Well, the e-masses have flexed their virtual muscles and told X-Factor where to go. Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name" has made it to the top of the chart, to be 2009's Christmas number 1. My initial reaction was amusement, even satisfaction, at seeing the X-Factor's "sure thing" defeated at last. But the more I think about it, the more I realise the whole sorry affair has left a slightly nasty taste in my mouth.
I can't help feeling that everyone has missed the point. I'm not even talking about the obvious point, the overt irony in the fact that a song which is notoriously anti-establishment, by a band renowned for being anti-establishment, whose catchy refrain is "F*** you I won'tdo what you tell me", has been bought in its millions by people who, for the most part, are only buying it because Facebook told them to. OK, I know there are some real fans out there too - but they, I presume, already own this track.
The point I feel we have somehow missed though, is simpler. I feel we've missed the point of Christmas number 1 records. What happened to actual Christmas songs? Perhaps I am being naively sentimental, but how much pleasure is there really in watching a 4 year old asking "Mummy, what does this song mean? And why are they so angry?"
I love Christmas. I always have. It's largely to do with the fact that my dad is a child at heart, and my family always went all out at Christmas. We had pillow-case stockings, mountains of presents under the tree, fantastic food (and in later years, copious amounts of booze too) more presents in the evening, Snowman presents on boxing day and even beyond. I was allowed to eat sweets at 9am, and it was one time of year the cameraderie between my sisters and I usually managed to overpower the niggling irritations. I did say usually...
Now married and with a young child of my own, I hope to carry on these Christmas traditions and give him a wonderful time of year to look forward to. I don't see the problem with belief in Fater Christmas, with flying reindeer or generous-bellied snowmen made from fermenting barrels and cotton-wool mysteriously filling with present day after day. It's fun. And yes, I know that if we didn't have two beans to rub together we'd have to cut back - but we'd still go overboard, even if the presents were gestures and good will.
I am just not sure I like the idea of this backlash against commercialism (through counter-commercialism - go figure) taking over the most magical time of year. It all feels a little bit sordid. I wonder though - had Aled and Terry's Christmassy, charity single Silver Bells topped the chart, I somehow doubt I would be having these worries. But with it being RATM, I can't help feeling we've all been complicit in some huge Cowell-fuelled inside joke. What has this achieved? I know what I'd rather be listening to on Christmas day.
Sunday 20 December 2009
Sunday 13 December 2009
The times they are a-changing
I needed milk this morning. Not an uncommon occurence with a 14 month old in the house. The shop is less than 10 minutes' walk away, so you would think this would be a quick undertaking. Not so. The whole round trip took over 45 minutes.
You wwould be forgiven for assuming that this was due to the usual baby-related faffing but no, the delay was rather different this time. It just so happened that everyone I met on the way was in the mood for a nice little chat. Old George's knees are playing up, you see, and Irene's dog is just not listening to her anymore, but he does look ever so smart now Naomi's done his new clip. Don't get me started on Bob's grandchildren, they're little terrors, don't they learn respect these days? And yes, Cath, you have met my son about a hundred times before, yes he is beautiful isn't he, and no, he is not a girl. Trust me.
Until just three short years ago, I lived in London. In Stepney Green, if I had ventured out of a morning to get some milk, I would barely have made eye-contact with the shop assistant, let alone stopped to talk to people on the way. Londoners consciously develop the elsewhere stare, the "I'm going somewhere very important so don't even think about talking to me" walk - to make ourselves as unapproachable as possible. Heads stay down, eyes remain averted. And so is the way of the city. Anyone looking cheery and greeting people on the street is generally regarded as a nutter, and is given as wide a berth as your average Big Issue seller in well-to-do town centres.
But then we moved. Suffolk is a little different to Stepney. The difference between town and country is much-chronicled, nothing new perhaps. But it is new to me - despite the fact that I grew up in the countryside. Several different countrysides in fact, as my father was in the military, which might go some way to explaining the rather different circumstances in which I now find myself: a somewhat baffled rural housewife who bakes for the community centre cafe, edits the local Community Association magazine and is on first name terms with all the local shop-owners. It's a far cry from my (if I do say so myself) rather glamorous career in London.
