Retro Repost: Children's Party Hell

Having had a very busy Friday, and having used up all my organisational skills this week trying to keep up my new school years resolutions I of course have not been organised enough to write a new blog for today. 

Screaming at me from the top of my ever-expanding-at-this-time-of-year to do list for the last few weeks has been to organise The Son's birthday party (I am doing a joint one this year, why put myself through the trauma twice when their birthdays are quite close together?).  So on that note, I decided rather than to leave you lacking a Friday blog, I would repost this one I wrote about a year ago (with a few revisions!)...

Most parents dread kids parties, whether planning one: what if it’s not good enough? What if child hates it? What if child says he wants a pirate party but then 24 hours before the party decides he wants a fireman party instead? Or attending: what if my child won’t play? What if they are rude about the food or entertainment? What if they won’t even go through the door – I have spent many hours in village hall car parks coaxing son number 1 into a party he refuses to take part in because there are balloons, an unfortunate phobia for a 3 year old. Thankfully we’re over that one.

Children’s parties are far more stressful than you would think pre-parenthood, on son number 1’s first birthday party we had 12 kids all with their parents (we served beer and wine to the parents to help them get through it – that was a controversial choice, possibly the rookie mistake of a first time mum) squished into our tiny flat, and I was so relieved that it was finally happening and going well that I drunk half a bottle of wine in an hour and was intoxicated and asleep before everyone left.

But I realise I have created my own party monster. Son number 2 was due a month before son number 1’s birthday. Heavily pregnant and needing a project, I threw myself into planning the ultimate pirate party for son number 1’s third birthday. The Dad, as the appointed MC, spent a week making a pirate costume to wear and I made a little pirate pack for every guest including sash, eye patch and bandana, with the pirate captains hat for son 1. Even son number 2, only a month old, wore a stripy sleepsuit and a little eye patch. It took a huge amount of planning, and was meant to be a one off. Make son number one feel loved and special while dealing with the transition from only child to big brother. But of course the following year he wanted a Buzz Lightyear party. I’d made the mistake of setting the bar too high. The Dad got his costume making hat on again and we arrived at the party as family Buzz, the kids in supermarket Buzz costumes, us parents in slightly too tight white jogging bottoms and home made wings. I was terrified The Dad would take some poor kids eye out with his wings, fashioned out of motorcross body armour and a car undertray (mine were far more child friendly, made out of carpet tiles).

And then there’s the cake. For at least 24hours before every party I am stuck in my kitchen, sweating and stressed, coughing under plumes of icing sugar. For son number 2's second birthday I did Lightning McQueen. But I’ll let you in on a secret, neither of my kids even like cake. I do it because I love the artistic side of it, and the pleasure I get when people say, wow what an amazing cake! It’s all self indulgence.

Sometimes I wish I had just started with a nice simple soft play centre party and a supermarket cake. Minimal planning, no ridiculous costumes, no panicking because Lightning McQueen looks slightly boss eyed. Just show up, pick up the presents and go home. The kids don’t even mind. They always have a brilliant time at soft play parties. But when our parties are over and we can all relax at last and son number 1 says “Mummy, that was the best party ever in the world” I know I’ll be doing it all again next year.

The Dad says he doesn’t enjoy the big parties so much, it’s all too stressful. You could have fooled me when he’s up til 2am the night before making pirate boots out of an old PVC skirt he’s bought from the charity shop. He says he would rather just play on the soft play with the kids and he really doesn’t care whether the cake is homemade or not (which is a shame because he’s kind of the only person who actually eats the cake).

Every year I say I will just do a MacDonalds or soft play party. Easy and simple. But before I got the chance to suggest it to him he says “Mummy, I want a Lego City/ Star Wars/ Spongebob party this year.” And now Son Two is old enough to pipe up with "and I want Peppa Pig party". Yep, I’ve definitely set the bar too high. 

New (School) Years Resolutions

Ooh I love the start of the school year. It makes me want to sharpen all my pencils and begin a new notebook. Even in the years between me finishing full time education and having school age kids, I still loved the beginning of September for all its crisp newness, the delicious promise of learning new things and stepping out on a sunny morning in a shiny new pair of shoes.

Unfortunately, this vigour and enthusiasm doesn’t tend to last. By the end of the first month back (OK, first week) we are usually late, fed up and new shoes have been scuffed and ruined. This year however, I intend to stay on the ball…

1. I will iron all school uniforms

Ironing is rather pointless in my opinion. You spend hours getting the creases out of things only for them to get all scrumpled up in messy drawers (and neat drawers is a NYR I have tried and failed to keep many, many times, so it’s time to admit defeat on that one). However, ironing school uniforms should be a bare minimum, I really don’t want my kids to get the “scruffy” label (whoops, too late) so at the very least I will endeavour to iron their uniforms instead of relying on the rather unreliable cheap supermarket school uniforms “non-iron” feature.

