Time flies...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whose Christmas is this anyway?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Girl in uniform

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guest post from Manic Motherhood

I have a special treat for you today, a guest post from my bloggy sister across the Atlantic, Laurie Sontag. Laurie writes a fantastic blog called Manic Motherhood, a mom's tales of navigating the wild waters of her son's teenage years by hiding in her closet waiting for puberty to be over. Read more at http://lauriesontag.com or on Facebook/manicmotherhood.

I have a confession to make. It’s a big confession – and it’s one that is slightly embarrassing. First, you should know that usually, I am a perfectly ordinary parent of a teenager. Yes, I have been known to lose my mind on occasion and wear jammie bottoms in the carpool line, but other than that I am a normal parent with a normal life.

Except that I might just be a bit obsessed with the UK.

And by “a bit,” obviously I mean I am completely obsessed and in fact may need therapy. You know, just so you’re clear about it. Of course, there is no possible way I would ever be able to live in the UK, so you can all breathe easier. My husband prefers to live in the sunshine of California, where he’s always lived. So no crazy, Brit-obsessed Americans are coming to live in London soon.

Unless you count Gwen Stefani. Oh, and Gwynneth Paltrow.

Anyway, my obsession with the UK started when I was young. My cousin and I spent hours watching public television because it was the only TV station my aunt let us watch when we were at her house. So we saw a ton of Monty Python – which made much more of an impact on us than the specials they showed on the rainforest and world overpopulation. You know, because we’re shallow that way.

Also? We were quite devoted fans of the Bay City Rollers. And by “quite devoted,” I mean we were crazed young girls who thought we would grow up and marry them. Ahem. Yeah, that’s a bit embarrassing to admit. Actually, that might even verge on humiliating.

Of course, our craziness didn’t just include watching the Monty Python men dress up as women (really; what the heck was that all about anyway?) or listening to S A T U R D A Y Night a billion times. Nope, it moved into what can only be described as stalking. Yes, I admit this. We were not even teenagers – heck, we didn’t even wear training bras at that point – and yet we were crazy stalkers who had decided that we loved anything British, up to and including your Queen.

So one night, after a marathon of Monty Python and way too many Pepsi’s, we actually called the Queen. Not surprisingly, she didn’t answer her phone. An operator did and was quite nice to two young girls who clearly needed to be medicated and reassured us that, indeed, the Queen was fond of the Bay City Rollers, although she didn’t have a favorite. Not surprisingly, the Queen never returned our call. Presumably, she had other queenly stuff to do like address Parliament or something.

And I think you now have a clear picture now of why I had some issues making friends in elementary school.

But I’ve moved on since those days. Yes, because I am now a mature, responsible parent of a slightly wayward teen I no longer expect to speak the Queen. Instead, I have returned to my love of British TV.

I started watching again with AbFab. Seriously? Who could not love Edina and Patsty? They shopped! They drank! They smoked! They burnt down houses! They were like my dream come true of what I wanted to be when I grew up and moved to the UK. Except for Patsy’s hair, of course. I think she had a bunch of birds living in that beehive at one point.

Once I finished with AbFab, I moved onto the serious stuff, like Footballer’s Wives. Oh, I loved that show. I swear to you, nobody does baby switches like British. We’re talking smut and danger and drugs and naked men in a locker room. What’s not to love? Not so much the other show that came out of it - Extra Time. I watched one episode and they were doing unspeakable things with a vacuum cleaner. Let me just say that I don’t want my Dyson doing that. Ever.

And then I became slightly nutty over My Family – which is still my favorite. And I love Law & Order: UK, even though it hasn’t been the same since they got rid of the cute cop. Not to mention that I have trouble understanding some of the accents.

But don’t worry. I’m sure my obsession is limited to your TV shows. Unless I can find a way to have my husband get a job over there without having him actually know he’s applied for one. And I’ll have to figure out how to move the whole family there without anyone knowing what I’m really doing.

But I bet there’s an episode of Footballer’s Wives that will show me how to do just that.

Add http://lauriesontag.com/ to your favourites now! And if you would like to guest post for me, or would like me to guest post for you, get in touch bethanyritchie@gmail.com

Who wants to be a millionaire?