When I was growing up, my parents were not particularly social creatures. They were always friendly, and my mother has a capacity for smalltalk that any PR professional would envy. But they preferred their own company, they weren't "pub people" and we moved so often that making good friends was problematic. Most of my mother's best friends were the mothers of school or (don't judge me) pony club friends of mine - and testament to her incredible social skills, she is still in touch with many of them 25 years later. We knew very few people in the actual village(s) in which we lived however, and mostly just went about our lives, keeping our heads down. Later came university, and suddenly it was city life all the way for me. No longer did I want green fields, muddy feet and dubious aromas in the air. I wanted bars, shops, public transport that came more than once a fortnight. I wanted friends on my doorstep and a supermarket five minutes down the road. I wanted a whole city full of people I could ignore.
But life does tend to go full circle, and I find myself back now amidst the rolling fields and picturesque brooks of Suffolk. OK, I live in a semi-detached ex-council house in the middle of a thriving village, but don't let that ruin your vision of my rural idyll. Ignore for a moment the mud, the country smells and the extravagant mileage required for semi-decent shopping. It's still pretty wonderful living here in many ways - but some days I feel a little too grown-up for comfort.
In my village I now have friends. Not just people I'd nod a cheery "Morning" to on my way to the butcher or post office, but actual, proper, real-life friends who I love spending time with. We go walking (most of them have dogs. And children. And immaculate houses that put mine to shame) and have coffee in the community cafe, and generally just toddle along in our slightly lower-gear lives. Friends who still live in London often ask me if I miss it. I was, after all, a social gadfly, out several nights a week with work dos, relaxed drinks or very occasionally something verging on cultural. Now, going to the village pub for a quick drink at 5pm before rushing home to get the baby into bed is about as adventurous as it gets. And yet I am happy here. I don't miss it. Despite the fact that it can take 45 minutes to walk to the shop for a pint of milk, despite the fact that I now see my best friends only a handful of times a year, and despite the really quite irritatingly common power-cuts and dodgy broadband, I feel this is the right place for me.
And perhaps it isn't really full circle. Yes, the similarities are there from my childhood, but plenty of things are different. We are "pub people", we do have good friends, and the shopping nearby really has improved recently (and not just because my standards are slipping. OK, I never thought I'd buy clothes from a supermarket, but needs must when you have no salary) So perhaps life is really more of a spiral - if you look at it from the top as we usually do, it might look like a circle - but things are changing along the way, and these footsteps I find myself walking in are very definitely my own. They're just going a bit slower than they used to.
You wwould be forgiven for assuming that this was due to the usual baby-related faffing but no, the delay was rather different this time. It just so happened that everyone I met on the way was in the mood for a nice little chat. Old George's knees are playing up, you see, and Irene's dog is just not listening to her anymore, but he does look ever so smart now Naomi's done his new clip. Don't get me started on Bob's grandchildren, they're little terrors, don't they learn respect these days? And yes, Cath, you have met my son about a hundred times before, yes he is beautiful isn't he, and no, he is not a girl. Trust me.
Until just three short years ago, I lived in London. In Stepney Green, if I had ventured out of a morning to get some milk, I would barely have made eye-contact with the shop assistant, let alone stopped to talk to people on the way. Londoners consciously develop the elsewhere stare, the "I'm going somewhere very important so don't even think about talking to me" walk - to make ourselves as unapproachable as possible. Heads stay down, eyes remain averted. And so is the way of the city. Anyone looking cheery and greeting people on the street is generally regarded as a nutter, and is given as wide a berth as your average Big Issue seller in well-to-do town centres.
But then we moved. Suffolk is a little different to Stepney. The difference between town and country is much-chronicled, nothing new perhaps. But it is new to me - despite the fact that I grew up in the countryside. Several different countrysides in fact, as my father was in the military, which might go some way to explaining the rather different circumstances in which I now find myself: a somewhat baffled rural housewife who bakes for the community centre cafe, edits the local Community Association magazine and is on first name terms with all the local shop-owners. It's a far cry from my (if I do say so myself) rather glamorous career in London.
When I was growing up, my parents were not particularly social creatures. They were always friendly, and my mother has a capacity for smalltalk that any PR professional would envy. But they preferred their own company, they weren't "pub people" and we moved so often that making good friends was problematic. Most of my mother's best friends were the mothers of school or (don't judge me) pony club friends of mine - and testament to her incredible social skills, she is still in touch with many of them 25 years later. We knew very few people in the actual village(s) in which we lived however, and mostly just went about our lives, keeping our heads down. Later came university, and suddenly it was city life all the way for me. No longer did I want green fields, muddy feet and dubious aromas in the air. I wanted bars, shops, public transport that came more than once a fortnight. I wanted friends on my doorstep and a supermarket five minutes down the road. I wanted a whole city full of people I could ignore.