2. We will make it to school on time

And not dashing in five minutes late, apologising to the waiting teacher as Son One says “We’re late ‘cus Mummy was doing a poo”.

3. I will do Son One’s reading with him every day straight after school

Instead of only when I remember, and desperately trying to think of things I can fill up his reading diary with on Thursday mornings. Playing with fridge magnet letters, and reading “level one” on Angry Birds counts, right?

4. Sons will get dressed every morning in their bedroom, before coming downstairs, in clothes I have laid out the night before

No more rooting through the washing basket at 8.30am, desperately trying to find an acceptably clean school t-shirt and kids getting dressed in front of Dora. And while we’re on the subject, matching socks, every day.

5. Now that I know stain remover works I will use it

Rather than sending Son One to school in greying, dinner stained t-shirts by half term.

5. We will always walk to school

And learn more about the changing of the seasons, play games and discuss our day on the walk. No more taking the car for the two minute journey because we are either a) running late, b) thinking it might rain or c) feeling lazy. And the kids WILL love it rather than spending the whole walk moaning that their shoes are too tight, they wanted to go the other way, or they have "run out of energeeeeeeeee".

6. I will learn the rules of what is allowed in a packed lunch

I got told off by Son One for putting a packet of mini Smarties in his lunch box last year, as a treat, on his birthday. These are apparently contraband. A KitKat however, is allowable. And I really don’t know the schools standing on crisps either. All very confusing.

7. I will not shout at the kids in the mornings

I will also be strict about not being allowed to take their light sabres for the walk to school then having to face the inevitable screaming match outside the classroom when I try to take it away.

8. I will go easy on myself

No more beating myself up for taking a tin of out of date butter beans as a raffle prize and no more baking ‘til 3am creating a show-stopping cake for the bake sale (this is not the Great British Bake Off). OK, this one is definitely not going to last, especially when I remember that the pumpkin carving competition is only weeks away…

P.s. It has just dawned on me that I have now reached over ten thousand page views (and that's not counting my own)!!! Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone for reading, liking and sharing this blog, please keep it up. Here's to the next ten thousand page views :-) xxxxxxxx

Mettle Detecting

The minute the ex and I split I promised myself I would never, ever moan about how hard it is to look after kids on my own. Because frankly, being a mum, not being a mum, being single or married, stay at home, working, makes no difference. Some people can’t have kids, so I’m lucky. Some people have a shitty, useless husband, so I’m lucky again. Tough times come to everyone and you can’t compare your own tough times to someone else’s, because how can you know?

(And by the way, I hate the term “single mum”. It has such negative connotations. I prefer “lone parent”. It has far more cowboy/girl esque grit about it.)

So anyway, this isn’t a moaning post about being a single mum, ahem, lone parent. But the other day, I had one of those moments where I, like everyone, parents or not, single or not, regularly do. There was a moment where I thought, I can’t bloody well do this.

I had had a nice day writing while the kids were at the childminders. OK I’ll be honest, it wasn’t that nice, and I didn’t do that much writing. In the aftermath of a break-up everyone has the odd time when you hear a song that reminds you of how bloody good things were once, and the true meaning of that song suddenly dawns on you, and you just sit and cry while listening to it over and over again, howling into a babywipe because you are too wracked with sobs to get up and find a tissue. Yep, it’s depressing but it’s all part of the process. It doesn’t happen to me that often (I’ve got the cowgirl grit) but after a highly emotionally charged few days and very little sleep I was in the mood where frankly anything could set me off.

So I had spent the day crying while the kids were at the childminders, and stuck in the grips of the blues. I went to the supermarket with puffy eyes (and a noticeably new grey hair, honestly, this break up has a lot to answer for) because I had decided just to get one area of my life sorted. You have to start somewhere and to me the simplest place to start was to just cook a nice meal for me and the boys. They always eat well. I, on the other hand, have been living off croissants by day and Cheerios by night. I’m so laden with carbs I could power a jet engine with the amount of fuel I have to burn off. Sitting down with the kids and a nice meal would cheer me up, I was sure of it.

After my healthy eating trip to the shops, I picked the kids up. It was hammering down with rain. Son Two refused to get in the car because he was intent to play in the rain, and then refused to get into his car seat. I eventually got him in, not before I got a soggy bottom which had spent an added seven minutes sticking out of the car door while I wrestled Son Two into his seat.

