All my own work

There’s a moment at school pick up time that all parents dread. Home time has begun like any other, everyone smiling awkwardly at each other as we wait for our children to be released. The door opens and a look of abject fear passes on all our faces as the teacher appears with a gargantuan junk model. Everyone is thinking the same thing, "please god don’t let that monster sculpture be coming home with me". An audible sigh of relief can be heard amongst the crowd as some poor woman attempts to balance a creation the size of a block of flats on the top of her buggy, to screaming protests from the toddler within, while older sibling, the proud sculptor, explains that its his chocolate sorting machine and has to have pride of place in the home forevermore. Everyone else smiles at her sympathetically, while thinking “thank fuck for that.”

But you’ve got to admire the kid’s creativity. And at least they made them themselves.

The trouble with school is there are far too many opportunities for parents to elbow their kids aside and flex their own creative muscles. And the most irritating thing to me is that schools allow this to go on.

There was a pumpkin carving competition a few weeks ago at school. Being new to the whole “school mum” thing, I presumed this was something for older children to enter. And given that son number one has only just turned five and can barely get out of bed without giving himself a black eye, handing him a pumpkin and a sharp carving device could only have resulted in yet another trip to A&E. So I had expected lots of crudely carved pumpkins, scary only when you consider the danger of a seven year old wielding a paring knife. Imagine my surprise to find that the majority of the entries were beautifully carved examples, which would not have looked out of place at an elaborate Autumnal wedding (I can spot a beautiful pumpkin because I have carved pumpkins for an Autumnal wedding). Surely a seven year old didn’t do that?

I am torn between feeling incredibly miffed that I hadn’t been informed that this type of thing goes on (the man and me are expert pumpkin carvers and would have thrashed the competition), and my belief that parents should not be allowed to help children with this kind of thing.

It just seems so unfair that the children of mothers like me, who believe that children’s competition entries should be all their own work, are competing against competitive mothers who wait for child to go to bed before getting out the glue gun and doing an online Hobbycraft order totalling a mortgage payment. The crafty (in both senses of the word) mums always win, leaving the kids who have entered their own creations heartbroken.

Thankfully I have yet to experience this myself but other mums have told of five year olds being given elaborate projects to do as homework. Most five year olds can barely write their own names, yet are expected to produce a project detailing the lifecycle of a volcano. But like the dedicated parents we are, most people will gamely stay up till 3am to complete a project for their child. Please tell me that the teachers in charge of our children’s early education are clever enough to be aware of this? And don’t they realise that a) having parents completing pupil’s projects is completely defeating the object of setting the task in the first place and b) parents have far better things to do that sit up half the night printing out pictures and ripping scientific explanations off Wikipedia?

On principle, I have told myself that I will never do a project or competition entry for either of my children. But when I saw those beautiful pumpkins I could feel my resolve weakening. How easy would it be to slip into competitive mum mode and show off how creative I can be with the junk modelling when I really set my mind to it? And I do love a good project. I can understand why people do it, I really can.

Yesterday I got a letter home about the Christmas Fayre, and there was an invitation to enter a homemade cake. The letter specifically said “Dear Parents” and the invitation to enter a cake did not mention children at all, so I may have found my opportunity to shine without compromising my principles. Not one to be competitive usually, I like to think I am the queen of cakes round here and this could be my chance to earn and defend my crown. There might just be a new competitive mummy in town. And I won’t be passing it off as my son’s cake, I want all the credit for this one thank you very much.

Keeping up appearances

You’ve got to feel sorry for celebrities sometimes. Being followed and papped at every available opportunity can’t be much fun (although the money and the celebrity friends make up for it a bit, no doubt).

Poor old Kelly Clarkson got a load of stick about a month ago for going out without any makeup on. Admittedly she looked nothing like the Kelly Clarkson we know, in fact you’d be forgiven for walking straight past her, she looked like a bit like Sonia from Eastenders, aged 12. But to me, she still looked lovely and fresh and clean, although not as glamorous as you would expect of a celebrity.

My problem is that as much as I love to wear makeup and make an effort to look groomed, quite often I just forget. I went to Sainsbury yesterday and realised when I got home that I had a blob of something as yet unidentified in my hair (could’ve been pumpkin soup, could’ve been treacle, who knows), I was too busy remembering to write porridge oats on my list that I just didn’t think to look in the mirror before I left. Epic fail.

