Basic Instincts

I’ve been reading a book set during the first and second world wars and it has highlighted to me just how little information people had in those days. They survived in horrible conditions using the most basic of survival tools, human instinct. Today we have access to so much information I can’t help but wonder whether or not human instinct is becoming dulled by mountains of, often conflicting, advice.

Take the ‘experts’ for example. I have already admitted to having shelves full of self help books all designed to make my life easier, make me a better mother, teach me to be more organised or how to win at online poker. Millions of people around the world put their faith in these experts, me included, but most if not all, of these things should be a matter of instinct surely? And of those that aren’t, how many are teachable?

Why would these people know any better than us what’s right for us or indeed our children? Now that we have access to so much information maybe we don’t need experts, everything need is right at our fingertips.

These days we can learn anything from the internet (not necessarily from trustworthy sources admittedly) so technically we could all be our own doctor, lawyer, parenting guru. I know I Google at least ten times a day to find answers to random questions; what is this rash on my child’s arm, how old is Lady Gaga, and recipes for random meals. Even when my mum asks me to help with her crossword, my netbook is never far away (is that cheating? Maybe).

How often have you Googled your symptoms before rolling up to the doctor armed with the latest research into one disease or another? Does it mean we listen to the doctor less and can we trust them if they have never heard of a drug we are requesting?

I recently had to renew our household insurance. A task that pre-internet would have taken a matter of minutes, took literally hours while I scoured the comparison sites, weighing up the pro’s and con’s of each company, before eventually settling, amid an all consuming paranoia that I could have got a far better deal elsewhere. The same with mobile phone contracts, buying cars… we now have so much information and are so well informed that it has not only taken the mystery out of life but also, in some cases, an element of common sense.

Have our instincts become so skewed by knowing so much, having access to so much information, that we wouldn’t be able to survive without it?

Sometimes I worry what would happen to me if I was stuck on a dessert island without access to all these answers, would my survival instinct kick in or would I perish without it? I wouldn’t miss my iPod, or telly, but I would miss my beloved Google.

I know I couldn’t live without Google. I rely on it far too heavily. But it’s my thirst for knowledge that drives it, not necessarily a lack of instinct.

We often have no choice but to put a lot of trust into people we believe know more than us, doctors, politicians, lawyers. All these people tell us what is right for us, what is best for us, how to keep ourselves healthy, safe, protect our assets. But we now have the potential power to check and even question the knowledge of these people we put so much faith in. Are they doing the right thing by us? I wonder whether all this information is giving us a better or worse quality of life. In the book I’m reading the people face a huge amount of hardship, but they seem, more often than not, happy; far happier than we seem to be today as a more knowledgeable, less trusting society.

I have a feeling that that happiness came from an inner trust in their own instincts, something that we have come to question in later years. We have so many people telling us we don’t know how to do things right, that maybe we are starting to believe them. Knowledge is power but sometimes ignorance is bliss.

I realise I am an extreme case. I am a complete info-aholic. I absolutely love knowing things, not because I don’t trust my own instincts just because learning is my passion. I’m not a know all by any stretch, and would never ever profess to know any more than any other person about a particular subject. In fact, rather inconveniently, I don’t tend to remember what I’ve learned, but for one or two delicious seconds I actually do have a level of knowledge, before it unfortunately slips away within hours.

Sometimes I long for the innocence and simplicity of the days before Google, when the only choice of recipes were either kept in memory or a single dog-eared copy of Delia Smith, insurance renewal meant a quick call to your local friendly broker, and if you didn’t know the answer to a question on a crossword you either gave up or waited for the answers next week (none of this hazy “is it cheating” nonsense).

Now, what to do today while the man is off work? The simple answer would be the park. But I have my trusty Google to ensure we squeeze as much fun out of this day of freedom as possible. I just have to choose between 10 different days out, which will take me a few hours, and by the time we actually get anywhere I will be exhausted. Maybe the park would be a better option.

Bank Holiday Blues

I’m feeling a bit out of sorts today. It’s May Bank Holiday here in the UK and like many mums, I am feeling a responsibility to come up with a fun activity the family can do together, which doesn’t involve huge crowds, lots of money or potential altercations with other children (or their parents).

But the trouble with Bank Holidays is that every other person in the country is also on holiday, so all but the dullest activities are ruined by serious over crowding, and the palpable atmosphere of wild eyed people desperate to have ‘fun’.

It is yet another sign of our times that we feel this pressure to do something and make the most of all the opportunities available to us. We know that next weeks school conversation will be centred on Bank Holiday activities, and we want to give our children something exciting to report. Tales of theme parks and camping weekends will prevail, only for one annoying kid (with equally annoying parents) to gleefully relate his story of crocodile catching in America or something just as random/expensive/educational and trump everyone.