We got home, the kids settled themselves in front of the telly and I started my second attempt at home made pasta. My first attempt was like chewing through a saddle and I was determined to get it right this time. Son Two (who’s now nearly three) wanted to help squidge the little rectangles into bows (we make farfale) so I sent him off upstairs to wash his hands while I lost myself in the welcome mindlessness of squidging pasta shapes. About ten minutes later he returned and took his place beside me. We sat in relative peace for a while squidging away, when I suddenly heard a drip. It appeared to be raining in my kitchen. I rushed upstairs to the bathroom to find the plug in the sink, tap running and a plastic Mr Incredible attached to the plug chain (presumably he was trying to save himself from certain drowning). I gathered all the towels I could find to mop up the water (with the help of Son One) and then dashed downstairs remembering that I had left Son Two alone with the farfale. I turned the downstairs lights off at the fusebox (thanks to my friend who phoned me up to tell me to do it), put a bucket under the dripping and powered through. After we had eaten, the boys started in with their tired mummmmmeeeeeeee whining. Son Two had gone under the table and found an as yet unnoticed pile of cat sick and had trodden in it. Son One wanted a drink. The kitchen was covered in flour and every pot and pan in the house was dirty. There was a bucket in the middle of the floor catching the drips. Every single towel in the house was sodden, and I couldn’t hang them out to dry because it was raining and I couldn’t even put them in the washing machine because my washing machine was broken (over the weekend my well meaning mum had brought me some three hundred year old feather pillows (I needed new pillows and couldn’t afford to buy any), attempted to wash them in my machine and they split, filling the entire thing, including the motor (if the billowing smoke was anything to go by) with feathers, and will require a visit from the washing machine man (which likely will take weeks) to fix it), my landline was ringing (mum wanting to know how the washing machine was) and my phone was going ten to the dozen with texts from friends in need. And this was when I had one of those moments where I just thought, I can’t bloody do this.

But tough times are there to show us how strong we are. And when you’re on your own you get a chance to really test your mettle. There is absolutely no not being able to cope. The moment the thought crosses your mind you pull out the grit and put some tunes on (to drown out the kids whining) and you just get on with it. And the sheer satisfaction you get two hours later, sitting in the dark with only a laptop for light (can’t turn the lights on until the ceiling has dried out), when the kids are asleep, the flour has been cleaned away and the sodden towels are at least in a neat pile, comes from knowing I did this, all by myself.

When the going gets tough, enjoy it. This is a rare chance to prove to the world, and more importantly yourself, what you’re really made of. Relish it and know your mettle has been tested and found worthy. Big tick, smiley face, gold star for us all.

I don't get it

I like to think I’m relatively intelligent. I have been university educated. I can do some of the numbers problems on Countdown and can complete a Sudoku on medium setting in under fifteen minutes. But despite this, there are still lots of things about life which I just don’t understand. I spend lots of time pondering over the following things in particular.

Why, if they have the ability to make “no more tears” shampoo for kids, can’t they make everything “no more tears”? It’s not just kids that get sore eyes. When you think about it, there’s a lot of stuff that comes close to our eyes and it would make life so much easier if we didn’t have to remember to shut our eyes all the time. Having to shut our eyes is just inconvenient. Adults use shampoo, face wash, shower gel, to say nothing of makeup. I am constantly jabbing myself in the eye with a mascara wand, it stings like acid, and makes my eyes run so ruining my makeup and I have to start again. Why can’t they make mascara so that it doesn’t hurt your eyes? Don’t they know that you are meant to put it right next to your eye?

And while we’re on the subject of products, why does the colour on the box of hair colourant bear no actual resemblance to the colour it will turn out? We spend ages in the supermarket, craning our necks trying to match our own hair up to that “before and after” example photo, wasting an extra ten minutes that could be better spent doing something else. Like phoning an actual hairdresser and making an appointment. But it does mean we can dye our hair at random times of the day, it’s ten pm on a Wednesday night and I want to dye my hair, damn you, this time it might actually turn out brown instead of red. But don’t count on it. I am tempted to buy a red one next time in the hope it might actually turn out brown.

My mum brought down some Cadbury’s mini rolls down at the weekend. Now, I love my mum, she is brilliant, and I also love mini rolls, but my lovely mum does have a tendency of keeping food way, way after it’s use by date (to say nothing of best before, I remember we once found some custard powder in her cupboard that was a full 8 years past it’s best before, no wonder it never thickened up properly). So needless to say, when my mum generously donates to my food stores I always have a little look just to see whether or not it will still be at its “best” (and usually eat it anyway, I can’t afford to be choosy). The mini rolls were no longer in their multipack but each mini roll still had a “best before end” box and in the box was printed, “see main pack”. Why is there a blank box? And if they are going to go to the effort of including a blank box, and printing ”see main pack” why not just print the date?

