Become who you are

A couple of years ago I jumped on the, then latest, now old hat, interior design bandwagon and furnished my kitchen with a series of postcards each bestowing words of wisdom. The obligatory “Keep calm and carry on” (now so over exposed in can be found in mud huts in the far reaches of outer Mongolia, but still conveys a good message), “Many hands make light work”, “Work hard and be nice to people” etc. But my very favourite of all of these is “Become who you are.” It reminds me every day that I can always reach higher, try harder or change anything about myself that I don’t like that day.

Still reading my Robin Sieger book (Natural Born Winners for those who missed my last post), he puts forth a theory that what we hear becomes real in our minds. So a small child who breaks something and is repeatedly told is clumsy, will forevermore believe himself to be clumsy. And as he believes it to be so, it comes true. We are all susceptible to this, whatever age we are. But it’s not just what we are told by others, it is also what we tell ourselves.

Take me and my BFF for instance. She is anally tidy, I am messy. We have a long running joke about how tidy she is, and what a slattern I am. This is in built in me now. So when I do decide to get the house tidy, it feels far more of an effort than it does for her, because I am constantly reminding myself that I will never, ever get the last Lightning McQueen sticker off my stripped pine doors, a pair of knickers rolled up on my bedroom floor has become a permanent Tracey Emin style design element of the room, and every time I open my purse a thousand receipts will always spring out because I never get round to clearing it out. That’s because I’m just messy and that is what I expect of myself. And in the same way, BFF would never dream of leaving the washing up until later (when it might be more convenient/less stressful) because she is being constantly reminded, not just by me but by herself, that she has neatness OCD.

But we all need to listen to ourselves and remember that nothing is set in stone. Who we are as people is constantly evolving, through life style, the company we keep, the jobs we do, and the organic nature of the human spirit means that we can all become who we are, whatever we want ourselves to be.

We all hate being put into boxes, and people seeing us a stereo type. Just because I’m a stay at home mum doesn’t mean I watch Jeremy Kyle every day (only sometimes, as a treat), just because someone is gay doesn’t mean they are camp etc. However irritating it is, many people will always expect us to be a certain way because of our lifestyle, how we look, religion, whatever. But so often we do it to ourselves, “I’m messy”, “I’m boring”, “I don’t like tomatoes”… but if we would allow ourselves to be anything we want, we usually can be.

According to Sieger, the key is listening to, and then challenging, the inner stereotypes we have of ourselves and remembering that we all have the choice to change, if we want to.

I have a short attention span, and an unquenchable thirst for trying new things. Over the years I have come to dislike this side of myself “I’m too faddy” “I never see anything through”. One day I’m in sensible shoes trying to be supermum, sewing my own curtains, getting early nights and worrying whether or not the sons have got their five a day, the next I’m throwing on a mini skirt and going out on the lash, without a care that I’m going to want to tear out my own eyes when the kids start jumping on me at 6am. But maturing as a person is all about becoming comfortable in your own skin, and I am learning that the ability to change and adapt is part of the journey, if we allow it to be.

So no longer am I shameful of my chameleon nature. I embrace reinvention and all the ups and downs that await me as a result. We can all choose to be anything or anyone we want, and enjoy the adventure as we become who we are.

The Domino Effect

It’s funny how when one thing in your life changes it affects every other area too. When you have shared your life with someone they become inextricably linked to so many things in your life that it’s very hard to separate yourselves. Sometimes it feels like the man and me are wearing invisible Velcro suits, we just manage separate an arm when we discover that a leg is still attached. Trying to unravel the complicated web we have woven around each other is requiring a complete life reboot. It is lucky that we get on so well, I can’t imagine how hard it must be for those who have lost all respect for each other.