And it’s not so different in the adult world. The more competitive mothers will enjoy telling the rest of us not so organised, outgoing, rich or frankly, good, parents about how they took their kids to a paint your own crockery event, followed by a trip to the theatre and dinner at a Michelin star restaurant. All very civilised, I’m sure. I will be with the group of mums skulking off so I don’t have to admit that I guiltily sat my kids in front of “Cars” for the millionth time with some ready made popcorn, so me and the man could snuggle up on the end of the sofa for a rare but much needed daytime nap.

I like to think of myself as a fairly social person, I like to be around other people and feel like I’m part of something bigger than myself but often dealing with other people (and their kids) is what makes outings with children stressful.

I remember regularly leaving toddler groups in tears because son number one had pushed some poor child over (a favourite game of both my children unfortunately), but the other child, and more scarily the other child’s mother, did not see it as playful.

With son number 2, a frighteningly strong 21 month old, I tend to avoid toddler groups, and pretty much any situation where he will encounter children of a vulnerable or nervous disposition. For, like a lion preying on wildebeests, he is likely to hone in on the weakest member of the pack and attack without warning. Not that he sees it as attack you understand, to him he is the life and soul of the toddler party, pushing a kid over then climbing on him is fun for all concerned in his little mind. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like that to other kids, or their cross parents. And me being the guilt ridden, easily embarrassed person that I am, end up feeling devastated that I have borne such a social monster. Thankfully I don’t need to take him out so much because being the second child he has an older brother (and therefore all of his older and more robust friends) to play with, a welcome relief for me.

I would like a nice day out. I want to have some fun with my family. But the thought of being stuck in a queue, walking round a museum or theme park downwind of the same slow/smelly/annoyingly rich/enthusiastic (or all of the above) family for hours, then being ripped off in the gift shop, restaurant and ice cream stand fills me with dread. And it’s not just me, it’s the man too. How do some people seem to be able to over look all that and enjoy days out with millions of other people, while the rest of us look tight or miserable because we would rather saw off our own arm?

A friend and her family went to Disneyland Paris recently, a very worthy Bank Holiday weekend activity, and said how brilliant it was. Eight foot high Mickey Mouse notwithstanding, it’s the thought of being herded around a park rammed full of over excited children and stressed, bewildered parents that puts me off. Give me Disney Junior, a few packets of crisps and snacks and a comfy sofa any day. I realise I will have to brave Disneyland in the future. It’s on my check list of things I must do at some stage, along with jumping out of a plane and running the London Marathon (neither of which are anywhere near fruition I have to point out). I never went as a child. Of course in those days you had to fly across the Atlantic to get there, which gave my parents a bit more of an excuse. Now we have a Disneyland on our own continent, a new generation of parents don’t have the same get out clause.

Bank Holidays are like weekends with increased pressure to have ‘fun’ or ‘do something worthwhile’, plus the added stress of everywhere being overcrowded with millions of other people feeling the same pressure to have ’fun’ or ‘do something worthwhile’. I love the idea of Bank Holidays, but they are always more exciting in theory than reality. When all is said and done I can’t actually wait for things to get back to normal and the pressure to make the most of this rare and wonderful day is removed. Roll on Tuesday.

Text Wars

I’m considering boycotting text messaging. It is yet another potential situation for embarrassment, confusion and generally doing the wrong thing. Especially since this skattiness I seem to have acquired since the onset of motherhood.

I remember when text messages and mobiles (‘mobile’ being used in the loosest sense of the word, given that you needed a wheelie bag to cart the thing around such was it’s size and weight. Yes, I’m that old) came out, you only got about 59 characters, and you couldn’t run onto more than one text. That was when text speak was actually necessary. These days some of my texts are so epic that they regularly run into over ten texts, at which point my phone decides it’s a picture message and therefore not part of my inclusive text allowance. Hence why, despite having unlimited texts, my mobile bill is usually more than the contracted amount. Shhhh, don’t tell the man.

It has become the norm to text rather than ring someone, even though, in the long run, texting doesn’t save any time. My best friend and I used to talk for hours a day on the phone, and since we have become busier we have started texting. A lot. But this is actually a totally false economy. I can do pretty much anything with the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, but I can’t text and do something at the same time. It takes a lot more coordination to text someone, not only in finger movements but also thinking about what to put so it comes out right. I could probably save myself a good hour or so a day if we rang each other instead.