Out of all the needless packaging we have in our society I think egg boxes are where we have it absolutely spot on. The boxes are recyclable, they protect the eggs for the most part, fit eggs of all sizes and the box sits neatly in the fridge or on the sideboard (depending on where you choose to keep your eggs). Why then, do new fridges still come with a plastic egg holder, encouraging people to do away with the only decent packaging there is? Does anyone really ever use that little egg holder? It doesn’t even fit all sizes of eggs, small ones drop through the holes and big ones poke out too high meaning they run the risk of being mashed up when you close the fridge door. I don’t get it. It would be far more helpful if my new fridge came with a beer can holder, so that the few beers I try to keep in my fridge in case Big Bro comes round are not rolling around all over the place, a spare bulb or a way to stop things getting frozen to the back of the fridge and going all manky. I think my new fridge was illuminated for about two weeks before it was plunged into darkness and I then lost the old bulb so my fridge will now be dark for ever more, meaning that it is a common occurrence for things to languish at the back, forgotten and fused to the frost.

Recycling. Urgh. Just when I have got my head around what I can and can’t put in the recycling bin I go and visit my mum and find that her recycling service takes completely different things to mine. Hers takes glass but no cardboard. Mine takes cardboard but not glass. If they have the facilities to recycle all this stuff why don’t they all just take everything? Surely my mum throwing a cardboard box away is just cancelling out the good I’m doing by recycling my cardboard box. To say nothing of glass (although admittedly I do make yearly embarrassing trips to the bottle bank, car weighed down with the weight, me muttering to people staring “this is a years worth ok?”, it would be far less embarrassing if the glass was just picked up kerbside).

Why does a single train ticket often cost more than a return? It’s basic maths.

Is it just me that finds these things irritatingly hard to understand?

Jolly Good Show

I’m sure you’re all fully expecting me to write today’s post about the Olympics and the closing ceremony. How proud I am of our medal total. How the closing ceremony was a triumphant poke in the eye to all those who ever said English music was but a shadow in the limelight of the international music scene. How the Olympics just showed that everyone finally seems to agree that Britain is actually Great. And aren’t we all rather jolly pleased chaps and chapesses about how bally well the whole thing turned out? Well yes, that’s all true and I want to say all those things (and I want to say it in that posh fake English accent too). But what I really want to discuss is Brian May’s outfit.

Long coat tails billowing out behind him, hair billowing out above, to the sides, behind and beyond him, legs akimbo tearing up that axe, a British icon from the top of his bouffed to within an inch of his life head to the tip of his tapping toe. There is no mistaking Brian May in a crowd. And yes, he was performing, but you can guarantee his everyday, chilling out around the mansion, popping down to Tesco Metro for a pint of milk and a bottle of Head and Shoulders look isn’t that far from his stage outfit. But he can pull it off. Because he’s Brian May. And I am saddened to admit that if I actually saw someone walking down the street with that coat and that hair, I would wonder exactly what he had in his pockets, and try not to get too close, lest a stray three foot long grey hair got attached to my own coat (us long haired lot, we moult. A lot). There would be kids pointing, adults turning the other way and likely some young hooligan would throw an apple at his head for being a freak. Because really, as a nation, and maybe as a race in general, we are not very accepting of people looking different are we?

I couldn’t bear the ex’s “Dad” trainers. Absolutely despised them (yet he wore them tirelessly, surely just to piss me off). I would like to go out with someone with nice beat up All Stars or, er… yeah nice beat up All Stars please. Because to be fair on men (and most of them have dodgy fashion sense anyway) their options are limited; All Stars, Dad trainers or banana shoes (most men’s feet are massive anyway, why do they see the need to highlight and exaggerate it, are they scared they might fall over without an extra 6 inches of empty leather at the end of their toes?), and very little in between. I’d like to say that I would embrace any man for wearing something different, but it would be with a pursed lip and an upturned nose that I would grudgingly accepted the dad trainers and/or banana shoes back into my life.

But it works both ways. I know that I am being judged for what I wear, we all are. And I wish it wasn’t so. I would love to go out wearing Jessie J’s sequin leotard (actually if I’m really honest, and choosing my ultimate would-give-my-right-arm-to-be-able-to-actually-wear-in-the-street-without-getting-arrested-for-indecency-or-beaten-up-for-being-a-knob outfit, it would be Toy Story 3 Barbie’s electric blue leotard, skinny belt and stripey legwarmers combo – fashion genius) but only celebrities and/or performers are really allowed to dress like that, aren’t they?

Most of us, the 90% of us that are not incredibly brave or incredible famous, just want to fit in and rarely venture too far out of our fashion comfort zone.