But life does tend to go full circle, and I find myself back now amidst the rolling fields and picturesque brooks of Suffolk. OK, I live in a semi-detached ex-council house in the middle of a thriving village, but don't let that ruin your vision of my rural idyll. Ignore for a moment the mud, the country smells and the extravagant mileage required for semi-decent shopping. It's still pretty wonderful living here in many ways - but some days I feel a little too grown-up for comfort.
In my village I now have friends. Not just people I'd nod a cheery "Morning" to on my way to the butcher or post office, but actual, proper, real-life friends who I love spending time with. We go walking (most of them have dogs. And children. And immaculate houses that put mine to shame) and have coffee in the community cafe, and generally just toddle along in our slightly lower-gear lives. Friends who still live in London often ask me if I miss it. I was, after all, a social gadfly, out several nights a week with work dos, relaxed drinks or very occasionally something verging on cultural. Now, going to the village pub for a quick drink at 5pm before rushing home to get the baby into bed is about as adventurous as it gets. And yet I am happy here. I don't miss it. Despite the fact that it can take 45 minutes to walk to the shop for a pint of milk, despite the fact that I now see my best friends only a handful of times a year, and despite the really quite irritatingly common power-cuts and dodgy broadband, I feel this is the right place for me.
And perhaps it isn't really full circle. Yes, the similarities are there from my childhood, but plenty of things are different. We are "pub people", we do have good friends, and the shopping nearby really has improved recently (and not just because my standards are slipping. OK, I never thought I'd buy clothes from a supermarket, but needs must when you have no salary) So perhaps life is really more of a spiral - if you look at it from the top as we usually do, it might look like a circle - but things are changing along the way, and these footsteps I find myself walking in are very definitely my own. They're just going a bit slower than they used to.
Saturday 14 November 2009
Sleep is a many splendoured thing...
After over a month of horrendous sleepless nights, J has had 2 good nights in a row. It started with a cough just after his first birthday, then he had his 12 month jabs, then an ear infection with awful temperatures, then another cold, then the vomiting bug.... 2 weeks on from that and he still needs to be cuddled to sleep at night and sat with for over 2 hours in the night when he wakes up. I tell myself over and over again that this is just a phase.... and hopefully, that belief is soon to pay off.
I noticed that he has had 3 or 4 good nights' sleep over the last couple of weeks. Partly this is just due to him getting a lot better. However, on at least 2 of those occasions, he had a short sleep in the car in the afternoon. All the signs previously had been pointing to him only needing 1 naps per day - but yesterday and the day before we tried giving him a short nap around 4 pm - and lo and behold, it worked! We will try again today, although he got up late this morning so no idea whether or not it will work.
On another note, my skin is getting thicker. In theory, at least. My first article rejection was very hard to take - in fact I very adultly responded by bursting into tears. The subsequent ones (and there have been quite a few!) seem to have been much easier to take. People aren't keeping me waiting as long, and their responses are generally pleasant, polite and positive. Being a sucker for encouragement, when they say it's an interesting idea, I am choosing to take them at face value. Otherwise what little confidence I have would be flowing rapidly away. I would like to get something published though - I am starting to get disheartened. OK, more than starting to...
The fiction side isn't going anywhere fast either. I was about ready to send off Snapdragons but now C's doing another picture, so need to wait for that and it could take a while. Oh well, I do need to learn patience. I don't know if I will ever get around to writing 13 Lies or SweetDreams - they're definitely in there, ticking away in the background, but I never seem to have the motivation to get on and actually write them. 13 Lies is taking shape, but I've hardly written any of it... still, little by little we slowly creep, and in creeping we too are moving forward.
Nuff said - getting too long. Need to write more articles!
I noticed that he has had 3 or 4 good nights' sleep over the last couple of weeks. Partly this is just due to him getting a lot better. However, on at least 2 of those occasions, he had a short sleep in the car in the afternoon. All the signs previously had been pointing to him only needing 1 naps per day - but yesterday and the day before we tried giving him a short nap around 4 pm - and lo and behold, it worked! We will try again today, although he got up late this morning so no idea whether or not it will work.