At first it just meant an empty place in my bed, then all of a sudden dominoed to the point where I realised that the least of my worries was not having someone to cuddle up to at night. And it’s not just the practical stuff; money, car, house, it is also entangled in everything else, confidence, sense of self, purpose, how I look at the world. I couldn’t name you one thing in my life right now that doesn’t feel strange in some way, and doesn’t require a level of attention to get it sorted out. I was struggling for a while there to be honest. I just didn’t know where to start.

But often all it takes is one thing, and those dominoes start going the other way.

Those of you that have been reading my blog for some time will be well aware of my love of self help books. To any newcomers, welcome! And you should know that I love self help books.

My current new squeeze is Robin Sieger, author of Natural Born Winners. I have never come across him before because he resides in the business section which aims to help companies and businessy people self help themselves, whereas I tend to hang around in the vague “yes I want to be happy and improve my life but I’m not too sure in what way and as long as its not too much hard work and doesn’t encroach on my TOWIE/Chelsea/Neighbours catch up” category of self help.

It turns out that the business self help section is a vast untapped resource of exciting new ways to improve my life (I can almost hear my Amazon shopping cart groaning under the weight already) and I am itching to use what I’m learning to help me unravel the web I’m in and make a happy life on my own.

Robin Sieger’s first lesson is that in order to be successful at anything you have to have a clearly defined set of goals and know exactly where you are heading, a major stumbling block for most of us. Being successful is one thing, working out what that means to each of us is something else. Not only do we see success in different ways, it also, like a long term relationship, filters into so many areas of your life that you could be forgiven for thinking it is easier not to bother. If it’s scary having one goal you might never achieve it’s a hell of a lot more scary to have five (and counting). We all have more than one goal though, and that’s probably why many of us don’t actually get anything done. It all feels far too complicated.

But the truth is, it doesn’t matter how many goals you have, and whether those goals are to get out of phase one (tracksuit bottoms and comfort eating) or get a spot on Forbes list, because you can always make the domino affect work in your favour. The people who are truly successful are usually successful in many areas of their lives not just one. Achieving anything is all about having the confidence to do something, and every tiny success towards achieving one goal also boosts your confidence so you can get closer to another goal.

I dragged myself out of bed at 6am this morning to work out, and as a result feel happy, confident and prepared to take on the world, and have already made a start on sorting out the latest round of Velcro removal for this week. I have no doubt that if I hadn’t worked out today I might not have got as much done.

So no longer do I see to do lists as long as my arm or piles of Velcro in a tangled mess, I see a neatly lined up row of dominoes just waiting for me to push the first one which will topple the rest and snake towards an exciting new life.

Paulo Coehlo said “Everything will be ok in the end, and if it’s not ok, it’s not the end.”

The M Word

I’ve now been officially on my own for a month and it’s time to start getting finances sorted. I am stepping out into the world on my own, all wobbly legged like Bambi. The decision to stay at home with the boys was made when I was part of a team, and had the financial support of the man, now things are different, it’s time to get serious.

The other night our good friend, who works in mortgages, got together with us to discuss mortgages and all the hideous stuff that follows, urghhh. I am idealistic and a total dreamer when it comes to cash. Money will come to me if I need it, right who’s for another cup of tea and a slice of homemade cake? The fact that you can’t live without money makes me feel claustrophobic, and I just want to put my fingers in my ears and go “lalalalalalala” really loud. Frankly I would rather eat my own head than have anything to do with it at all, but sadly that is not an option.

I always look forward to visits from our good friend, despite the fact that it sometimes means discussing the “m” word, because he always gives me a kick up the arse and reminds me that the key to success is doing, and the key to doing is having the confidence to do it.

I don’t think it will come as a surprise to our good friend that when the man introduced us, 13 years ago, I thought he was an arrogant prick. He was a bit of a wideboy, all expensive shirts and expensive hair cuts, talking targets and goals. Stuff that I, as a student in second hand jeans customised into flares, charity shop coat, hair cut by a friend, uncaring attitude to money and using the word “man” far more than was necessary (or cool for that matter), couldn’t have been less interested in. That doesn’t mean I disliked him, I loved everyone (man), and for some reason he thought I was OK. However now, 13 years on (homemade flares thankfully a distant memory) I no longer see an arrogant prick. I see someone whose confidence and self belief was completely justified. He set himself goals and achieved every one of them, and he’s barely thirty. What an inspiration.