Not me. All those flash holidays, big cars and houses with no woodchip wallpaper, you can keep it. OK, I’ll take the flat walls but I’m not sure whether or not the time and dedication that goes into being rich is really worth the hassle. I don’t have enough time or energy to paint my toenails these days (seriously, it’s been months) let alone spend all my time looking for the next buck.

There are two ways of being good with money. Making money and saving money. From what I understand, you need to be good at both if you want to be rich. Last week two programmes aired on TV that seemed to explore both sides of money management.

The first was about the increasing popularity of wealth seminars. That is, courses that claim that they can teach anyone how to get rich. Some of them unveil the mystery behind the property and stock market, but many more of them teach a certain frame of mind supposedly common to people who have been successful at making money. Apparently rich people spend a lot of time standing in front of mirrors doing their affirmations, constantly repeating totally untrue statements about themselves, until they eventually start to believe them and magically things start to change.

Can anyone really be rich if they set their mind to it? I know a lot about how state of mind can change results because of my self help habit. There is always an affirmations section in self help books but I tend to skip that bit because if I had five minutes a day to stand in front of a mirror telling myself lies I wouldn’t have flaky toenail polish.

We all know I have a pretty serious self help addiction, but one area of self help I’ve never ventured into is get rich quick. To me it seems the best way to get rich quick is to write a book or a website about how to get rich quick (maybe I need a bit of that action), but this seemed to escape most of the people on the programme who attended these seminars. As did the irony of getting themselves into thousands of pounds worth of debt in order to pay for them. Then standing up and blithely affirming themselves a “good money manager” as part of their daily rituals.

The programme that explored saving money was The Ultimate Guide to Penny Pinching, on which one woman exploited coupons to buy sixty quids worth of shopping for a tenner. I watched with interest at the prospect of a UK version of Extreme Couponing (an American show about people who manage to get thousands of dollars worth of shopping for just a few dollars by exploiting coupons and offers), because I really didn’t think it would ever be possible in this country, what with Rottweiler like cashiers who growl savagely at you if you attempt to use a coupon that is in date, for something you are actually buying and fully complying with all T&C’s. But the woman who used the coupons was just barmy (and is, according to recent reports, allegedly now banned from her local Tesco). At one point she was talking about how they had lived off microwave burgers for weeks, her son kept saying “they were disgusting” but she kept saying “they were fine, they were fine” while smiling crazily at the camera. Then she and her husband sat down to chicken and vegetables for dinner, while her children ate a frozen pizza, which the son had again said he didn’t like but she had insisted he eat it so she could claim the money back using the coupon on the box. I think the programme was deliberately edited to make her look a bit insane but you’ve got to expect it when you put yourself forward for a programme like that. I love using coupons but even I wouldn’t buy stuff just for the sake of getting the money back, or force my kids to eat microwave crap while I eat healthy stuff. I would at least eat the crap myself.

The road kill man was admirable, driving around country lanes and picking up anything freshly killed, from pheasant and squirrel to more randomly, badger. He then cooked up a barbie for all of his mates and refused to tell them what they were eating until they had eaten it. I don’t think I’d have a problem with eating road kill if someone else prepared it for me. Although I think I would draw the line at badger. But I don’t think the man would take up road kill hunting as a hobby even if I begged him.

I am rubbish at saving money and haven’t had much experience with making it either, so my financial history does not bode well for a wealthy future. But that may be set to change as I am now starting to think about my resolutions for next year and I think one of them needs to be to finally start understanding money, making some and learning to save it. But I don’t want to be a millionaire, I just want enough money to have flat walls once and for all. Anyone want to buy a book about how to get rich quick?

Mind your Language

I was taking son number 2 to preschool the other day and the car park is a public car park frequented by a load of kids on skateboards. I don’t have a problem with these kids, in fact my boys love to watch them on their skateboards, it’s a free country. But on this occasion, one lad, who had fallen off his skateboard, shouted “c***” at the top of his voice. And I surprised myself by being absolutely livid.

I’m not usually the kind of person to be offended by swearing. They are just words and do no harm, and I like to think that people are free to express themselves however they choose, but since having children I find myself becoming more and more offended by the language people use, not for myself, but in trying to protect my kids.