On another note, my skin is getting thicker. In theory, at least. My first article rejection was very hard to take - in fact I very adultly responded by bursting into tears. The subsequent ones (and there have been quite a few!) seem to have been much easier to take. People aren't keeping me waiting as long, and their responses are generally pleasant, polite and positive. Being a sucker for encouragement, when they say it's an interesting idea, I am choosing to take them at face value. Otherwise what little confidence I have would be flowing rapidly away. I would like to get something published though - I am starting to get disheartened. OK, more than starting to...
The fiction side isn't going anywhere fast either. I was about ready to send off Snapdragons but now C's doing another picture, so need to wait for that and it could take a while. Oh well, I do need to learn patience. I don't know if I will ever get around to writing 13 Lies or SweetDreams - they're definitely in there, ticking away in the background, but I never seem to have the motivation to get on and actually write them. 13 Lies is taking shape, but I've hardly written any of it... still, little by little we slowly creep, and in creeping we too are moving forward.
Nuff said - getting too long. Need to write more articles!
Thursday 15 October 2009
In the wilderness (last night, 11.45pm)
For the first time in years, I am totally without communication. I am on a train, late at night, going to a rural train station to drive home. My phone battery is flat. And it's terrifying. What if the train breaks down? What if the car breaks down? How did I reach this state of dependency?
At university and even for the first year of working, I didn't have a mobile phone. I didn't have an e-mail address. In years to come I'm sure my son will find this impossible to imagine. I got my first phone aged 22. SO what did we do in those dark ages before the light found us? Well. We made plans and kept to them. We applied logic. If we were meeting somewhere with unpredictable timings, we made contingencies. And I confess I spent a lot less time worrying about not being contactable than I do now. With hindsight, I felt free. And yet this mobile technology is supposed to be helping us to be living our lives to the full, be able to run our lives from anywhere in the world. But the question is- why on earth would you want to?
I am the first person to see the values in being easily contacted. And yet it seems to have bred a laziness, an inability to think logically around every day problems. If there is a moment's delay, impatience kicks in. Because technology is there, we use it, even when we really don't need to. The minute anything gets hard or uncertain, we can find out the answer straight away. Stuck on a crossword clue? There's a website for that. Can't find the pub you're meeting your mate at? There's a phone service or GPS application for that. Make a cup of coffee? Well OK, there's not yet an app for that, but you take the point. When did it become necessary for everything from information to entertainment to be so damn available? Perhaps we SHOULD have to wait for things, perhaps we SHOULD have to figure a few things out for ourselves, or be allowed to be out without a phone and just get home when we said we would. We wonder why children are ungrateful, why they don't appreciate the value of information or presents. With the internet there ready to answer in seconds the most complex question they may have, communication instantly by IM, text, e-mail, can we really be surprised that the nation is becoming more and more impatient? If the workplace didn't have e-mail, imagine how much less stressful your day would be. Just because we have technology and communication at our fingertips – it doesn't necessarily mean we should always be using it.
At university and even for the first year of working, I didn't have a mobile phone. I didn't have an e-mail address. In years to come I'm sure my son will find this impossible to imagine. I got my first phone aged 22. SO what did we do in those dark ages before the light found us? Well. We made plans and kept to them. We applied logic. If we were meeting somewhere with unpredictable timings, we made contingencies. And I confess I spent a lot less time worrying about not being contactable than I do now. With hindsight, I felt free. And yet this mobile technology is supposed to be helping us to be living our lives to the full, be able to run our lives from anywhere in the world. But the question is- why on earth would you want to?
I am the first person to see the values in being easily contacted. And yet it seems to have bred a laziness, an inability to think logically around every day problems. If there is a moment's delay, impatience kicks in. Because technology is there, we use it, even when we really don't need to. The minute anything gets hard or uncertain, we can find out the answer straight away. Stuck on a crossword clue? There's a website for that. Can't find the pub you're meeting your mate at? There's a phone service or GPS application for that. Make a cup of coffee? Well OK, there's not yet an app for that, but you take the point. When did it become necessary for everything from information to entertainment to be so damn available? Perhaps we SHOULD have to wait for things, perhaps we SHOULD have to figure a few things out for ourselves, or be allowed to be out without a phone and just get home when we said we would. We wonder why children are ungrateful, why they don't appreciate the value of information or presents. With the internet there ready to answer in seconds the most complex question they may have, communication instantly by IM, text, e-mail, can we really be surprised that the nation is becoming more and more impatient? If the workplace didn't have e-mail, imagine how much less stressful your day would be. Just because we have technology and communication at our fingertips – it doesn't necessarily mean we should always be using it.