But maybe we need to push the boundaries a bit, take a tip from our kids for instance. Son One went through a phase (all boys do) of refusing to wear anything except his Buzz Lightyear costume. Usually with a plastic fly swat as a rather bizarre accessory (which he would stick out of the trolley, purposely knocking over precarious displays of baked beans or swiping away an entire shelf of white sliced). He thought he looked cool. No, he didn’t think it, he knew it. Just like the celebs and just like those brave enough to step outside the fashion norm.

I wish we lived in a more forgiving and accepting society. I wish we didn’t judge people for what they wore. And I really, really wish I knew where I could get my hands on an adult size Barbie leotard, I think I would love it so much I would happily pop to Tescos in it, and let them chuck apples at me. At least I know I would look cool. 

Shark infested waters

So I dipped my toe back into the world of internet dating on Sunday and already I feel like I am drowning. Never mind plenty of fish, I feel like the sharks are circling and I am trapped in deep water. Internet dating is meant to be fun but it has got like work, and you don’t even get paid danger money for repeatedly putting yourself in the line of fire.

I am busy enough, day to day, without having to deal with millions of new messages from guys that frankly I don’t know from Adam, could be lying fuckwits (believe me there are plenty of them out there), rapists or worse. I have to admit that even my “expect the best of people” mantra has taken rather a beating in the last few months… shock horror, could I be getting cynical?

I have gone on quite a journey recently, from the excitement of having a Carrie Bradshaw style dating experience (sorely disappointed) to having a whirlwind two week long relationship, to a slightly more stable but far less emotionally successful two monther. I am now full circle again, and possibly feeling what I should have felt in those early days after the split; pensive, reflective and realising I am nowhere near ready to dedicate my life to anyone else.

I read somewhere that you need to allow yourself in months, the number of years a relationship has lasted, in order to be healed and emotionally ready to start again. So that means I still have another six months left before I have endured the allotted time to get over the breakdown of my family. And after months of fighting it, I now finally see that they were right. You can’t just get over a twelve year relationship and fourteen year friendship by saying “I will be positive”. That helps with the day to day stuff, means that you can get through your sentencing with a smile on your face, and actually enjoy the period of rediscovery, but time is far more important. It’s funny how we all moan that we don’t have enough time, but when you are waiting for time to heal, it stretches ahead of you like purgatory.

Ready or not, internet dating may not be the way for me to meet Mr Right anyway. When you are newly single and still reeling from the shock, it’s like having a massive bit of dust in your eye, your vision is compromised and you have no idea what you want or who you are even. And whether you want to admit it or not (and I don’t) you are vulnerable, and will be for some time. There are plenty of vultures out there just waiting to pick through the remains of your former self, lurking not only in the shadows of dating websites but all around, and you are ripe for being taken advantage of. I know that this has happened to me (thankfully I have been smart enough not to get too deeply involved) and in my weakened state I have opened myself up to more heartache than I ever would under normal circumstances. But this realisation has made it far easier for me to spot the sharks and the vultures and protect myself and my family as much as I can from future pain.

The other day, while I was frantically replying to just another one of the ten messages I get a day from the dating website (I always reply, even to say thanks but no thanks, because I’m polite like that, if someone offered to buy you a drink in a bar you wouldn’t just ignore them and walk away would you? That’s just rude), someone asked me what drove me onto the dating websites so soon after the split. I ran through all my stock replies I have used over the last few months, the excitement, wanting to get dressed up and feel glamorous, to boost my confidence, find “the one” etc but I finally answered honestly. I’m not looking for someone to plug a hole in my social life, and I’m not looking for someone to talk to at the end of the day. I’m looking for the security that you can only get from being with someone for years and years, the comfort of cuddling up to them in bed, knowing that they will be there to share with you in your good times, and comfort you in your times of fear, knowing that they will never, ever hurt you and you can trust them with your life.

But as I said to many newly single people when I was old and partnered off, fully believing that I had found my Mr Right and that I would never, ever be in their position myself, you have to become a whole person again before you are ready to be half of a couple. And maybe I am just realising that this is my time to take my own advice and become whole again.

Incidentally I am not doing the internet dating thing anymore. If and when I am ready to find someone I might return to the shark infested waters, but for now I am happy as I am, safely ensconced in the lifeboat that is my children, my family and my friends.

The Hangover

Sometimes I love a drink. But after one drink it is harder to turn down the second, and after the second it’s harder to turn down the third. And before I know it I’m drinking shots, spilling my drinks all over the place and flashing my tits at passers by. Somewhere in the back of my mind is a little voice saying “this isn’t right, you’re gonna regret this” but I tell myself that I have reached a point of no return, and I’m having too much of a good time to stop. And I will usually continue until I run out of cash, the bar stops serving me or I throw up (I have even been known to continue drinking after throwing up in the name of powering through). I will think about the repercussions tomorrow when my head is banging out of my ear holes and I can’t keep any food down (except McDonalds).