But at least I didn’t run into anyone I knew, and at least there was no one waiting to take a picture from a highly unflattering angle and put it in the paper, just a funny look from the check out girl which didn’t click until I got home and looked in the mirror.

Personal grooming has taken a noticeable dip since having children, particularly the second time around. I have two other people‘s appearance and well being to consider before my own so rarely get around to myself. I’d love to have the time to put on a full face of makeup and do my hair everyday, but mostly a swipe of mascara has to suffice.

As a result of repeatedly over zealous playtime with his brother and friends, son number one has spent the last year or so with a perpetual black eye. I took him to casualty last weekend because he had a lump on it that hadn’t gone down for 2 weeks. It turned out to be a haematoma, a sack of blood surrounding a bruise, commonly found on boxers. It came just in time for his first ever school photo, so at least he had a nice big shiner for that. He is also a picker. He’s had a bite on his face for nearly 6 months that he won’t stop picking, I keep warning him that he’ll have a hole in his face if he doesn’t let it heal, and he stops, but I know for a fact he picks it when I’m not looking. He also has massive hair, rarely brushed, he’s a standard five year old ragamuffin.

I don’t do ironing as a rule, I just can’t see the point, but now that son number one is at proper school, with his persistent black eye and huge hair, I worry that he will have “sloppy appearance” forever and indelibly marked on his school file. So I now find myself joining the ranks of the other mothers who spend Sunday morning ironing school uniform, hoping that a crisp trouser crease will detract from his otherwise unkempt appearance.

I tell myself that I don’t care about what people think, and appearances don’t matter, it’s what’s inside that counts, but we all know that most people don’t think like that, as the media interest surrounding Kelly Clarkson’s naked face has proved.

It’s like with the house. I love my house to be clean and tidy, I’d love it to be like that all the time, but the sheer effort it takes just to keep on top of the marmite smears on the curtains and bodily fluids dripping out of the sides of nappies on to the floor is more than enough. That extra level of cleanliness and neatness eludes me. It lacks polish, as do I.

One day I will work out how some people manage to keep a perfect house, have ironed, scab free children AND a full face of makeup before 830am (there must be some secret to it) but until then people will just have to take me as they find me, sticky hair and all.

Living the dream

I had a bad dream the other day, the stabby, slashery kind. I woke up when in my dream I got so scared I couldn’t breathe. Bolt upright, heart pounding, trying the shake the feeling of imminent danger that was hanging over our lives, I attempted to rouse the man from his slumber. I told him I was scared because I had a bad dream, he just said “oh bless” and turned away, still snoring. So I had to get over my dream myself, sitting in the brightly lit bathroom, doing breathing exercises and reminding myself that I was safe. And feeling like a right tit.

The dream was so vivid and real that it got me thinking how does my brain manage to conjure up these images?

Like many people, my imagination (conscious or unconscious) can easily put me into most scenarios – good and bad. My mind makes connections with things I see and goes off in it’s own little world. I could see a National Lottery sign and imagine the feeling of getting the final number, then spend the next twenty minutes shopping in Kings Road and eating at The Bluebird (anyone else watch Chelsea?). On the other hand while waiting to cross the road, I might see a lorry, and imagine what it would feel like to be crushed beneath those huge wheels, bones shattering, brain exploding all over the road. It wasn’t my mind that thought that up. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve seen people run over in films or TV programmes. What can I say? I’m from the Casualty generation, I can’t have a chip pan in my house because it means hideous burns covered in cling film, not yummy chips.

I admit to totally over indulging my imagination, enjoying the sensation of letting a thought fly, on the off chance that I stumble upon a really enjoyable daydream. I also have an expert ability to multi task, so I could be paying for coconut and mango shampoo in Poundland but in my head I’m on a dessert island building a coconut phone and feeding bananas to a pet monkey. I’ve seen Treasure Island (and a million and one films and programmes with similar scenarios), haven’t we all? That’s what makes it so easy to think these thoughts.

So it begs the question if a person had never seen such images, good or bad, on TV, the internet, wherever, would they avoid having these kind of dreams and thoughts? Or would our minds come up with some way of filling in the gaps?