We were having a discussion about my writing career (or lack of) and my unfailing belief that I am going to make it as a writer. He gave me quite a hard time, as he should. We’re talking money here, getting food on the table and a roof over my kids head. I no longer have the financial support of the man to go off on my creative whims, writing when I feel like it, spending hours a week writing a blog just because I like to entertain people, having a vague belief that I will be successful somewhere in the future. He asked me what makes me so arrogant to believe that I can get somewhere with all this? What facts have I got to back it up?

I was quite affronted at being called arrogant. My self confidence is on the floor right now, I couldn’t possibly be arrogant. But there is a big difference between arrogance and confidence, and many of us fail to see it. I know I do. Arrogance is just unjustified confidence. Arrogance is probably the single least attractive trait in people, but not wanting to be arrogant is not a good reason to avoid being confident in yourself. You don’t have to shout your confidence from the rooftops, only arrogance is loud, confidence is quiet.

I have a dream but that is not enough. I am a good writer but that is not enough. I need to start earning money from writing or its game over. No one else can do this for me. I have an unfailing belief in myself that I was put here to write. To entertain people, make them laugh, cry, think, whatever. I could go and get a job in Tesco, I could work nights in a bar, I could find a million and one ways to eke out a living and find the money to pay my mortgage and support my kids. But none of them mean anything to me. I don’t want to just pay the mortgage, I want a successful life. And successful to me means doing something that I believe in. It’s not about being the next JK Rowling, having a huge house and squillions in the bank, it’s about spending what precious time I have on the planet doing something I care about, and earning enough money to pay the bills.

The man always said I was lucky. So lucky to have a dream and a passion for something when so many others do not. I want to make sure that I do my dream justice and make it happen.

I had a moral wrangling with myself about adding a donate button to this blog. But I don’t consider it begging, more a tips jar. I’m the waitress who made you smile over your coffee.

So you will now see a donate button (Paypal) and a Tips Jar (Google Checkout), you can use either one, whichever is most convenient for you. If I make you smile one day or give you something to think about maybe you might think about giving me a tip.

And you never know, there might be a billionaire out there who can spare fifty grand and thinks I’m worth it. But that is unjustified and therefore arrogance.

Vulnerability is the new cool

I’ve had a nice chilled out weekend. It was only my second weekend alone. The man had the kids and what I really wanted to do was go out on the town and let my hair down, show the world that I am now single and ready to party. Unfortunately, thanks to a lingering virus that has left me with a gargantuan gland on the left hand side of my neck (named Beryl), I knew I needed to act the grown up and concentrate on getting better.

Faced with an entire weekend alone and over 3500 hours of culture, documentaries and the like to choose from my On Demand service, I could really have educated myself. But, not wanting to stress myself out at all by using my brain to actually learn something, I decided to go for an entire series of The Bachelor. A programme where one man has to propose to one woman he chooses out of the original thirty. I thought it would be nice sentimental, drivelly guff.

I’m always looking for answers and ways to explain the world, but did not expect to get it from this sentimental, drivelly guff. At one point the guy spoke to his therapist because he was finding it hard to open up to the women. And his therapist said that in order to find true love, he must make himself vulnerable, and in that vulnerability was strength.

I don’t like the idea of being vulnerable. I have always been very careful not to show my vulnerabilities, and keep a part of myself back to avoid getting hurt. But having kids makes you instantly vulnerable. You have to be brave and lay your heart on the line. Be willing to give your entire self over to that tiny person who needs you, and the family you create. Sometimes you take a gamble and it pays off, sometimes it doesn’t. But unless you allow yourself to be vulnerable you will never experience true love.