Hangovers are just another proof to the Law of Cause and Effect, every action has a reaction. And really a hangover is not just something you get after a night on the sauce. Hangovers come in different guises, sometimes called repercussions, sometimes called rewards. We often only have a split second to decide whether or not it’s worth the fall out. Either way, that moment is there, we are standing at the crossroads and have a choice to make, water or wine, hangover or headache free.

I have recently discovered that I have got a stress related ulcer. This isn’t something that just happened by coincidence, this was caused by being under stress and my response to that stress. It is a painful daily reminder that I should have managed my stress levels better. I have a stress hangover.

But now that I have this hangover do I have to live with it for the rest of my life or can I do something to change it? Is there such a thing as a point of no return? Are the choices we make set in stone, if we have had a few drinks, got stressed, whatever, can we turn it around and make it all better? I believe we can, we can use cause and effect in a positive way. I am now looking after myself, having treatment and hopefully the ulcer will retreat into a painful memory.

The beauty of the Law of Cause and Effect is that it is endless. You can have a few drinks, get really drunk, and have a hangover. The next day you can take some painkillers to take the edge off your headache, apologise to people you pissed off, untag the unflattering pictures of yourself on Facebook and move on. The hangover may remain for a few days, and you’ve learned your lesson that Jegermeister is not good for you, but it could have been worse if you hadn’t stopped drinking when you did. You don’t have to carry on the same path.

It’s like being on a dual carriageway and missing your exit. You can’t actually turn around where you are but you can wait until the next exit and get off. Yes it may have increased your journey time, even made you so late that you have missed your appointment, but that doesn’t mean you should then keep driving all the way to Scotland.

This is what I try to tell myself when I’m having a drink, just because I’m a bit merry and am going to have a hangover, it does not mean I should continue drinking until I pass out. Because the more I push past that little voice saying “Stop now!” the repercussions will be worse and I will be spending longer in recovery.

The road our lives take is purely down to the decisions we make, a hangover is the universe telling us that we have taken a wrong turn somewhere down the line, and it's our job to find our way back. And despite there being any number of un-measurable factors, as long as we take control of our own path we can always turn around at the next junction. Maybe we will be a little late, and maybe we will have a bit of a headache, but free will means that how late we are, and the size of our headache, is dictated by ourselves. 

Always back up your hard drive

This is the first sentence I have written on my new (well new to me) laptop, with a newly installed version of Word. It feels kind of alien, like putting on someone else’s jeans. The contour of someone else’s bum doesn’t quite fit mine but I have no choice because otherwise I’d be naked from the waist down.

I had total hard drive failure this week on my old netbook. I am desperately trying not to blame Son Two who dropped it immediately before it broke, as I’ve had a lot of “that was YOUR fault” from Son One lately and I don’t like it. Not blaming is easy when Son Two has broken Son One’s homemade “chocolate machine” not so easy when it’s a computer with your whole life on it. Luckily, thanks to great friends, I have been able to replace the computer and the software pretty easily. But the rest of it, a years worth of photographs, two years worth of writing and my entire life, well, it’s all gone and can’t be replaced. Ha, how ironic at a time when I was just getting over the feeling of losing everything, I go and actually lose everything. But even if I was a blaming sort, I would only have myself to scold, for not backing up my hard drive.

It never used to be like this. When I was growing up I had an electric typewriter the size of a block of flats that I would merrily clank away on. And an exercise book, covered in old wrapping paper, in which to record all my ramblings when I didn’t have a reinforced desk handy to hold the typewriter. Cameras were something you got out of the cupboard at special occasions, and you either had 24 or 36 pictures (depending on how flush you were feeling at the time of buying the film) available on your camera. The last photograph on the film (sometimes the last five) was always of your dad’s car or your mum’s sideboard, because you couldn’t wait to take the film down to Boots and get it developed. Finally the big day would arrive and you would hand over your little slip of paper and be rewarded with a bulging envelope filled with promise.

Some people would rip open the envelope before they’d even paid for them, they didn’t mind someone looking over their shoulder to get a glimpse of their holiday snaps while queuing to buy paracetemol and corn plasters. But I was more of a take it home, sit down and savour it kind of girl. The excitement involved in getting a film back from Boots was just like getting a birthday present with a big pink bow on it, the experience was one to be relished.

More often than not I was disappointed. The one photo of us six girls, heads locked together in friendship, all of us smiling happily on our way out for the best night of our lives, was always a wash out. Foundation tide marks exaggerated by the flash, eyes caught halfway between blinking and open, and my brother’s fingers popping up behind us unnoticed, making a V sign over someone’s head. At the time it was devastating, but it was a moment to remember and would go in the album despite its flaws.