It’s out of our hands really. I try to protect my kids from seeing bad things but in a trip down the Halloween aisle in Sainsburys last week there were plenty of disturbing masks and costumes to fuel a juicy nightmare or two. And even if you can avoid supermarkets (or just leaving the house) in the month leading up to Halloween, a fairy story or even a kids film will provide enough baddies and villains to scar a person for life. Poisoned apples (“I’m not eating that apple, I’m far safer with a McDonalds”), Sleeping Beauty (“what if I don’t wake up for a hundred years? I better stay up and watch another episode of Fireman Sam”) even Toy Story (“don’t send me to nursery what if there’s a mean bear that smells like strawberries, come to think of it I’m not eating strawberries either”). And even if you can protect them from all of that, there’s the news, far more terrifying because it’s all real.

So how are we to protect our children, indeed ourselves, from images and scenes which could fuel bad dreams and anxiety?

We don’t and we can't.

I like my finely tuned imagination, even if it does occasionally get me into trouble (bad dreams, dark thoughts, even secret crushes – don’t ask, I’ll never tell), I’ll take all those dodgy things just to enjoy the infinite opportunities for joyous dreams and imaginary scenarios, and the ability to entertain myself even when I’m bored out of my wits (long journeys, meetings with mortgage advisors/builders/architects/anything to do with building really, when I hope the man is listening because I’m too busy imagining what it would be like to stand on the moon and look back at the earth). I just need to learn to block out the bad and nurture the good.

And maybe that’s what we need to focus on with our kids. How to filter the bad stuff. Coping mechanisms for the horrid things they will inevitably come into contact with in our world today, not matter how fiercely we protect them. They will watch horror films aged 12 with their mates and a can of Top Deck (showing my age), whether we forbid them or not. But even if by some amazing coincidence they don’t, not matter how much we try to protect them, they will experience the dark side of life, we just need to help them focus on the good.

There’s nothing wrong with a little daydreaming, it can provide a welcome and useful holiday from real life. As long as you’re not so busy daydreaming or worrying about what might be that you forget to appreciate all the great stuff that is real and right in front of you.

Very few people have no imagination. Most of us, like me, can be living an incredibly vivid day dream while doing the most mundane of tasks. I used to worry that this made me a little crazy, but the more I talk to people, the more I realise I’m the same as everyone else. It’s just we don’t often like to admit it, in case people think we’re mad. Reading this blog post back to myself, I suppose they’ve got a point, but life is mad. Enjoy it and live the dream. The good ones anyway.

Sorry...

...but I’m one of those people who apologises at the drop of a hat. In fact I’d probably apologise if you dropped your hat, such is my nature to apologise for things that are nothing to do with me.

It might be polite to apologise if you have done something wrong, but I have taken it to extremes and now seem to preface almost every sentence with “sorry”: “Sorry you stepped on my foot” “Sorry but could you tell me where I could find the frozen peas please?” “Sorry I’m in your way” “Sorry my kids are so noisy” or drop it in at the end “Excuse me, sorry”. In fact I’m thinking of getting “sorry” tattooed on my forehead then I could be pretty much mute.

Being overly apologetic is supposedly a very British affliction. But I don’t notice many other people saying sorry as much as I do. I think it’s my most used word after “no” (but that comes with the territory of being a mother to two boys).

I have always apologised a lot but didn’t become an extreme apologiser until I became a mum and felt like I was constantly having to apologise for my kids “I’m so sorry my child just pushed your child down the slide”, “I’m so sorry my son just pushed your child into the ball pit”. I have become so used to having to apologise for my kid’s behaviour that when the tables are turned and they are on the receiving end I don’t know what to say: “Sorry, do you mind not hitting my child over the head with that foam frog? He doesn’t like it, sorry.” It is completely ineffective and frankly weak. But if I was the kind of mother who shouted “OY, if you don’t stop hitting my kid with that foam frog I’m gonna give you a smack with that massive Lego block over there, see how you like it” I might get some results.

My mum has been staying with us and she went to the shops yesterday, came home and said “Sorry, I bought myself something” Um, and why does that qualify an apology to me? She said “Well I didn’t get one for you.” I just laughed (didn’t want a pot plant anyway), because that is exactly the kind of pointless apology I churn out day after day.