If you’re not careful text messaging can be pretty ambiguous. Because they are designed to be fast and efficient, it is very easy to come across clipped or overly abrupt. Using short sentences and words which would be frankly rude in every day conversation seems to be acceptable in a text message. And to get emotion or emphasis, apart from a simple smiley, wink, sad face or tongue out :-p there isn’t a lot you can do. We can say something verbally and just with our intonation the receiver knows you are joking, text messages not so much. It’s that age old situation “it’s not what you said, it’s the way you said it.” It’s so easy to read too much into a simple one sentence text, more angst and confusion caused by the “but what did they actually mean by that?” internal debate. A misplaced ellipsis, capital letters (SHOUTING) too long, too short, could all spell out double meaning or vagueness. The simple answer is to pick up the phone and find out. Slightly missing the point of texting in the first place.

Besides, you can’t ring someone at 3 o’clock in the morning. Texting is a lot more socially acceptable after hours.

Then there’s the signing off debate. 98% of the time putting a kiss at the end of your text message is kind of law, it’s expected and, I often feel, rude not to. But sometimes putting a kiss at the end seems highly inappropriate. However it feels a bit abrupt to not put a kiss. So texting takes even longer while you deliberate whether or not the recipient would consider it rude or unfriendly not to punctuate the text message with a kiss. As I don’t tend to text in a professional capacity I don’t really know what the form is (although this situation has started to come up a bit recently when texting people for quotes for articles), so I end up putting an awkward little smiley. Not quite the same but seems to ‘friendly it up’ a bit, and I just find it physically impossible not to sign off in some way. And if you do decide to put a kiss, how many? In capitals? It’s so easy to come across overly familiar. It’s the whole social kissing thing all over again.

Then there’s the ease with which you can accidentally send a text to the wrong person. Soon after having son number 2, I sent a long and incredibly graphic text message about certain ‘issues’ I was going to see the doctor about that day. Immediately after sending it I realised that I had sent it to a guy I had gone to school with, seen in a pub about five years previously and swapped numbers (and then had never got in touch), instead of my mum as I had intended it. Thankfully he was a gentleman about it and never replied, but the embarrassment and mortification lives on, and will do forever more. Needless to say I now check, and double check, the recipient before hitting send. The possibilities for embarrassment are endless, especially with sexy texting, or having a secret bitch about someone. Whoops, sent it to my boss instead of my best friend or the man. Explain your way out of that one using text speak.

But texting can be pretty exciting. That beep beep or BRRRRING noise which announces the arrival of a text gives that same feeling of excitement as when you hear the thud of the post on the mat and you receive and unexpected and un-bill-like looking letter through the post... Ooh who could be texting me? And what do they want? Enthusiasm only dampened when it’s a boring message from your operator saying your bill is ready to view (does anyone actually view it?) or saying coverage will be disrupted in your area while they attempt to improve services (never seems to make any difference to me).

On the face of it, texting is a great and convenient way to communicate but in reality it is just another way of confusing our already busy and complicated lives. Multitasking has become the norm. Bring back the phone, I say. Those big old rotary ones which had one, perfectly acceptable and satisfying, ring tone that could be heard next door, and nice comfortable finger holes for dialling the numbers. Apart from the odd doodle or getting tangled up in the curly cord (totally cutting the circulation to your finger tips off because you were coming up with a new way of curling it round your fingers, wouldn’t be allowed today because of health and safety issues) you had to actually concentrate on the person you were talking to, and therefore the scope for confusion and embarrassment were much diminished. And you had to sit down. They were simpler, safer, times.

Stuff

There is a huge black hole not just in my house, but more than likely yours too, it sucks out time and energy and leaves nothing but hard work in its wake. And the black hole is stuff.

Yesterday, the man and me spent the entire day on stuff management, having got totally overwhelmed by the amount of stuff that seems to have taken over our house. A year ago we moved from a 2 bedroom flat with no garden to a 3 bed house with a large garden, so excited were we at the space we would have. We bemoaned that we had nothing to put in our garden, yet a year on it looks positively white trash. Discarded toys and tools litter the patio because they won’t fit in one of our two (yes, two) sheds. And the loft which we had been so wide-eyed about is already a disorganised jumble of stuff, there may be the odd useful item up there but mostly, it’s just crap. I ended the day with a bank statement bonfire, over ten years worth of bank statements that I had been saving, it created quite a blaze. Why save them? Would I have spent time in the future wistfully recollecting my irresponsible spending habits?

It has been drummed into me since I was a child that you do not throw things away in case they come in handy later on. Any packaging receptacle must be fully examined and potential alternative uses considered before it is allowed to go into recycling.

I’ve always had a problem with stuff. I come from a family of hoarders and despite feeling like I’m constantly chucking stuff out, this other person, who looks suspiciously like me, keeps on bringing stuff back in. There are clothes dribbling out of drawers onto the floor and peeping out of half closed wardrobe drawers. Our bedroom looks like a Dali landscape. There are health and safety issues too. My Tupperware cupboard is frankly dangerous, old ice cream tubs catapult themselves out making a bid for freedom, before I spend ten minutes looking for the one thing I needed, then wrestling them all back in, skinning my knuckles in the process. But I have so much that I can’t find what I need, so I buy new stuff. Essential purchasing.