These days we take hundreds, thousands of pictures even and we save them all on our computers. How many of us even have them printed anymore? I have (well, had) thousands and thousands of photographs saved on that computer, never printed because going through all of the rubbish (does whitening toothpaste really work?  - before and after pics, a photo of the funny lump on my back - taken for a closer look, and a million copies of the same pose, just trying to get one where everyone has their eyes open and is looking at the camera and smiling) was just too hard and too time consuming. Now there is no limit on the number of pictures we can take, we don’t have to ration them. And because of that the good stuff gets lost in the crap.

I am not sad about losing the close up pictures of my before and after White Glo experience, and I can do without the funny lump on my back which turned out to be my bra rubbing. But Son One opening his fifth birthday presents? And Son Two’s first hair cut? I would do anything to get them back. Take it from me, always, always back up your hard drive.

Breastfeeding while sitting on the loo

My lovely cousin has just given birth to her second baby, and I couldn’t be more delighted for her. So in her honour, I thought I would post this piece that I wrote a couple of years ago, soon after the birth of son number two. Congratulations Cous, welcome to the stress zone! xxx

“I’m exhausted. I have never been so busy or worked so hard in my entire life.”  I said to a friend with a three year old and a five year old, only weeks after my first child came along. “Ah yes it SEBASTIAN DON’T DO THAT feels like that now, but I SAID NO SEBASTIAN believe me, it’s nothing compared to having 2 of them, and FLEUR HAVE YOU DONE A POO?... it does get worse SEBASTIAN I WILL NOT TELL YOU AGAIN as they get older.” She said wearily, quickly swiping Fleur’s bum with a babywipe and replacing her nappy. I did not, could not, believe things could get any more hectic than they already were, even thought it was staring me in the face with it’s disjointed conversation and sleepless wild eyed look. I was up all night, I seemed to have my tits out every second of every day (I had already inadvertently greeted the postman on a couple of occasions with an errant boob, so natural had the feeling become at having them out in the open) and in the minutes that were left over I still had to do cooking, cleaning, and what seemed like enough washing for ten babies. If I wasn’t feeding I was constantly re-dressing a baby who just couldn’t seem to stay clean let alone keep myself looking presentable. And what was with having to do the same thing at the same time every day? I had never had to live by a routine before.

When baby number one arrives it is like a grenade has gone off. Everything changes. People warn you of sleepless nights but in your blissful ignorance you thought that meant you would sleep less, not have some nights that are literally void of sleep. You suddenly discover that you can even survive for days on no actual sleep at all (with the help of cake, at the cost of your figure). The sore boobs, non-stop crying (your own and your childs), sticky poo that won’t come off and more bodily fluids than you ever knew existed... nothing is the same as it was before.

With baby number two in the oven you think it will be easy. You know what to expect, haven’t slept for two years, your boobs are already tough as old leather and you know where to buy the best cakes (all hope of ever making your own again has now been fully eradicated). No grenade this time. But suddenly… KABOOM! Baby number two arrives and all hell breaks loose.

I don’t know how people did it in the days before Cbeebies, washing machines, freezers and the mountains of oh-so-helpful baby and child manuals which promise to have your baby sleeping through the night at two days old and your older child tucking into gourmet foods at every meal time.

Just getting in and out of the car with two kids is a twenty minute mission. The older and now slightly mischievous one runs ahead while you chase after awkwardly carrying the baby in the car seat. While you are concentrating on getting the baby strapped into the car, the older and supposedly more responsible child is actually jumping into a massive puddle, soaking himself up to his waist. As he is three years old you no longer carry a spare set of clothes for him (a rookie mistake, I am now intent on carrying a spare set of clothing for everyone in the family up to the age of eighteen, my changing bag is now a family sized suitcase). So you get baby out of car (while shouting at son number one), and take everyone back to the house for full clothing change. But it’s not as simple as that, because pants have to be removed, we also have to sit on the potty, during which time baby nods off in his car seat. Back to car, put big boy in first so he can’t get to puddle. In the meantime it starts raining and baby number two is awakened from his slumber because he is being soaked by the down pour (and according to aforesaid baby manual if this slumber is disturbed you will pay for it forever more).