Being assertive is one thing. Being rude is quite another. But I don’t think it’s easy to find the right balance. Madonna recently got some stick for being a bit ungracious when she received a hydrangea from a fan. After thanking him with a smile she immediately put the hydrangea on the floor and said to her friend “I absolutely loathe hydrangeas”. OK, that comment could have waited until after the press conference, when her microphone was turned off, but it wasn’t like she said it to his face. She did say thank you after all. See I am the complete opposite. I would have made a massive show about how kind it was and how much I loved it, so much that they would think “ooh she obviously loves hydrangeas” and I would then get them every year for the rest of my life (for the record I do actually like hydrangeas, it’s carnations I can’t stand, but you would never know that if you got them for me).

It does bring up an etiquette issue though. If you don’t like something are you better off to admit it and apologise “Thank you so much but I’m sorry I don’t care for hydrangeas” or just, as I was always taught, say thank you, be gracious and smile. We’re working on teaching the kids to be gracious around food. Son number one is pretty picky. But I find it absolutely infuriating and incredibly rude when people say “I don’t like that” to someone who has cooked something for you. If someone is good enough to cook for you, you eat it and shut up or go hungry. Good manners 101. Son number 1 is getting to the age where I am not always there to correct bad behaviour and am paranoid that he is going to be invited to tea with a friend, be served up liver and say “Yuck I don’t like that.” I would be absolutely mortified (I can’t stand liver but I use it as an example because I would try to eat at least one bite, then probably apologise too much for vomiting all over the carpet, although that is probably one of those situations where over apologising is entirely appropriate). So, in preparation for that day we are trying to teach him to at least try everything on his plate, and leave whatever it is he doesn’t like on the side and say nothing. Anything else, including unappreciative face making or uttering a single word of disgust is completely unacceptable.

Saying sorry in every single sentence I utter has become another entry on my very long list of bad habits that I need to break.

Sorry this post has been a bit long. Are you an over apologiser?

If mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy

I’ve been working on my “things I should have read/watched/done/understood by now” list (it’s quite extensive) and I’m reading Little Women on the Kindle app on my phone. I’m a bit late to the whole kindle thing, I prefer to actually hold a book, feel its paper and sniff its pages (nothing kinky, I just like books) but we have to sit with the boys until they fall asleep at night (lest they trash their bedroom and not sleep til the early hours) and I wanted something to do in the dark that was a bit more productive than playing Angry Birds.

So anyway “Marmee” in Little Women, the gentlest, kindest woman you could ever meet, admits to having an anger problem, and says she often needs to disappear for a moment to compose herself. This struck me as pretty inspiring, given that she is the mother of four girls (imagine the hormones in that house) whose husband is away in the forces and she doesn’t even have CBeebies or the Xbox to shut them up when they get bored.

Apart from the screaming rows I had with my mum as a teenager, I’m not a very shouty person. I hate confrontation of any kind and am more likely to sulk or have a panic attack if I’m angry. That all changed when I had kids. Suddenly shouting until I was hoarse became as every day as making a cup of tea.

I don’t like myself when I shout. It doesn’t make me feel any better about the situation, it just makes me, and everyone around me, more stressed. I hate the thought that my kids might look back and remember me snarling at them, and I don’t actually think it makes the slightest difference in their behaviour. It doesn’t even scare them anymore they got so used to it.

So in the last two weeks I have been making a concerted effort not to shout. I have found myself taking an awful lot of deep breaths, shaking with rage and wondering what on earth I was doing this for. But it’s getting easier, I am starting to realise that for me at least, getting angry and shouting was a bit of a habit, and like most habits, it can be broken with a little will power.

Amazingly, the general mood of the entire household has changed. There’s a saying “If mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy” which I never believed before. Living in an all male household, I thought no one even notices Mama let alone gives a crap whether she is happy or not.

But actually, the clues were there all along. I could never understand why the more I got cross, the more the man seemed to get cross too. If I was in a mood, he would instantly be in a mood too. I would get even more angry with him, “For goodness sake, can you not just let me be the pissed off one for once?” which of course didn’t help the situation.

We went to Legoland the other day. Family outings are usually the cause of so much stress that I have to take rescue remedy before I even get up. But while the old me would have been shouting and screaming, stressing and straining, and the man mirroring my behaviour, the new me was calm and collected, we left later than planned, the house still in a bit of a mess but the difference was clearly marked, everyone was happy and excited.