They say you should only keep stuff you really need, really love or are seriously sentimental about. But how do you define need? We might not need it now but possibly will in the future. Some of the stuff serves a purpose too. I have a pair of jeans which I wore comfortably ten years ago, when I can fit them comfortably again I will know I am at a point where I can be happy about my body. Not to actually be able to wear them you understand (they are not nice), they’re just for gauging purposes.

I absolutely adore those articles in magazines where they take one pair of jeans and a white t-shirt and show you how you can create 100 different outfits from them, including something for the opera and a formal work outfit. My ultimate goal in life would be having something that could be described as a capsule wardrobe.

But being disorganised but also a (albeit genetically and against my better judgement) hoarder, susceptible to every new craze going AND a shopaholic, is not a good combo for harmonious living.

Imagine how easy life would be if you only had one of everything. One glass that had to be washed before someone else could use it. One book, one DVD, one CD… everyone could have something different and could practise compulsory swapping. I think it sounds blissful. And I know the kids would be fine, they insist on watching the same film over and over and OVER again, until even I am absentmindedly mouthing the words along to it. I just need to get the man on board (after this weekend I think he could be convinced).

It’s not just the hard stuff. It’s the perishables too. I blame my mother. When I was growing up her cupboards were always busting full, but she would still find little crevices where she could just squeeze in another tin of peaches, or different shape of pasta to add to her collection. And I am now exactly the same. If we had a nuclear war I would be able to feed my entire family (and probably a few neighbours too) for at least one month. My freezer, fridge and cupboards are positively groaning under the weight of food, yet I still manage to find a reason to go to the supermarket almost every other day (usually to get random ingredients for a recipe which I will never use again). I get kind of panicky if I can shut a cupboard door without difficulty. I tell you, I think it’s an illness.

We’re in the midst of the worst recession ever, yet consumer culture has never been so huge. So despite being skint, we’re told we need more stuff. The acquisition of stuff has become something we do for fun, not necessity. And I know that all this stuff is yet another thing that is sapping my ever precious time and energy.

I have to wean myself off this stuff obsession, starting with a food thrift week. I am going to attempt to avoid the supermarket and just use up what I’ve got. It might make for some rather strange dinners but I am creative. Now, what can I make with soy flour, corn oil and tinned peaches?

What If?

You could say I spend quite a bit of time daydreaming. And a fair amount of that time is spent on “what if” scenarios.

They say we shouldn’t waste our time on what ifs. But sometimes there is nothing more enjoyable than a spot of “what if” imaginary role play.

It’s not just that it’s sometimes a fun diversion to think about what could’ve been (or more excitingly what could happen in the future), but it also serves the very valuable purpose of making us question whether or not we have done the right thing, and being grateful for the choices we have made.

Imagine how the tiniest shift here or there in the story of your life could have affected the current outcome. If you hadn’t gone out that night you might not have met that guy, who is now the father of your children. If there had been something worth watching on telly that night your kids may not be here now. Scary, huh?

I have just watched a shamelessly girly and immature film about a bunch of 14 year olds. I’m probably too old (and without even a daughter to blame it on) to admit that but I’ll take one for the team. But it got me thinking about all the ways my life could have turned out if I had made different choices.

Am I wistful? Yes, sometimes. Sometimes it’s nice to imagine a different life. That ridiculously chic cottage by the sea (always immaculate of course, no overflowing washing baskets or god knows how old marmite smears in my imaginary world), or that jaw droppingly buff bloke that treats you like a princess, ALWAYS hangs the bath mat up after use and adores everything you do. Or having everything that money could buy, including, but not limited to, an amazing and ever changing wardrobe, a nice big shiny black four by four with tinted windows and an uneconomically and ecologically low MPG (what can I say, I’m a mum). Luxury holidays to Sandals (which is probably not as good as I imagine it but it’s taken on magical proportions in my mind now I have imagined it for so long so please don’t ruin it for me). Travelling the world. Seeing everything there is to see. Living out of a backpack, something I never got to do.

They say you should walk a thousand miles in someone else’s shoes before you can understand what it’s like to live a different life. But we can never ever really do that. All we have is our, slightly overactive in my case, imaginations. And what a wonderful blessing that is. Because it does give us the chance, just for a moment, to live any life we want.