When son number 1 said the F-word aged 3 I was shocked at how upsetting I found it. Obviously he was reprimanded and hasn’t said it again. But why are swear words swear words? What is the difference between my kids stubbing their toe and saying “fiddlesticks” as opposed to “shit”? The meaning is the same.

To me people do far more offensive things every single day. Such as not saying their please and thank you’s and not apologising when they have been in the wrong, but often these things aren’t considered as bad as swearing. It’s perfectly OK to not apologise for skinning my ankle with your buggy, but highly offensive to say “bollocks” when it hurts. It’s a strange set of values.

Many people argue that swearing is just for ignorant people, devoid of the education needed to use language properly. To me, swearing is just a different way of expressing yourself and has no bearing on a person’s educational background, gender or age. In fact, you could argue that those with a colourful swearing vocabulary actually have more words at their finger tips than those who refuse to use slang.

I also don’t understand why some swear words are more offensive than others. Some people don’t have an issue with the word “sh*t” but they can’t stand the f word or the even more controversial, c word. I suppose if someone called me a “vagina” (I still can’t say that word without sniggering) I would probably be pretty upset about it, in the same way as someone called me a c-word. But they both mean the same thing don’t they? So why is one bad and one acceptable?

It is all down to the emotion behind the word and the situation you are in I suppose. Being a mum I’ve had to take the kids to the doctors with toilet trouble on more than one occasion and still find it impossible to say when they have had a “bowel movement” as opposed to a “poo”. But if you think about it, most words that we think of as swear words have 3 versions, the clinical (bowel movement), the everyday-some-people-might-be-offended word (poo), and the swear word (shit). Think about it. You can do it with most swear words, it’s great fun. Although I can’t see it catching on as a car game but school is always telling us parents to use games to increase kids vocab.

I have wrestled with this argument all morning, trying to think of just why people find these words offensive, and why I don’t have a problem with people swearing around me but I can’t stand people swearing around my kids. Kids might copy everything they hear and see but we can’t protect them from everything. I often worry (amongst other things) that my kids will grow up and get flesh tunnels then change their mind and take them out and end up with massive droopy ear lobes for the rest of their lives. But flesh tunnels are not considered offensive or something that shouldn’t be seen around kids. Loads of teenagers have them.

The crux of it all is, it doesn’t matter why swearing is offensive, there is no point in arguing the case for or against it. I’m sure we could debate this subject all day but it won’t change the fact that some people find things offensive and therefore, in certain situations, swearing should be avoided so as not to upset people. While researching this piece I came across a guy on a forum who said that swearing should be thought of in the same way as farting, used only when you really need to, when you can’t restrain yourself, for comedy value and/or only in the right setting, which I think is a pretty good set of rules to go by. Now piss off and enjoy your weekend.

Just a quick note – I am coming up to my hundredth post in the next few weeks and thought it might be fun to throw it out there and ask you guys if there was any topics you would like to see covered on my blog. No pressure, but it would be interesting to hear some of your ideas. Please comment anywhere on the blog or email me at bethanyritchie@gmail.com with your ideas. Please note this is NOT a competition, no rules apply and there are no prizes, sorry! J

Facebook killed the Christmas Card

It now appears to be socially acceptable etiquette to do a Facebook status update on Christmas day saying “Happy Christmas to everyone I know”, hoping that people might see it (on the off chance they are surfing Facebook and it pops up on their news feed), rather than send actual Christmas cards. This new way of doing things is attractive to me because it is potentially another thing I can strike off my bulging Christmas to-do list (or not put it on there in the first place). But I just can’t shake the feeling that I am not doing things properly. I am a proper grown up with a proper Christmas card list and everything, but every year around this time I am faced with the same dilemma, to send cards or not?

Christmas cards are a great way to reconnect with people you haven’t seen for a long time. Let them know that you still care in a personal way. Just like emails, which can be written in half the time without the need to buy stamps or go out in the cold to find a post box before the last posting dates for Christmas.