Many of us try to hide our vulnerabilities. We like to show the world that we are strong and think being vulnerable is a weakness. But that’s wrong. Being vulnerable takes bravery, but also brings the biggest rewards.

And not just in the love stakes. Occasionally being vulnerable is essential in all areas of life. Trying something that you may not be sure about, being willing to take that risk. I risk a part of myself every time I put my fingers to the keys of this computer. Sometimes the risk doesn’t pay off, sometimes it results in a blah blog post that day, or a rubbish short story. But it’s usually when I have been my most vulnerable that someone comments on my blog and says I have made them laugh, or made them think, or made them happy… and that is the greatest reward for me. That is a connection I am making with someone, you, and that is what I love about writing. Making a connection with someone, maybe someone I’ve never even met is my reward for being vulnerable.

But you can’t make a connection unless you allow yourself to be vulnerable, and show a side of yourself that is often hidden. You need to be able to be yourself, and risk being hurt.

I read somewhere that the best writers are the ones that are not scared to show every part of them to the world. I don’t think that just applies to writers, I think it applies to everyone, in work, in relationships, in life. The biggest innovations, the most brilliant art, the deepest relationships are all the result of someone being vulnerable.

I’m not saying we should all walk around naked, and over-share at every opportunity but I do think that we should all be a little more willing to show our vulnerability. By being vulnerable we make deeper relationships, truer connections and more real progress. And only then do we find the sweetest rewards in life.

No man or woman is an island. However much they might want to be.

And everyone thinks I watch rubbish on TV. Next week, the deep philosophical themes running under the surface of TOWIE.

Roll with the punches

Life can get complicated can’t it? And I’m sorry fellas, but us girls have got a lot on our tiny, diet sized plates. Kids, work, relationships, maintaining an acceptable level of appearance in all family members, being responsible for keeping the houseplants alive (not something I do well at the best of times), it can all add up to a bit of a mess if you don’t stay on top of things.

You’re on a treadmill, juggling plates of spaghetti (then scraping the sauce off said spaghetti because son number one is currently not eating red food), just about keeping those plates spinning and not falling over in the process, when suddenly along comes another plate out of nowhere and somehow you have to find a way to make it work. Catch the plate and try to make it spin, without letting everything else slide. It’s like trying to pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time. It can be done but it takes a few moments to get it right (admit it, hands up if you are patting your stomach and rubbing your head right now. Just me? Wow, that was embarrassing).

I’ve had a right week of it. Half term is not easy at the best of times for us mums, but trying to juggle work, the remnants of a virus (and resultant egg sized gland looking like I’m growing an extra head on my neck, I’m thinking of naming it), getting started on new writing projects and still lots to sort out as far as my “new life” is concerned, adds up to a lot of stress, and a whole heap of things clamouring for my attention.

But there are only twenty four hours in a day. Eight of those should be spent sleeping I know, but usually those eight hours are spent trying to get kids back to sleep, writing the stories down that appear in my head and worrying about what I need to get done in the next twenty four hours. I just get to sleep and it’s time to get up and do it all again.

Sometimes we all just want to jump off the treadmill. Just shout “stop” and calmly step off for a moment, just to catch your breath. But that treadmill will never stop, and as any of you who have tried to get off a moving treadmill can agree, the likelihood is you will end up falling on your arse and getting smacked in the head in the process.

So I have decided the best way to approach life is the same way you would approach that treadmill with the plates (not that I’ve ever attempted to run on a treadmill holding plates of spaghetti but it’s a good analogy so stay with me here). When it seems like things are getting tough, concentrate on your breathing, keep putting one foot in front of the other, hold those plates high and you will find your second wind. It’s only a matter of time before those feel good endorphins will start pumping, and you remember how much you love to run.