I have noticed a lot less shouting from the boys too. Everyone seems to be happier. But the biggest, most exciting change is in how I feel. I am getting better and better at keeping calm, more practised in the art of not getting angry, and I genuinely feel like I am much nicer to be around. The kids punishments are more conscious and have better results and I don’t wake up still feeling the remnants of yesterdays stress on my shoulders.

Whoever said you should let all your feelings come out had obviously never read Little Women. Maybe bottling things up is not good for you, but having a think about why you’re feeling the way you do and deciding whether or not it’s the most productive way to be, and becoming practised in the art of putting on a happy face even in times of stress is just good sense, because it not only makes yourself feel better, it makes others happy too. OK, having the mood of the entire family is just another responsibility for poor old mama to shoulder, but if Marmee can do it, so can I. 

Be Prepared

It’s 9am on Sunday morning and I have just realised in a panic that I am not going to be able to do my blog tomorrow, because later today we are going visiting my cousin and won’t be returning until tomorrow evening. Until now, come rain or shine, hell or highwater, I have managed to get out a blog on Monday and Friday and I won’t let that change now.

If I was better prepared I would have a blog post already done and dusted and tucked away all ready to pull on out occasions like these. But as we all know I’m not organised, at all.

I love the whole “be prepared” concept. I loved it when I was a Brownie and had to carry a safety pin in my brown leather purse strapped to a waist belt. I never ever needed that safety pin but the lesson stays with me and I still carry a safety pin in my handbag (again, I’ve never needed it, I’m not quite sure what I would need it for, but it gives me comfort knowing it’s there).

My mum takes being prepared to a whole new level. Her handbag is straight out of Mary Poppins. She has her purse plus an emergency purse, and in the days when we went on day trips a lot she would always carry her French purse too. Just in case while in Sainsburys she suddenly decided on an impromptu trip across the Channel and needed some Francs to get some cheap wine or baccy. Carrying three purses is quite a feat of being prepared. She used to carry a small kitchen knife as well as a tin opener, so she was ready when called upon to rustle up a tin of baked beans or slice a nectarine when out and about. Times have changed though, and she would probably be arrested if discovered carrying her innocent but potentially deadly kitchen implements, so she no longer does.

When you have kids being prepared becomes a bit of an art form. Tissues, wipes and raisins are absolute essentials, whether you are leaving the house for 5 minutes or five hours. Many a night out with my mates I have found myself trying to cram raisins into my tiny sparkly purse before I remember that as an adult going out on the lash I probably won’t need them, unless the kebab house is shut.

The man had a bit of a situation yesterday when he took the kids out for a couple of hours. The dudes are 5 and 2 now so we have recently stopped carrying a spare set of clothes for anyone, as we never seemed to need them. Big mistake. While sitting in MacDonalds happily eating his Happy Meal and flirting with some young pretty girls, son number 2 had a toilet situation which, according the man’s account, resembled an erupting volcano, as bright green poo rose from his waistband like expanding foam. It didn’t stop until it reached his armpits, and having no spare clothes, the man has to do his best clean up job in the toilet. Son number two had to spend the rest of the outing in nappy, socks and a hoody, while the man valiantly continued his errands, albeit slightly traumatised. Needless to say we will go back to carrying a spare set of clothing from now on.

But there has to be a limit. Any mum (or dad) knows the importance of raisins (or some form of snack), baby wipes and maybe a nappy. But how can you predict a Vesuvius nappy? Over the years I have been known to carry the following in the name of being prepared: plasters, hairbands and brush (both my boys have long hair), up to 6 nappies for a two hour outing, small packets of tissues, 2 changes of clothing, Calpol sachets (I always, ALWAYS have paracetamol and Imodium in my handbag, my mother carries the contents of a small chemist in hers), a colouring book and pens, a Lego figure or entire Lego Lightning McQueen, drink, an emergency drink, wellies in summer, toilet roll, M&S Percy Pigs (bribe material), a remote control (both babies liked to press buttons) and a Thomas the Tank Engine toilet seat. Looking at the list now I am panicking slightly that I ever risked leaving the house without any of that stuff.

The thing with being prepared is you can think you are going over the top until the moment when something happens and you actually need that thing you took out of your bag at the last minute. You can guarantee that there will be a smug mum saying “I ALWAYS carry a spare set of clothing for Aloysius” when you are desperately trying to wipe baby poo with a napkin and dry trousers in a public toilet with a hand dryer.