After the second (and even more so third, fourth and fifth so I hear) child, “multi-tasking” takes on a whole new meaning. The three minutes spent on the toilet after your morning coffee ties in perfectly with a breastfeed that has to be done before taking older child to pre-school and putting baby down for sleep. You have to grab any chance you get to answer those calls of nature. I wish I had a pound for every time I have said “Right I will just get this washing put away and then I’ll have a wee” and never actually got round to the second step of that sentence. Because in the two minutes it would normally take you to put that washing away one child has insisted they help and another has dirtied his nappy. While changing baby’s nappy the older child - who is supposedly helping - has pressed all the buttons on the washing machine, starting the programme off again. By the time you have sorted out the washing machine, disciplined the older child (while being teeth grittingly grateful for his attempts to help) and dealt with the half changed baby (who has now peed all over himself and the sofa after being left nappy-less) over an hour has passed, your five minute window has gone and you’re late starting the bedtime routine. It’s not childbirth that weakens women’s bladders, it’s because we never have time for a wee that we’ve all got stress incontinence.

If you’re considering having (or even expecting) baby number two, please don’t let me put you off. I’m now almost three years down the line from having my second, and you do learn to accept that you will never have a wee in peace. The stereo cries of “mummymummymummymummymummy” are just like tinnitus, irritating but you learn to live with it. But the moment when you hear one child say to the other: “You’re my best friend. Let’s snuggle up together” you know that having the second was well worth the hassle.

Affected

It has become a bit of a long standing joke amongst my circle of friends that I live in my own little bubble, where I see everyone dancing, holding hands, in a meadow of flowers and happiness. OK, it’s not quite that simple but I do try to stay positive, see the best in people and the world around me, and I take some ribbing for it, especially from myself; as I realise it is probably quite a naïve attitude to have. Maybe it’s a defence mechanism, and maybe it is just me that does it, but I like my bubble of innocence, it keeps me sane and happy, and most people are accepting, if not somewhat bewildered, by my rose tinted outlook on life. Sometimes though, life just engulfs me and it’s as hard to see the positives in something as the proverbial wood for the trees.

However, despite a strong resolve, even my moods and way of responding to situations are all affected by what I see and read, especially when something is so good that it captures my imagination, and this has been demonstrated to me this week, with quite intense results.

On Monday I decided it was time for a bit of self-help action. It’s been a while since I indulged my addiction and there is a documentary I have wanted to watch for some time now called “The Secret”, which is also a book by Rhonda Byrne. It is based on the “Law of Attraction” a quantum physics theory I don’t even pretend to understand. But the gist in the Secret is that whatever we think about and speak about we receive. So as long as we think positive, healthy and wealthy thoughts, we will get what we put out there. As a theory it’s one I support. Positive thinking is, to me, one of the most powerful tools at our discretion (and the basis for most self help books, probably why I like them so much), one that is often under used and over ridiculed in our society. I’m not sure how much positive thinking will really help you get that new car or a gazillion pounds in the bank, but if it helps us get closer to it, or at least makes us happier in the process then I’m all for it.

On Tuesday I awoke after a fairly peaceful night (still filled with the nightmares that now seem to plague my every sleep, but not as brutal or as disturbing as they have been of late) with a firm and familiar positive grip on the world. I lay in bed for a moment and thought about all the things in my life I had to be thankful for. So far so good. As the day wore on my natural positive thinking came back to me, when people asked me how I was, I responded with “I’m great!”, and I truly felt good.

Then on Tuesday afternoon I decided to start reading a book that had been on my reading list for months, “The Hunger Games”, and experienced a dramatic turn around in my positive outlook.

“The Hunger Games” is a trilogy (and now a film I can’t wait to see) by Suzanne Collins, about a post apocalyptic world where an evil regime, which lives in a lush and decadent capital, controls 13 starved and desperate districts. One district has been destroyed and each of the remaining districts are required to take part in “The Hunger Games”. Each year, all children between the age of 12 and 18 are entered into “The Reaping”, a process where one boy and one girl from each district are selected at random to appear in “The Hunger Games, a kind of brutal Big Brother. All contestants are required to fight to the death until only one person remains. The process of the Hunger Games is fully televised and becomes a national event, and people are required to celebrate and enjoy the brutality, lest they are punished by the regime. It is a harsh and scary tale, but brilliantly written and consumed me so much, I read the first two books in the trilogy within 48 hours and I have nearly completed the final book.

Throughout the reading of “The Hunger Games”, I have become harsher and more doggedly determined but overall a lot of the positivity and lightness I had gained from watching “The Secret” has gone, my nightmares have become even darker than they have ever been, with the usual players taking on even more vicious and brutal ways of torturing my sleep. But despite the way it has affected me emotionally, I can’t stop, I have to finish it, and hope that in the end, there is a positive outcome, that somehow despite everything that has happened in this world of death and misery, justice and happiness can prevail.

And then I’ll watch the Secret again and read something light hearted and funny. And I can get back inside my bubble. A little holiday to the darker side of life has been interesting and captivating, but like the youngest and weakest contestants in the Hunger Games, I don’t belong here.