Tuesday 13 October 2009
The Next Big Idea
In my desperate search to find things to write about I find myself wondering - do you have to be a chef to do a cookery book? Do you have to have your own show on TV? Or can anyone write one?
I thought it might be a nice idea for a cookery book to have something like "The Family Cookbook" - classic and modern recipes for families today. It could have quick and easy sections, lunch ideas, dinner party meal planners, baking, desserts, starters, mains etc, but also a section for children's recipes from 6 months onwards. Would use all sorts of recipes from both sides of the family for an eclectic mix - everything from mum's chicken soup to Dot's stuffed vine leaves or olive and salami pasta, my lamb tagine and Nick's caramel slice. Plus Sue Oldrey's lemon pudding and so on. Might be a fun idea - one that's simple, doesn't require loads of tricky ingredients - easy cooking for family, special occasions and nice treats. Might be that no-one is interested, but it could be fun. Could even be produced with a ring-binder section at the back to keep your own family recipes in.
I shall research this area forthwith!
I thought it might be a nice idea for a cookery book to have something like "The Family Cookbook" - classic and modern recipes for families today. It could have quick and easy sections, lunch ideas, dinner party meal planners, baking, desserts, starters, mains etc, but also a section for children's recipes from 6 months onwards. Would use all sorts of recipes from both sides of the family for an eclectic mix - everything from mum's chicken soup to Dot's stuffed vine leaves or olive and salami pasta, my lamb tagine and Nick's caramel slice. Plus Sue Oldrey's lemon pudding and so on. Might be a fun idea - one that's simple, doesn't require loads of tricky ingredients - easy cooking for family, special occasions and nice treats. Might be that no-one is interested, but it could be fun. Could even be produced with a ring-binder section at the back to keep your own family recipes in.
I shall research this area forthwith!
Monday 12 October 2009
Fever
J is not well. Why is it that as a parent, as soon as your little one is ill, all common sense and pragmatism deserts you completely? I know full well that his temperature is just because he had his jabs on Friday and that he's just building up his immune system. However, I can't help that little voice telling me it's something else, something more serious, something that will strike as soon as I leave the room and I'll come back to a lifeless body... no, I can't even think that. For a split second every time I go into his quiet room I panic - and then he moves or cries or breathes, perfectly fine, and I wryly smile at how neurotic I am.
So yesterday, with temperature soaring and a projectile vomit all over the kitchen, I find myself ringing NHS Direct out of sheer desperation. I just needed someone with some authority to tell me he was fine. Confidence, it would seem, is a preference only for those without children.
It's not easy, being entirely responsible for a whole life other than your own.
And then there's the parent etiquette thing. I took J to his Monday morning class today at the library, and everyone was very sympathetic. But could I detect a glint of blame in some of the mothers' eyes? Was I imagining the unspoken comments - was it irresponsible of me to take him out with other children, just in case it's something contagious?
There is a strange dichotomy amongst parents. Out loud, they say things like "the second Blake gets chicken pox, let me know, we'll be straight round" But underneath what they're thinking is "If you let your disease-ridden offspring anywhere near my precious darling I'll skin you alive." It's a jungle out there. You spend your life hacking through the pleasantries to the primal, fearsomely protective animal behind, the one that would do just about anything for their own child. Sure, they all sympathise, but are they really just wondering how you could be so stupid as to expose their children to whatever hideous ailment your own poor baby has. Even when you tell them it's not contagious, they don't believe you. I am meant to be going to a friend's this afternoon, and she texted last night having noticed my FB status about J not being well. Was it genuine concern for J that prompted the text? Or was she checking whether it was something likely to be passed on to her son as well?
Perhaps I should stop imagining this subtext, these unspoken atrocities, and give my fellow mums a little more credit. But then there's that nagging little voice again. The same one that assures me that the looks I'm getting as I walk down the street are just as malicious as I think, that those kids over there really are laughing at me, that those women really are criticising every badly dressed, overweight step I take. That voice tells me it's true - because we are just judging others on the uncharitable thoughts we all have as well. Some of us are better at smothering them than others - but that doesn't mean they're not there.