So I now need to get packed for our trip away. And I must resist the urge to be over prepared. My cousin has a child too so I won’t need to take too much, we’re only going for one night. 4 changes of clothes for each child should do the trick. And I’d better take the Thomas toilet seat. And plenty of safety pins.

Balancing Act

Before having kids the man and I said that we would never become those parents who let their kids take over their lives. We would have at least one date night a week, go on regular romantic mini breaks and would never lose sight of who we are as people.

6 years later, with Shrek playing on the PC and Cbeebies on the TV beside it in one room (son number 2 inches away from the screen flicking his head back and forth, ever said to your kid “you can’t watch two things at once!”? Well, you’re wrong) and Xbox Lego Harry Potter taking a battering in the other, the man and me hole up in our tiny kitchen (the only area where toys are not allowed, although as I write this I can see a number of infringements just from where I’m sitting) and I am suddenly reminded of our promise. How is it that we have allowed the kids to take over our world and lost the balance between being parents and being people?

The more I think of it the more I realise that balance is key in pretty much every single area of our lives. And most of us struggle to find it.

Our oven has gone haywire this week, it started a month ago when Expensive Cat knocked a speaker down off the fridge freezer and smashed two radiant rings of the ceramic hob. After we discovered the £300 excess on our home insurance we patched it up with a bit of cardboard box, and sellotaped the knobs of the affected rings down. But a month on, the oven bit of it now isn’t working properly either. Sometimes it will turn on and others it won’t, a problem when you’ve just defrosted a chicken ready for roasting, can’t exactly stick it in the microwave.

So we have spent the last week trying to work out how on earth we will manage to afford a new oven and bemoaning that as a result of said new oven, our promised family holiday (which was to be the first in 5 years) and romantic mini break (first time ever) next year may not happen. On the other hand, some very dear friends of ours are getting married and details of stag and hen weekends have been released. While initial reaction is to RSVP in the affirmative instantly (they are our friends, it’s an important time for them after all, we’ll find the money), on reflection we need to think about finding a balance. We are scraping together the money for the oven (and holiday), yet not even flinching at going on hen and stag weekends which will cost almost as much. We need to find some kind of balance between spending money on kitchen appliances and leisure breaks for the family, and being there for our friends.

I don’t think I will ever find a balance between binging on chocolate and dieting, being lazy and obsessively working out. The key is a healthy, balanced diet, and regular exercise with a balance between cardio and strength training, you hear it all the time. But even though I seem to comfortably maintain my weight with my “good during the week, naughty at weekends” philosophy, I don’t feel as if it’s particularly balanced. Wouldn’t a balanced person find a happy medium between “good” and “naughty”?

If my life were a set of scales I feel like it would be frantically swinging up at one side and down at the other, I just can’t get my scales to balance in the middle.

I have been trying to come up with a conclusion to this blog for ages. Usually I can say how I think I could find a balance, offer some kind of pearl of wisdom as to how I think other people do it. But I honestly don’t think there is any such thing, no one has a perfect balance because we all have a finite amount of money and time, and constantly shifting priorities.

Maybe at the moment our kids are taking over our house and we’re feeling the weight of the scales being tipped heavily in their direction, and maybe those scales are also leaning closer to having safe kitchen appliances and being able to roast a chicken rather than holidays and hen do’s, but there will come a time when the scales tip back the other way. I hope so because I want to reclaim my sitting room, watch something other than Shrek and actually be able to afford a flipping romantic mini break for the first time in my life.

Miss/Mrs/Ms? Just say Ma'am

I was having some problems getting into my PayPal account the other day, so I reluctantly phoned them to try and get it sorted.

Before I could speak to an actual human being I had to get through the dreaded talking menus (“Do you need to speak to an operator?” “yes!” “Did you say… No?” “No, I said y…e…s.” “I heard… No. Is that correct?” “No!” “Did you say… No?”), I usually stay quiet not only out of principle but inability to get the damn thing to understand me. I got through the first few levels of menu with no problem; it then said “Please state your issue”. I was so thrown by having to describe my problem in a sentence that an inanimate object would understand that I got quite muddled up “I can’t log into Facebook… no eBay… no I mean PAYPAL, for Christ sake you’re not going to understand that are you?” I then had an agonising 10 seconds of Flight of the Bumblebee (seriously, could they have chosen a more infuriating piece of music?) before I was transferred to a lovely American man who said “The computer says you can’t log into your PayPal account, is that correct Ma’am?” So the computer understood me after all, that’s pretty impressive.