There’s this old guy I often see out for a walk. He has something wrong with his back, he is so bent over he looks like a right angle. It looks really, really painful. I often wonder what life must be like for him, spending his whole life looking at the ground, only occasionally turning awkwardly to see what’s around him. What a completely different impression he must get of the things that we see everyday. But there must be loads of stuff going on on the ground that we miss because we’re so busy being upright; lines of ants, interesting looking stones, random wildflowers poking out of cracks on the edges of the pavement. Things that go unnoticed to us who presume all the excitement and wonder of the world are out there in the distance. I’m not belittling this mans affliction, as I said it looks incredibly painful and every time I see him I am reminded of how lucky I am to have a straight spine. But every time I see him I also try to imagine all of the things he sees which I don’t.

It’s great to spend our time looking out at the world and seeing all the wonder that could be out there. But sometimes, there are some pretty interesting and exciting things going on right under our noses that we would see if we just looked down at them once in a while.

Am I wistful? Yep, and I think it’s perfectly normal and natural to get even more so as we get older and the number of possible outcomes to our life starts to diminish. My life isn’t the way I planned it. And if you’d told me when I was 14 that this is how I’d end up there would have been a big part of me running (shell suit swooshing, hair unmoving thanks to the whole can of Harmony hairspray holding it in place) screaming “Noooooooooo” towards the nearest careers office/travel agents/millionaire dating agency (delete as appropriate). But I think as much as I wouldn’t have wanted to admit it in public, deep down I’d be pretty happy.

A nice daydream is like a little reality holiday, but at the end of it, like all holidays, I just can’t wait to get home and back into my own bed.

Nothing Worth Having Comes Easy

Yesterday the man and I had two mealtime battles with son number one. The first at lunch time, it took us fifteen minutes to get him to taste a piece of cake. A piece of cake! You’d have thought we were feeding him cockroach, although being 4 he probably would have got a kick out of that. At dinner, another twenty minutes spent coaxing him into trying a roasted shallot. I am reminded of that old saying “nothing worth having comes easy.”

I never thought I’d have a fussy child, having always been happy to eat anything put in front of me (bar liver, I just can’t get past the offalyness of it). I’ll try anything once, except maybe eating monkey brains directly from the cut open head (or is that an urban legend?). I think even I might struggle with that one, but never say never eh?

Anyway, it’s a real battle to get my son to eat anything other than his usual diet of sausages, pasta, and two types of vegetables: peas and sweetcorn (or what we call Pirate Treasure, left over from a previously victorious battle). And son number 2 (who used to be a big eater) is now copying his behaviour and turning his nose up on food I know he loves. I go through periods of apathy where I just can’t be bothered with the fight so feed them chicken dippers or sausages every day, which plagues me with an overwhelming sense of failure, what kind of mother am I anyway? So this time I am determined to persevere. I know that despite it being depressing, frustrating and above all hard work, it’ll be worth it in the end, when they will both sit down to Moules Mariniere and devour them with gusto (I can dream can’t I?).

Working hard for something may not seem attractive at the time, but I think often it’s the hardship that makes us appreciate things more when they finally come to us. The car you’ve saved up for feels all the more sweet when you finally drive it home, and the dress I’ve starved myself to get into feels even more satisfying than simply buying it in a larger size. Besides, the easy option can all too often come back and bite you in the ass. The cheapo car might seem like a good deal, until within days of owning it, the head gasket has gone. Being immortalised in a photo wearing that dress in a size bigger than I had planned, posted on Facebook for all to see, taunting me with my own laziness and post pregnancy paunch. And when I don’t try to at least encourage more adventurous eating habits in my kids there is a nagging doubt in the back of my mind, keeping me awake at night “will I end up like one of those mothers passing MaccyD’s through the school fence to prevent my boys from starving to death on those oh so healthy school dinners?” Victory is so much sweeter when it’s hard won.

But what with everything we have going on in our lives we’re busy enough without constantly taking the hard road. I’m all for the satisfaction of hard work, but I think you have to pick your battles. Work hard for the things that really matter, and let the rest go.

I don’t know who said nothing worth having comes easy, but they were pretty spot on. Who wants an easy life anyway? It must be pretty boring to have everything handed to you on a plate. You hear about lottery winners throwing their money away and ending up far worse off than they started, “It” girls given every available opportunity but spending half their lives in The Priory. Nope, I’ll take my hard roads, and feel a smug satisfaction when I get to my destination. Moules Mariniere anyone?

Bzzzzzzzzzz

I just got off the phone with a woman from our bank who had called me out of the blue to sell me emergency household cover. She wouldn’t let me get a word in edgeways, then after ten minutes when she had finally convinced me it might be a good idea to sign up, she asked the make of my boiler. She put me on hold for a minute, then came back and told me they wouldn’t cover our boiler. You’d think you might check that before wasting ten minutes of my precious time you moron.

Then I got to thinking, ten minutes, I couldn’t give just ten minutes to this poor woman just trying to do her job. And I was multi tasking at the same time (putting clean sheets on the spare bed) so it technically wasn’t wasted. Since when did life get so busy?