Houses bereft of cards at Christmas time is a pretty depressing state of affairs to find ourselves in, as I do, almost every year. I have never needed more than one short ribbon to display my own Christmas cards, how sad. Although since Son number 1 has been at preschool (and now big school) he seems to get one from everyone in the school (probably written by their mums, as I do his, which is not really in the spirit of things but better than nothing) which have to be displayed and this bumps up our numbers somewhat. My mum gets millions, strung up in every room as a free Christmas decoration and announcement to any visitor of how popular she is. Although technically she is cheating because a lot of her card buddies were inherited from her parents who came from a time when a card at Christmas was the only contact distant friends would have year on year.

I can’t bare the thought of another tradition dying out. Our kids already don’t understand cassettes, phones you had to stay in one place to use and only having 4 telly channels, what will become of them if we let Christmas cards die out? They can “talk” to their friends over Facebook, they don’t even need to be in the same room as each other to play games together, so won’t see the need for Christmas cards at all. But I really want them to experience the joys of Christmas cards. Getting an email is not the same as getting real post, where’s the excitement in a tiny “pop” sound compared to a nice thud of post on the mat?

I love to write Christmas cards in theory. I feel all festive sitting down with my address book and list, Christmas songs in the background, and writing a personal message in each one… “Congratulations on your exam results!”, “New house, how exciting!” “How is Uncle Bob’s hernia these days?”, for the first ten. After that they slowly get less and less elaborate until the last few unfortunate people on the list get “[names] Happy Christmas (which is already printed in the card) love [names]” I mean really, what is the point?

Stamps are expensive, cards are expensive, it’s all added cost at a time of year when we are already over spending and trying not to think about the fact that we will still need to eat in January. And don't think handmaking your cards will save you any money either, the craft shops saw us coming.

The environmentalists out there have the best excuse. Don’t send cards because they all end up in landfill anyway. You could argue that there are specialist recycling places which will recycle them for you. But we all know that despite the good intentions of most of us, Christmas cards get taken down and shoved in a pile on twelfth night, where they stay until March when they unceremoniously and guiltily get chucked in the bin when no one is looking. If you’re thrifty and organised (I would like to think I am both, but my bank balance and the fact that I still haven’t bought any Christmas presents tells me otherwise) you can cut up the cards to make tags for presents the following year. But then you are left with tags that don't match and its even more hassle and you still have to chuck half of it away.

I still don’t know what to do. I think there should be a national referendum about this, then at least everyone would be doing the same thing.

But just in case I don’t get around to sending Christmas cards this year, I want you all to know how special you are to me, each and every one of you. See? Who says the internet can’t be personal?

The Message

If my life had a soundtrack right now, it would be the chorus of Grandmaster Flash’s “The Message” which keeps going round and round in my head. In fact, if recent conversations with friends are anything to go by, those lyrics pretty much sum up the feeling of every woman out there at this time of year. You might wonder how an 80’s American rap song about inner city violence, drugs and poverty relates to a 21^st century English housewife, but if you read the lyrics below you might get a clue.

The man and me used to be a pretty good DIY team. But since we had kids, the man tends to do the work while I try and keep the kids from decapitating themselves with a circular saw, hammering a hole in the wall or transferring paint to a sippy cup to feed their dolly, or more scarily, themselves.

When we first looked around this house the woodchip in every room was a big problem for me but it was the sitting room with its 4 different designs of artex “decorating” the walls that filled me with the most dread. I knew we had a mammoth job on our hands and have been trying to ignore it but there is only so long you can tell yourself that the faux pub look is not skin crawlingly hideous.

So on Sunday morning, while the man and me were still revelling in our child free bliss, sitting in our PJ’s with a cuppa watching Something For The Weekend (it’s the little things), the man had a thought that maybe, just maybe the artex might just chip off. So we went at it with a butter knife and 5 days later no artex remains on the walls (shame the same can’t be said for our lungs, floors and sofas, being a spontaneous DIY job we didn’t take the usual precautions of masks and dustsheets).

But I was slack. In the midst of all this chaos, real life has to continue. Washing and cooking needs to be done, cleaning needs to take place, and lets not forget that 2 little people (one a two year old with a nasty cold, getting less sleep than even he is used to) also need to be fed, watered, kept (semi) clean and got to school on time. Oh and I also have a fledgling writing career and a writing course to attend to. But because I have been so occupied with DIY mayhem, I naively let everything except the bare essentials slip. Kids were fed and put to bed, but other than that, cleaning, washing and tidying (and even cooking) has taken a severe hit.

