seems kind of OK looking and nice company better than no date at all with your fantasy dream hunk? Am I better off sitting at home with my TV remote to myself, looking at my nicely not squashed dresses, trying to work out who I am and what I want (how exactly do I do that I wonder? there is probably another blog post in there somewhere) rather than getting out there and having a pleasant evening with someone who I might feel a bit “meh” about right now, but in reality could turn out to be amazing?

It’s a tough one. You can tell very little from a few lines of a profile and the standard age, location and “do you have pets” check list. I have had dates where the person has clearly stuck their head on someone elses body and vice versa. And I have had dates where the person seems to tick all the boxes on paper (or screen) but in reality something didn’t fit. Until you actually meet someone you can’t know.

I’m far from desperate. There are a million pieces of second hand furniture in my house that could do with a lick of paint, and I have yet to board the eHarmony single girls bus to that fabulous night out with my single friends (all two of them), so I’m in no rush to meet Mr Right. But it’s those early morning cuddles I miss the most. Time to spruce up my profile.