I’m sure we have got busier in recent generations. I can’t remember my mum being this busy or maybe she just covered it well. Because she never seemed to be as harassed as me and she was always available to me and my brother, night and day. But it seems that these days we feel the need to fill every available second with activity. Gone are the days of sitting with a coffee and the paper, or watching something on telly just because it’s on (and not fast forwarding the ads). It makes us feel guilty somehow. Or maybe that’s just me. But with all the busyness I worry we are missing out on the really important stuff. Which for me is spending every available second playing with my kids (and the man of course), something that all too often gets pushed to the bottom of the list of priorities behind housework and other menial tasks.

The other day I was talking with a friend about my writing group. She said “Well, at least it gets you out of the house.” Out of the house? I don’t need to get out of the house thank you very much, in fact I need valid reasons to stay in the house. My own sanity does not seem to be a compelling excuse.

The fact is I love to be a busy bee. I’m in my element when I’m flapping around with far too much on my plate. Doing nothing just makes me think too much, and as I’ve said before, thinking too much takes me places I do not care to mention let alone discuss in public.

I recently saw an ad looking for freelance copywriters, I was itching to brush up my CV and send it off, but my ever sensible best friend answered in the affirmative when I said “but maybe I have enough on my plate as it is?” I am always looking for new things to do, and taking on new activities. I hate saying “no” to people, and I like to keep life interesting.

I don’t think I’m alone. There is a plague of busyness at the moment and it’s not just confined to mothers. Men, women and especially children are affected by it. Even when I was little I remember having swimming on a Monday, Brownies on a Tuesday, piano on a Wednesday, Thursday was a rare night off, then tap dancing on a Friday and trampolining on a Sunday. And I had a slow week compared to many of my peers.

These days the options for kids are even more plentiful. From about a million different kinds of martial arts to Kumon (that’s a system of Maths and English to those saying “Wha?”), drama classes and different types of Scouts, not to mention team sports and debating clubs. The list is endless. For the first 2 years of son number 1’s life we went to at least one group or activity every day. I couldn’t bare the thought that he could be missing out on some vital part of his social or physical development by not being sung to, learning sign language or play musical instruments. When son number 2 came along I finally realised something. It’s me they need to spend time with, not some crazy failed drama student prancing around with a bubble machine and bizarre poems. But I sometimes wonder how I’m going to cope when son number 1 starts school and all the serious activities start up. How on earth am I going to juggle his activities with mine? It’ll be even worse when son number 2 gets older. Thank god the man doesn’t do much.

I think all of these opportunities are fantastic. How lucky we are that we have the choice to have all of these things in our lives. Or maybe not.

How long has it been since we just sat down as a family and enjoyed our time together? Even just sat down me and the man for a good old chat? No, these days when we do sit down we are both stressed because our V+ box has reached critical level and we need to watch some of the dross and delete it lest it not record something really important (of which there is very little if any). And neither of us are actually watching it anyway because we both sit there tapping away on laptops.  Seriously. It’s rubbish really. V+, Sky+ all supposed to make our lives easier when in fact they just add to our ever expanding to do list.

The thing is do we really care about watching the stuff on our V+ boxes, whether or not the house is tidy or getting extra cash from working longer hours so we can afford expensive holidays? Surely what’s really important is people. Not stuff, not money, not the house. Maybe we could do with a bit more cash or a new kitchen, maybe the fireplace would look better painted white, but unless it means more time with the kids who are growing up so fast, too fast, and the man (likewise) it should really come at the bottom of our to do list.

So this weekend I am going to have some family time. I’m looking forward to seeing my cousin and have a rare child and man free catch up. And tomorrow we’re having a family get together to celebrate my great Auntie’s 95^th birthday. I’m going to ask her if she remembers whether or not the kitchen was finished, or maybe it’s the family dinners and games played together that fills her memories. I bet she wasn’t dashing her kids off to Kumon.

For the family day I suggested I make my Auntie V a birthday cake. I was told this was a great idea, but me being me I couldn’t do just one cake. So this morning I’ve been on a baking mission, there’s a lemon layer cake, 12 individually iced cupcakes and a friendship cake. And I’ve already done 2 work outs, fake tanned, various defuzzing missions, got son number 1 off to preschool and back, practiced animal sounds with son number 2, completed son number 1’s infant school application and written this blog post and it’s not even lunch time. Well... I was up at 6. Me, take on too much? Never.

Don't Judge Me

There isn’t much that pisses me off but people saying that I “don‘t work” is one of them. I know it’s only semantics but the term “work” is loaded with connotations. I’m sure most people who say it don’t mean it this way but it does imply that I do nothing, despite having 2 kids, a man and a house to care for. To me it just sounds judgemental. They say political correctness has gone too far so why haven’t they come up with a politically correct term for what I, and many other mums, do?