I thought I was coping with climbing over piles of dust covered stuff removed from the sitting room to get to bed, and that it didn’t matter that my washing pile wasn’t even a pile anymore, just random clothing draped across surfaces around the house. But this morning, after a harmless and only mildly sarcastic comment from the man, I got a bit weepy. He left to go to work, already late, son number 2 screaming because he’d thrown his Cheerios all over himself and son number 1 upset because he wanted to wear his Star Wars Tshirt and not his Superman T-shirt for dress down day, while Expensive Cats screamed at me for their breakfast, tripping me up as I tried to wipe Cheerio milk from the walls. Then I lost it. I shouted at son number 2 and walked off in a shaking rage.

The thing is, just the decorating, just the Superman T-shirt, just the 2 year old with a cold, just the housework, on their own are such tiny things that they hardly bare mention. But add it all up, plus the constant spectre of Christmas looming (and the knowledge that I haven’t done any Christmas shopping whatsoever, bad mummy) and it’s no wonder that women across the land are having meltdowns.

I have a sign in my kitchen that says “There are two choices for dinner, take it or leave it”, the words are good but the picture portrays a far more powerful message. It’s a 50’s housewive with a sparkling grin, immaculate hair, a nice pussy bow and a totally unnerving wild look in her eyes. It is a look that says “I’m smiling, I don’t have a hair out of place but I’m so close to the edge that if one person complains about their veg touching their sausage tonight they may end up with a fist in their mash.” But I know that this woman doesn’t just represent me. She represents every single woman out there, just skating along in the ice rink of life, enjoying the thrill but hoping we don’t smash into the ice and break a bone or three.

Son number 1 knows me so well. After my meltdown he calmly brought son number 2 to me and told him to apologise, then got the washing basket and filled it right up with as much washing as he could find. He came up to me and gave me a hug and said “I really like your look today Mummy”, then quietly went and put his Superman T-Shirt on. Take note all men, that’s how to deal with a woman on the edge.

Grandmaster Flash – The Message

(Chorus)
Don't push me cause I'm close to the edge
I'm trying not to lose my head, ah huh-huh-huh
It's like a jungle sometimes it makes me wonder
How I keep from going under
It's like a jungle sometimes it makes me wonder
How I keep from going under

Something from Nothing

For the first time ever I have really struggled with my blog today. I have had lots of ideas floating around for days, one in particular, but I didn’t strike when inspiration hit and now have written, re-written and started again and it still just doesn’t feel right. I’ve tried all the usual tricks, just get started and write. Set the timer, bullet points, everything, but nothing is working.

I just can’t seem to commit to anything today, and that is the crux of all creativity, indeed doing anything, taking an idea and committing to it.

The trouble with creating, whether it’s a blog post, a set of shelves or a work of art is always getting started, deciding which that is the best way to do something and being brave enough to allow it to take shape. And I think that is often what puts people off giving something a go. What if I do the wrong thing? What if I put my time and energy into something that isn’t right? But then if you don’t try you are putting your time and energy into nothing, and you will always be wondering what if?

We finally put in for planning permission for our extension in August, permission still hasn’t come through and that’s actually a good thing because we still haven’t decided what it is that we want. We have the bare bones of an idea, but the final layout is constantly changing. Because putting a building down on paper and actually committing to it are two different things. We will have to live with it for the rest of our lives, what if we do the wrong thing? There are so many things we can do, I can’t picture us ever committing to one idea (but we must because we need a second bathroom, I am fed up with having to share my shower time with a pooing child).

The man did a brilliant tiling job in our last flat. I thought it looked beautiful. But every day when he went in there he came out irritated and annoyed because he felt he could have done a better job. It would have looked better with smaller gaps, he had used the wrong size spacers, etc etc.

For me it was more important that we actually had tiles, white ones, not the brown (yes brown) tiles that resided there previously. If he had thought about it any more than he did, it may never have got done at all, and I was proud of him for creating a bathroom for us from a few boxes of tiles and bare walls.