Thumbs up to PayPal because not only was my problem dealt with swiftly but I found the repeated use of the word “Ma’am” quite refreshing. Too many companies these days insist on first name basis, which I utterly despise. If you don’t know me, and are taking my money, please find the most respectful way of addressing me, at least by second name. “Ma’am” is a nice way to avoid wading through the Mrs, Ms., Miss minefield.

A couple of years ago the European Parliament caused outrage when it requested all staff to use Ms. in place of Miss and Mrs. People were highly offended by being forced to use Ms., I don’t blame them, being forced to precede your name with such a horrid sounding syllable would piss me off too.

When we bought our apartment in Ibiza, the deeds referred to the man as ‘Don’ and me as ‘Doña’. It is a basic polite form. The man took great pleasure in the fact that he was ‘The Don’. I just liked that I didn’t have to address whether I was married, unmarried, divorced or whatever anytime I filled out a form.

It’s alright for men. They have it easy. They start off as Master, then at age 16 (or sometimes 18) it’s automatically Mr. Their marital status doesn’t even come into it, it’s a far more dignified process.

I don’t understand why it is different for women. Years ago, Mrs and Miss worked in the same way as Mr and Master. It was an age thing. Derived from the term Mistress, (nothing to do with the current more provocative meaning) Mrs denoted the woman of the household, Miss was the daughter.

I have stubbornly hung onto the title “Miss” for my entire adult life. I’m not married, I don’t plan to be, so why change it? But now I am well into my thirties I would like a more distinguished title, one that doesn’t make me sound like a wrinkly old spinster from a Charlotte Bronte novel.

I hate the word Ms with a passion. Not only does it sound horrid (Mzzzzzz) but it has weird connotations. They may as well put the dot in the middle and replace it with a question mark because Ms automatically makes people suspicious, is she a Mrs or a Miss? Why is she using Ms.?

If I could call myself Mrs I could also call the man “my husband” and be done with it. Without having to choose between “my boyfriend” (sounds like we’ve been together 2 weeks) or “my partner” (is her partner male or female?).

Anyway. I’m not planning on getting married any time soon, although I am the ‘mistress’ of the house. It’s all so flipping complicated. So I kind of get where they were going when then brought out this Ms thing. I just wish they had come up with a word that didn’t make me sound like a defective bumblebee.

Of course, someone (take note the man) could always buy me a nice title like “Lady” for Christmas. That would be far more befitting of my stature.

Who's That Girl?

I got a few boxes of my stuff down from my mums loft last weekend. I still have so much stuff (crap) up there that I have stored over the years and I thought it was time to start transferring it now that I’ve got a loft of my own.

The boxes have sat untouched for ten years. Countless folders stuffed full of letters from friends and family, my University coursework (a concrete reminder that I was clever once, before the fug of motherhood and years of pickling my brain in alcohol set in), a programme from a Chippendales show I went to (seriously, the Chippendales???!!!), Reading Festival programmes, the obligatory Boyfriends Box, an envelope of things from my very early childhood including a home typed by me certificate of adoption for my Cabbage Patch Kid (all my friends CPK’s came with a certificate, mine didn’t which is highly suspicious, maybe my CPK was illegitimate?), random collections of giraffes and Lion King memorabilia, and a huge scrap book of all my Kylie and Jason clippings. Yes I know, how sad.

Looking through the boxes has been a very strange and fascinating journey. All this stuff doesn’t even feel like it belongs to me. The owner is familiar, maybe someone I might have met before but can’t quite place.

The truth is I’m not that person anymore, I don’t feel like I ever was. It makes me squirm to think of some of the things I did and said, particularly in my terror years age 13-21 (when I thankfully met the man and everything seemed to slot into place). Who was that provocative, loud vixen in platform trainers (still can’t get over that one, I blame the Spice Girls) who used to occupy my body?

I now know, with the benefit of hindsight, that it wasn’t me at all. She was just a child trying to make sense of the world, work out who she was, someone actually very self conscious and anxious, not that you would have known it at the time. I was trying on different coats for size until I found one that fits. And I think that’s what growing up is, we’re all trying on different coats until we find one that fits us perfectly and we can become comfortable in our own skin.