As a “housewife” you feel unbelievable pressure to have a perfectly turned out home, perfectly behaved kids, home cooked meals on the table every day and spend every available second dedicated to furthering your children’s development, because if you were to go out to work, that is what a childminder or nursery would do. Staying at home is not just physically but mentally draining, so have to find for yourself those rare decompression times at some points during the day lest you go insane with boredom, stress or both (thank you Cbeebies). Being a stay at home mum (or any mum for that matter, just compounded for stay at homes, as there is no break from it) is not good for the self esteem either, as children are notoriously hard to please (“I won’t eat that toast now you have cut it into squares instead of triangles“) and honest ("isn’t your tummy wobbly?"). Imagine if a boss said either of those things, they have trade unions for that kind of thing.

It’s the insinuation of luxury that pisses me off. That in some way I live some kind of ‘lady who lunches’ life of luxury. We can’t afford holidays, savings, nice cars or pensions, so being a stay at home mum is no more glamorous than going out to work. I do occasionally go out to lunch, but probably a lot less than I did when I used to go out to work (I had a lunch break then for starters). And on the rare occasion when I do decide to go out to lunch it is not particularly enjoyable, having 2 small children to keep under control, not to mention the disapproving glances from people who think that children under 8 should be kept under house arrest lest they spoil the experience for everyone else.

The other thing that grates is when people say “aren’t you lucky?” I don’t think that luck comes into it, we all make choices in our lives and those choices, more often than not, determine where we are today. Maybe I am “lucky” in that I have a fella that earns enough to just about support us all (and I am ever grateful and appreciative for that) but I’d consider myself a hell of a lot “luckier” if I had done a degree or training before having children which gave me a job that paid well enough to justify me going out to work. Therefore paying someone who actually knew what they were doing to look after my precious offspring, unlike me bumbling around not having a clue - just another thing to feel guilty about.

I personally think there is an awful lot of pressure on women these days. If you go out to work you feel guilty for not being there with your children, and if you don’t you feel guilty for not being the perfect mother, “having it all” and providing for your family. I don't love my children any more or less being a stay at home mum than those that work, nor am I any better or worse mother for it, but the life of any mother is a life of feeling constantly judged. The last government made it perfectly clear where it stood, all mothers should go out to work, full stop. But to me that’s just as bad as saying everyone should have a dog, it’s not a case of one size fits all and where is personal choice in all this? There’s no “should“, women should not stay at home nor go out to work, women should do what is right for their family and we should be freed from this unbearable burden of guilt we are all carrying.

My point is that this burden is not made any easier for me personally by the terms available for what I do. “Housewife” is long gone, and doesn’t apply to me anyway because I’m not a wife (and house partner sounds wrong because despite “partner” supposedly being universal, you can‘t help but think “gay“), house mother would be more apt but that makes me sound like some matronly woman with a shelf of a bosom looking after children at boarding school. Stay at home mum sounds far too cute for what I do, child tamer would be more apt. But “not working” is by far the most irritating term there is.

I think it just upsets me that still, despite our time of political correctness and trying to be more sensitive to people feelings, the labels we have do not accurately reflect the life of a stay at home mum (child tamer). And it’s those two “not working” and “lucky” labels that I hate. Not working is being lazy. Lucky is winning the lottery, it is not sentencing yourself to day after day of shitty nappies and relentless routine. Maybe it’s time to polish up the CV.

I Heart...

I am passionate about our language, and I love it in all its many forms. But our language is so precious to us, when people think it has been misused they can get quite defensive about it. My dad was affronted that I had used the phrase “I heart self help books” in my last blog post. I pointed out that I was merely tapping into an increasingly popular contemporary colloquialism; ‘heart’ has been a verb ever since New York made it famous in the 80’s, or was it the 60’s? And one of the things I love about blogging is that I am freed from the shackles of strict grammar and punctuation that I was bound to at University, and when writing for publication. This is MY space, I can afford to be a bit more abstract if I so choose, and as long as I get my point across, and people enjoy reading it, then my mission is accomplished. Besides I think that there is something about using a noun in the place of a verb that makes it seem kind of cuter.

Quite recently I observed a conversation on Facebook about text speak. I personally don’t use text speak whether in texts or anything else, as I think it is tantamount to me greeting my friends with street slang, it makes me feel and sound silly. As much as I heart (ha) my little colloquialisms within my writing, they have to fit the person they are coming from. And street slang just ain’t my bag, baby. And neither is text speak. I admit part of my problem with text speak is that I find it quite difficult to decipher, and pointless now that most phones have predictive text. But my theory on text speak is that any time saved by the person writing it is totally offset by the person reading it, hardly fair. Use proper words when texting me please, as much as I find it fascinating, I simply don’t have time to translate it.