I have messed you lovely readers around a bit these last few weeks, by not posting my usual Monday blogs, and sometimes even missing Fridays. And I’m sorry for that, my treadmill just sped up a lot and I had a few extra plates to catch. But I’m slowly gaining my footing, getting a handle on my new plates and catching up with myself and I’m grateful to those of you that have stayed with me. I’m doing more head patting and tummy rubbing, and less head rubbing and tummy patting (come on, at least one of you must be doing it by now. Still just me? Ok).

Snow!

OK so we’ve had a little snow today. Which means that all anyone will talk about all day is the snow. How much we’re going to get, and how the world doesn’t have to stop for a centimetre of snow, “send in your pictures of the snow!” etc. Oh, how we love to talk about the weather. So, in light of my recent writers block, I may as well jump on the bandwagon and put forth my ten pence worth.

I was having my shower this morning when son one burst in and shouted “SNOW, no school today!” I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was on a bit of a go slow in case I got the word that school was closed and I could put my pyjamas back on. But school website stated “business as usual.” Bugger.

Trying to get the kids ready for school was serious “pass me the Rescue Remedy on second thoughts I’ll have something stronger” territory. There was the excitement (and resultant chaos) that only a child can feel for wearing wellies (son number two’s being three sizes too big as I refuse to pay out for a pair in his size when his feet appear to be growing at 10cm a week), the kerfuffle of trying to find lost hats (which was never resolved), and having a row with son number two over his refusal to have his cosy toes attached to his buggy (because he wanted to look at his wellies).

Trying to move an already unwieldy pushchair through snow is not something I have ever had to face before. While I appreciated the work out (I needed it) I did not particularly enjoy having to half drag, half thrust the buggy, mostly at a diagonal angle, through untouched snow. Yes, in more relaxed circumstances, it should have been fun. But stressed, late and without the proper clothing for such an inhospitable environment it was about as fun as a funeral. Son number one fell over in the snow barely a few yards from our driveway, going from “yay, snow!” to “I don’t like snow” and whimpering like a puppy the whole journey, all the while me trying to push down my guilty feelings of seeing his poor bare hatless head and son number two’s blanket-less lap.

I can understand why infant schools remain open despite the snow. Kids at that age make tiny little fluffy snowballs, thrown with a gentle arm at things like lamp posts and wheelie bins. Snow to them is about joy and fun. Older kids, particularly boys, are a lot more vicious in their approach to the white stuff. I am still mentally scarred by the feeling of a snowball, shiny and hard from lots of squeezing and polishing, hitting a cold, bare cheek with enough force to knock you over onto an icy playground. And I will never forget the horrid shock when someone roughly grabs your coat and puts snow down your back, while everyone else stands around laughing, then having to put up with a cold, wet shirt and bruised ego for the rest of the day.

Yes, we’re all adults and should be able to cope with a little snow. And we all have a vision of being at the park with our sledges, having a lovely day frolicking in the snow, making snowmen and coming home to steaming cups of hot chocolate with marshmallows. But as usual, reality rarely lives up to the day dream. I know from experience that dragging two cold wet boys through an inch of snow on a sledge, catching on sections of bare tarmac below, son number two repeatedly throwing himself out of the sledge (losing his ill fitting wellies in the process), and both of them bored and wanting to go home and play on the Xbox before we’d even got there, is not all it’s cracked up to be. So, on reflection, I’m glad the school has remained open.

But I do love the idea of snow, and I will always have a sense of excitement when I open my curtains to a white blanket. I have hope for my fantasy snow days when my kids are older and more able to enjoy it, and I won’t have quite so much responsibility as far as protective clothing is concerned.

When life throws you eggs...

Sometimes life throws a few eggs. Sometimes it throws so many eggs that before you know it you are lying on the ground, covered in eggs with a gang of cats licking at your skin (and my cats wouldn’t think twice, they will eat anything). But we all have a choice in how we deal with the eggs (and the greedy cats), and my choice will always be to get up and do something.