Whether you like it or not you are always creating something. It might be a shepherds pie, a spreadsheet or a working car, but in every activity there is that same difficult time when you have to decide on how to do something and allow yourself to do it, and thinking too much and trying to get something just so is the enemy of getting things done. It’s the ultimate procrastination technique. If we all stood around all day trying to think of different ways to do something nothing would ever get done. And sometimes you just have to be brave and let it fly.

But maybe that is the thrill. Maybe that’s what I love about creating. You can never be sure how it will turn out in the end, maybe you’ll be proud of it, maybe you’ll wish you had never started it and be slightly embarrassed that it actually exists, but the journey, and the end result is why we do it. To be able to see that there is something where once there was nothing.

Clarification: In Fridays post I said the man had been on at me for years to watch the Twilight films and I apparently need to clarify that the only reason he said I should watch them is because he thought I would enjoy the story, not because he loves Twilight himself. He likes manly films like 300 with real men, lots of blood, gore and heavy weaponry. Sorry for any confusion or threats to masculinity caused.

On or off the bandwagon?

I haven’t seen any of the Twilight films. Not one. I suspect there will be few people out there who think that’s a bit weird. Like when I was 21 and found out that one of my friends had never tried cheese and onion crisps before. How can you get to 21 and have never tried cheese and onion crisps? The same way as getting to 33 without watching a Twilight film I suppose. (Incidentally I didn’t try a Pot Noodle until I was 23, which some people also thought weird, but it wasn’t that nice anyway so I haven’t tried one since).

One of the reasons I haven’t watched any of the Twilights yet is because they are supposed to be so amazing. Everyone seems to love them. It’s like one big Twilight bandwagon. And it’s not that I’m being strange for stranges sake, but in a weird way when loads of people love something it tends to put me off. There’s a sceptical part of me that feels like I’m just playing into those money makers hands by liking something. It’s not as if I’m the kind of person to end up buying a Twilight toilet roll holder, or some other equally pointless and offensive merchandise, but I would like to think that film makers need to work a little harder to impress me.

But the trouble is, as it often turns out, the masses are usually right. And the bandwagon is usually worth the ride.

It happened with the Harry Potter books. I didn’t read them at first because everyone was going mad about them, you couldn’t move for people saying how good they were. I was convinced Harry wasn’t my thing at all, and flatly refused to read them. Me? Like books about wizards and giants? Purrr-lease. But then I couldn’t take it anymore, I did read them, and realised that everyone kind of had a point. I hate it when that happens.

This week I read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon. It was another of those books that years ago lots of people were reading and saying how wonderful it was. So when I started my list of books I should have read by now I put that one down so that if people started talking about it again I could say I’d read it. I secretly hoped I would hate it, but I loved it. Grrr.

Anyway, this weekend is the man’s birthday. I always complain about his birthday because there’s nothing he wants and there’s nothing he wants to do. Not like my birthday. I make it nice and easy for everyone involved because I know exactly what I want and I know exactly what I want to do. But the man says there’s nothing he wants, so I end up buying him something rubbish and taking him somewhere that he’s not impressed with. And because it’s so much more satisfying to give than to receive I end up feeling rather cheated out of the joy you get from giving someone you love something they love. So, having managed to secure a child free 24hours (and as he has been on at me for years to watch the Twilight films), as a birthday gift to him, we are going to watch all three back to back. And I’m kind of looking forward to it. I saw a trailer for the new one and actually thought it looked good until it got to the end and it said it was the new Twilight. It kind of grated that it had tricked me like that.

There has got to be something good about it right? I have been reliably informed by many of my friends that they are worth watching just for the sexy men alone. I am yet to be convinced. From what I’ve seen in magazines I have not seen anything in R Pattz that presses my buttons, but everyone else seems to be in love with him so there must be something happening in the films that makes him irresistible.

But these things always get me in the end. Harry Potter, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, Pot Noodles… maybe I should just save myself some time and start trying these things when they first come out. Because when something is good, it’s good, and it makes no difference whether I refuse to get involved, it just means I could miss out on something really cool. But you will never, ever convince me about Pot Noodles.