It’s a tricky business, piecing together which parts actually were me, and which were trial runs. Chippendales concert: not me, Reading Festival programmes: me, Uni coursework: me (thankfully), random collections: not me, typing up my own certificate of adoption for my Cabbage Patch Kid: erm, well that does sound like something I would do.

So now that I’ve reacquainted myself with this person what do I do now? Do I keep her or throw her away?

When I told big bro yesterday that I had found my Uni coursework, he said “My coursework made no sense to me, I binned it and kept the text books.” My text books were the first thing to go, I can’t imagine throwing my work away, it really is a part of me.

We all have to decide what, if any, reminders of our old selves we want to hang on to. The hardcore clutter experts say you should keep nothing that isn’t highly useful, highly practical or seriously sentimental. I don’t consider myself particularly sentimental and a lot of this stuff just makes me cringe. But despite the fact that most of it represents a person that I don’t even recognise, I won’t throw her away. I’ll put her back in my loft along with the other ill-fitting discarded coats from the years. To be got out and remembered but never worn again.

This Is What The Fuss Is Really About

Since October 5^th all I seem to hear and see everywhere is Steve Jobs. He keeps cropping up in the news, blogs (!) and internet forums. All I knew about him was he had something to do with Apple and he died. What was all the fuss about? I didn’t understand why his death seemed almost as newsworthy as Princess Di’s.

Last night while waiting for the man to watch the Grand Prix so I could catch up on X Factor, I was aimlessly surfing, and again Steve Jobs kept cropping up. He must have been someone pretty important. Clearly I should know more about him.

Steve Jobs was adopted into a working class family and had a fairly normal upbringing. He dropped out of University after one semester, fearing that he was draining his family’s finances, returning Coke bottles to make up his food money and eating at a local charity food scheme.

From these humble beginnings, Jobs carved out a hugely influential and successful career in the computer industry, founding Apple with Steve Wozniak and Ronald Wayne, then being fired and branching out into graphics, by purchasing Pixar which went on to create highly successful animated films with Disney.

Jobs then returned to Apple after his computer company NeXT was bought by Apple. They went on to create the iPod, iPhone and iPad. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Regardless of whether or not Jobs invented these products (or whether it was some faceless employee of Apple) no one can deny the impact Steve Jobs had on our daily life. I don’t use Apple products, but you can’t exactly miss them. That’s pretty impressive for a company created in his parents garage.

But I don’t think it’s so much the creation of these (some might say life changing) products that has made the life of Steve Jobs such a newsworthy story. The truth is, he is the perfect example of someone who just wouldn’t give up. He had a dream, a pretty big one, and he didn’t let hiccoughs along the way stop him from getting things done. For me, a self confessed self help addict, who has read countless books about how success is a state of mind, it’s more about how you think than what you do, Steve Jobs is the perfect antithesis of all that. Yes he dreamed, yes he thought, but he didn’t let that thinking get in the way of actually doing.

So many of us say we can’t do this until we have got that, waiting for that moment in the future when everything falls into place and we can start doing things. We think that one day we will be thin, be rich, have a qualification, have more time, but what if we never do? What a waste of a life sitting around waiting to be happy. Steve Jobs didn’t let a lack of qualifications or money stop him from founding Apple, he just got on with it. I firmly believe that most of the things that we’re waiting for are probably just excuses for being too scared or not believing in ourselves.

Too many of us worry about what people think of us, what people might say. Steve Jobs did not listen to people who thought he couldn’t do it. Even when he was fired from the very company he created. He just quietly went about proving them wrong. He didn’t listen when people said the world had PC’s they didn’t need another computer system. He had the courage to believe he knew what people needed and wanted before they knew themselves. He fully and unquestionably believed in himself, and this to me, is what makes him so inspiring.

Steve Jobs isn’t the only influential entrepreneur to die at a young age, or the only successful person to come from an unspectacular background, but he was a pretty fascinating person who leaves behind a very inspiring legacy.

From someone who I had barely heard of, to someone who has impacted my thinking, and my doing, in less than a week. Fair play to you, Steve Jobs.

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma – which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of other’s opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.” – Steve Jobs, Stanford Commencement Speech 2005