Being proactive when all you want to do is sit around in your pyjamas and cry while watching Toy Story 3 (is there a more unexpected tear jerker? I think not) is not the easiest of paths to choose. But it’s when you are faced with the big challenges in life that you really find out what you’re made of.

With much sadness and regret, last week the man and me decided to part ways after 13 brilliant years together. My life went from stable to uncertain in a split second, as I lost everything I had dreamed and worked for my entire adult life. Poof. But I choose not to focus on the loss of a dream, but to instead use this opportunity to reinvent myself, make way for new dreams and focus on the positives (I’ve seen Toy Story 3 a bazillion times anyway). And most of all to take this time to teach my kids, and remind myself, that there is always a choice.

The mind is the most powerful and dangerous tool we have at our disposal and sometimes it feels like we have no control over it. I have given my mind its fair share of liberty over the years, allowing it to wander freely and take me to the darkest of places; places that I hope never to have to return to again. But the fact is, we all have free will, and we can choose to fight back and let it take us somewhere more special than we had ever believed existed. It might not be a fair fight, and there might be times when it seems like being happy ever again is impossible, but you can choose to go on, one foot in front of the other, not for others, but for you. So at the moment, when I have little of my old life left to grab onto, I’m trying to focus my mind and channel it to take me to a good place, a positive place, and it’s that paradise on the horizon that is keeping me going.

Whether we have made a bad decision and put ourselves there, or whether the eggs have come flying out of nowhere, we are all free to choose how we cope with things. It’s up to us to decide to walk into the sunlight.

Life can get pretty dull when you have everything you want, there is no need to try, you don’t need to push yourself, and there is no reason to. But when the tough times come, and you think all is lost, it’s a rare and beautiful chance to prove to yourself and the world that you can face a challenge and be victorious. I’m not ready to be eaten by the cats, I don’t care whether I’m 34 or 74, I won’t just lie down and get licked.

Today is the first birthday of this blog. A year ago I was bumbling through life, not really knowing where I was going, and I think that’s evident from the first post I made. So much can change in a year, for good and for bad, but one of the best things in life is that all those good and bad things are open doors to a new world. It’s up to you whether you decide to take yourself to somewhere fantastic or not.

You might think you’re backed into a corner, and you might think that there is nowhere to turn, that nothing you do now can change the hideous situation you’re in. But there are always options, you just have to make the decision.

Omelette, anyone?

                                                  

A little thank you…

I want to take this opportunity to thank all our wonderful family and friends who are loving us and supporting us through this difficult time. A very dear friend (who has faced more than her fair share of tough times) recently told me that good and beautiful things sometimes happen when it seems most unlikely. And one of the most beautiful things to come out of all this has been the reminder of how lucky we are to have so many wonderful people looking out for us. All is not lost when you have so many people who care.

But most of all I want to thank the man, who is the best friend a girl could ever hope for. xxx

Snowdrop

I saw my first snowdrop of the year today. I don’t really ‘do’ flowers, but snowdrops are my very favourite flower because they come out of the darkest time of year to give you hope of the spring ahead. Proving that in the coldest of nature’s harsh winters, life and beauty can survive.

Snowdrops don’t flaunt themselves in the summer with garish colours, displaying themselves for all to see. They wait until the last leaf has fallen from the tree and the world looks empty and bare. Then they quietly and serenely push through the hard ground, hidden under hedgerows, delicately pure and white; modestly demonstrating their strength with their persistence in the face of adversity, elegance in the face of decay.

So if like me, you are having a crappy day today, just look for a snowdrop and know that you can flourish in even the darkest of life’s moments. Like a snowdrop, you can be strong, and proudly hold your face up to the winter sun. Because spring is coming and everything is going to be OK.

Girls night out

I went out on a very rare girls night on Saturday, the man took the kids away for the night so that I could have the house to myself and us girls could have a lay in the next morning, undisturbed by screaming children. All of us mums, being able to wake up with a hangover in peace is almost more of a treat than being let loose on the town in the first place.