A word on predictive text, who came up with the original dictionary? I am regularly astounded by the words my phone doesn’t recognise and the frankly bizarre ones it does. Today it didn’t recognise ‘bereaved’, but I have noted that it does recognise ‘schizophrenic’. And when writing ‘script’, the first option it suggests is ‘rapist’. You have to ask yourself what kind of person decided to leave out ‘bereaved’ but felt it essential that schizophrenic and rapist be essential additions. Scary.

As a writer, you would think I might be firmly in the ‘don’t mess with my language’ camp, but actually I am the opposite. I love the way language is constantly evolving and that people are always coming up with new ways to communicate in words. The language we choose is a way of expressing our personality, much like the clothes or make up we wear. And my opinion is that as long as something rolls off the tongue when we speak or off the fingers when we type naturally without sounding affected then I’m all for it.

I have many little turns of phrase which others choose not to use. It is part of what makes us different. I don’t use text speak just because I can’t see the point, but I do often shorten words and add an ‘o’ as in ‘defo’ and ‘arvo’.  I know many people find that terribly irritating but what can I say? I’m from the Neighbours generation, and those who don’t like it can rack off, the big galahs. 

Changing the habit of a lifetime

I think I may be about to commit writers fraud. 

I'm writing an article for my course about how to be organised. As a reader this is exactly the kind of article that would prompt me to buy a magazine, as I am hideously disorganised. I feel like I am constantly chasing after the organised bus and never, ever catch it, so always reach my destination late, out of breath, sweaty and exhausted, leaving a trail of mess, half finished jobs and fluttering to-do lists in my wake.

So I have asked a few of my most organised friends to give me their thoughts, as well as a leading UK time management specialist and an organisational consultant.

I was so excited to do this article as I was convinced it might finally drag me out of the depths of disorganisation and into the light of an orderly home and life. I was convinced I would finally learn the secret.

But it’s just not going to happen. Because despite being given some fantastic tips I have finally realised that actually there is no secret. I have read about 10 organisation books and time management books, all spouting off brilliant ideas about how to get organised, and none of it is any different to what my organised friends are telling me. This stuff must work because organised people are telling me that’s what they do, but despite knowing it, I clearly haven’t put any of it into practice. Why on earth not?

I can only come up with two theories, finding it hard to change a habit of a life time or, controversially, some kind of not wanting to. Shock, horror... could I actually like being disorganised? Surely not? When I see my friends who are incredibly organised I can’t help but feel a bit crap, look how much more successful at life they are than me. They are doing all this and their house looks great and their time is well managed. But is there some part of me, very deep down, that’s likes to be a bit dizzy? Surely I’m not so much of a pig that I like living in filth (filth may be a bit strong, honestly my house isn’t that bad but it works for effect here so bare with me)? It’s not that I spend my time doing nothing while everyone else is busily keeping their house tidy, but I can always come up with at least a hundred (usually quite fun) things I would rather do instead of organising my wardrobe and only one reason why I really must do it, right now, and almost always one of the hundred things wins.

Or maybe it’s just hard to change the habit of a lifetime. They say it takes two weeks to create a habit, and maybe this is something I need to bare in mind when I am trying to get my organising on. Just do a little something every day for two weeks before it becomes a habit. But I have tried this. Many, many times. My resolve lasts about a week max before I start to slip back into previous habits. The thing is I like staring into space while I’m waiting for the kettle to boil. If I start dashing around trying to get things done in this little window of organisation opportunity, I would miss out on valuable thinking time. And believe me I am thinking. More organised people might whirl around like spinning tops getting things done while I’m looking all calm and serene and frankly like I’m doing nothing, but on the inside my mind is working like concert pianists fingers, non stop and flying. If I start missing out on that unfettered thinking time I’m worried it may cause some sort of malfunction, steam billowing from the ears, or talking in Russian maybe?

So how am I going to commit writing fraud? Well, I’m going to be writing an article instructing people how to become organised. When I’m not at all sure it’s possible to convert a disorganised person into an organised one. Because I have been reading all these books and articles for years, and it hasn’t changed me has it? I thought writing the article would be easy, that I would be convinced. But this may prove a challenge for me as I have to convince others of something I’m not at all sure I believe in.

I have been organised and managed my time well. I have managed to do it. Many times. But it’s just not sustainable for me. For some reason, something clicks and I go straight back to where I was. Maybe being disorganised and dizzy is so engrained into my psyche that it ain’t never coming out. Maybe I should just accept this is the way I am and embrace it. Stop trying to fix myself.

But I do love a project and what better subject than myself? Now please excuse me while I go and prioritise my to do list.