Going out these days provokes far more anxiety now than it did when I was going out every weekend, or even every night. Just getting ready is panic inducing.  We just want to blend in and look like everyone else, and not like we’re thinking “I feel more comfortable in a baby sick covered t-shirt”.  Then there is the underwear dilemma. Wear a thong that allows your, albeit wobbly, bum to be unfettered by panty lines but allows your mummy tummy to poke out over the top of your jeans, or pour yourself into a huge pair of Bridget Jones style “shape makers” that make your stomach look like nice and flat but give you VPL that could be seen from space (not to mention the inevitable panic when you are drunk, need a wee and not quite sure whether you will manage to unbind yourself on time). It’s a tough call.

Anyway, underwear decisions made and having trashed my bedroom in the process, we had a few drinks at home before getting a cab to take us into town. I always feel kind of sorry for taxi drivers picking up groups of drunken women. The peace of his taxi is immediately ruined by heads popping between the seats shouting “Oy oy, we’re mums on a night out! What’s your name love? Ian? Hi Ian, ah thanks for taking us out, it doesn’t happen often. Did we tell you we’re mums and don’t get out much?”

Another worry for women of a certain age is that groups of women don’t tend to talk to other groups of women on a night out, other than to ask for a light (or in my case talking to young girls “Ooh sweetie you must be freezing! Wish I could get away with wearing that. Don’t forget to drink some water before bed dear.”). It’s not like being in the queue in Tesco where you can talk to the lady in the queue behind you about the advertised “one in front” policy which never seems to be in force. I like to talk to everyone, but will admit to feeling intimidated by other groups of women. You can never be quite sure whether they are going to be nice to your face and then turn round to their friend and say “Did you see the panty line on THAT?”

No, women on a night out talk to men. Because men aren’t intimidating, and believe it or not, most men don’t notice whether you have a huge panty line or not, they are too busy trying to work out whether or not they can pull you and whether or not they could get anything better if they did.  And most men who are out on the town love to chat to groups of women, it’s their reason for being there. Until they realise you are married/have a boyfriend/are old enough to be their mum, then they tend to pop off pretty sharpish. But not before they have done their duty of telling you how you don’t look your age/can’t believe you have kids/are gutted you are spoken for.

So we staggered between a few places, had some drinks, got some compliments off lads young enough to be our offspring. One of us realised she was accidentally ringing her mum in her bag (“please don’t call again, it will wake your son up who I’m babysitting”) and tried to convince her mum that she wasn’t actually that drunk (while the rest of us shouted “OY OY!” down the phone), before someone suggested the local strip bar. Always up for anything we boldly went in, had a drink and my friends paid for me to have a lap dance on stage with the stripper of my choice (I’m glossing over this because a) I know my mum is reading and will be trying to crawl inside herself in embarrassment and b) everyone knows what a lap dance looks like, and I fear spelling it out would not be the classiest of moves). So another tick off my bucket list (hey I’m 34, I need to start ticking things off) we headed for the local club.

The trouble with having only one nightclub in a town is having no competition, it doesn’t actually have to be that good to be full of people. So you are rinsed with a huge door and cloakroom fee, which you regret as soon as you get in there and start to think that maybe it’s time to go home. But being sensible mums (I’ve paid for this and I’m going to get my money’s worth goddammit), you can’t quite justify leaving, so you hang around hoping to get some kind of value for money. Which frankly, ain’t gonna happen when the music is courtesy of the Venga Boys and you spend the entire time outside having a fag anyway.

So we stayed until our 2am curfew (“Oy Ian, book us in for 2am would ya? Ta Love”) during which time, one of us fell asleep in her woo-woo and I told as many people as possible about my lap dance (classy). Falling into my front door, spilling kebabs as we did so, we declared the night a success. It was brilliant, did we mention we are mums and don’t get out much?

No fear

Yesterday was my 34^th birthday, yay! Careening wilding towards middle age (when does middle age start anyway?) and I am officially (after a debate with the man about when a decade becomes early/mid/late) now in my mid-thirties.

I don’t like pondering on my age, so I simply don’t do it. It’s not something I can change, and yes we would all love to be 21 again (although I was actually quite depressed at 21 having still not learnt to be happy in my own skin, so I’ll take 25), but why be down about leaving behind wrinkle free skin, a level of personal freedom that you just can't appreciate and being able to seriously wear a crop top in public, when there is so much more to look forward to in old age? Having perfect teeth (false of course) and not needing to worry about fillings, being able to get away with huge social faux pas without a murmur of complaint from anyone else and spending the day watching telly and grumbling about the new presenter on Countdown, entirely guilt-free.

So anyway, I hadn’t expected much from my birthday. There comes a point when you just have to accept that your birthday isn’t as big a deal as it was when you were five. You can’t expect the same number of presents or a huge birthday party and chores still need to be done. And you don’t go to bed plump from birthday cake, or with a smile on your face knowing that kids will be talking about your party at school all week and you don't get to wear a pound shop plastic princess crown for the day, because birthday’s as an adult are no different from any other day. But the man outdid himself this year, and organised a morning of rock climbing for the two of us at Reading Climbing Centre.

I’m not great with heights. In fact I have rather a long list of fears. Heights (although technically not heights, just falling from a height), flying (although technically not flying, just being in a plane when it plummets to the ground) etc… all the usual phobias many of us are plagued with.  But the man knew that I really wanted to give rock climbing a try. Not because I thought I would particularly enjoy it, or be good at it, but because I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it, despite being shit scared.

So when we arrived at the rock climbing centre, we were given harnesses and these weird shoes to put on and shown into a huge hangar full of climbing walls up to the ceiling and very serious looking people of all ages, all looking incredibly blasé about the fact they were hanging on a wall 40ft from the ground. There were a few bouldering walls (lower walls for climbing with no harness - “no way am I going on that with no harness!” was my instant response) and a large number of 40ft walls. We were immediately led to a small (!) 20ft wall to practice on. I was first up. There was a point half way through when I suddenly realised that I was actually wearing a harness and climbing up a wall, and not sitting at home watching The Fabulous Baker Brothers as I had been telling myself (my new happy place - food + posh totty = food pornography for women), and I panicked slightly. But I ignored that and got on with the job in hand. The feeling of relief when I quickly got to the top washed over me and I sat back in my harness and abseiled to the ground, grinning like a crazy person. Having proved we could do it, we were then told we would be climbing the big walls and I honestly thought the instructor was joking. And you want me to go right to the top? Er, no you’ll never get me up there!

But a strange thing happens when you are climbing and you think you won’t make it. There’s a kind of distance warp, where you’re so focussed on what you’re doing that you kind of forget where you are and how high up you are. You just climb, one foot at a time, one hand at a time. And suddenly, all muscles screaming for mercy, you reach that final hold and realise you made it to the top. And that’s when you can look down and see for yourself just how far you’ve come.  

Wearing a harness, I climbed 4 different 40ft walls, and I even managed to get myself to the top of one of those bouldering walls, without a harness. But I'm so glad I did. The feeling of pride and excitement that I had actually done something I thought I wouldn’t be able to do far outweighed the discomfort of being terrified or the embarrassment at having my arse stared at by complete strangers for a whole 60 minutes.

We can’t choose whether or not we’re scared.  But we can make a conscious choice about whether or not to continue in the face of that fear or allow it to stop us in our tracks. There’s no point in fighting fear, because frankly it’s not going to go away when you are 40ft up from the ground dangling from a rope, but you can go on despite being scared. One foot at a time, one hand at a time.

Thanks to Reading Climbing Centre for a great lesson, and thanks to the man for taking me. xxx