So yesterday, with temperature soaring and a projectile vomit all over the kitchen, I find myself ringing NHS Direct out of sheer desperation. I just needed someone with some authority to tell me he was fine. Confidence, it would seem, is a preference only for those without children.
It's not easy, being entirely responsible for a whole life other than your own.
And then there's the parent etiquette thing. I took J to his Monday morning class today at the library, and everyone was very sympathetic. But could I detect a glint of blame in some of the mothers' eyes? Was I imagining the unspoken comments - was it irresponsible of me to take him out with other children, just in case it's something contagious?
There is a strange dichotomy amongst parents. Out loud, they say things like "the second Blake gets chicken pox, let me know, we'll be straight round" But underneath what they're thinking is "If you let your disease-ridden offspring anywhere near my precious darling I'll skin you alive." It's a jungle out there. You spend your life hacking through the pleasantries to the primal, fearsomely protective animal behind, the one that would do just about anything for their own child. Sure, they all sympathise, but are they really just wondering how you could be so stupid as to expose their children to whatever hideous ailment your own poor baby has. Even when you tell them it's not contagious, they don't believe you. I am meant to be going to a friend's this afternoon, and she texted last night having noticed my FB status about J not being well. Was it genuine concern for J that prompted the text? Or was she checking whether it was something likely to be passed on to her son as well?
Perhaps I should stop imagining this subtext, these unspoken atrocities, and give my fellow mums a little more credit. But then there's that nagging little voice again. The same one that assures me that the looks I'm getting as I walk down the street are just as malicious as I think, that those kids over there really are laughing at me, that those women really are criticising every badly dressed, overweight step I take. That voice tells me it's true - because we are just judging others on the uncharitable thoughts we all have as well. Some of us are better at smothering them than others - but that doesn't mean they're not there.
Saturday 10 October 2009
My Tiny Life
By the way, the title of this blog is not some self-deprecating, teen-angst-ridden put-down. (Enough hyphens there?) It's simply meant to reflect the tininess of ones own life compared to the enormity of the world. Then again, since ones life is the biggest, longest, most incredible thing any of us will ever have - perhaps I should have called it My Enormous Great Behemoth of a Life.
I'll sleep on it.
I'll sleep on it.
End of an era
It says a lot about me that I have just spent about ten minutes deciding whether or not to capitalise the first letters of the title of this blog, eventually decided to take out the troublesome words altogether, and then choose a template that uses block capitals. Really.
Anyway, I begin this new blog with the best of intentions. It is the end of an era, and the beginning of one. Next week, my husband goes back to work for the first time in fourteen months, and I will, quite literally, be left holding the baby.
Not such a baby now, he's getting on for 13 months, and I haven't written a word in my other blog since pregnancy. Given that its title was Bumpdom and Beyond, I feel I have done my own titular assignations a significant disservice. Still, onward and upward.
So yes, some time ago, my husband and I decided it would be brilliant if he took a few months off work when the baby came - we were in the very fortunate position of being able to afford it thanks to his contracting jobs in the City. Who says banking doesn't have its upsides... that was 14 months ago now, and the last year has been great. And stressful and worrying and argumentative and everything else that goes with a new baby. The best and worst in both of us are brought to the surface a little more often than we might like - but we have survived. Many of my friends have commented that they didn't think their own marriages would have survived a year at such close quarters. To them I say - having different interests really is a wonderful thing. I am sure I shall dwell on this subject more over the coming months, so won't go into it all now.
Because he's got a job. He hasn't looked at many and this one doesn't pay anything like as well as banking did, but it's a job that has him really excited, and that counts for an awful lot.
So on Thursday I shall find myself in the position all my friends with babies were in after just two terrifying weeks of parenthood - home alone with my son. And to be honest - I can't wait. Not that I don't like having my husband around, I truly do - but I am looking forward to the time that it's just the two of us, that new "two of us" that sometimes causes a father some not inconsiderable anguish. (My son has a little sleepsuit set with various slogans on them - one of them is "Mummy's New Man" I don't think my husband was too impressed with that one - perhaps it's a little close to the bone)There are aspects of it that scare me though. I have got used to having that spare set of hands when I need it, and think I have taken for granted just how helpful those hands can be. But I feel stupidly like I am going it alone, as though it's some sort of adventure. I have a year's mothering experience under my belt (along with over a year's worth of eating for two, sadly) and hope that I will really enjoy this next phase.
So here goes - I've enrolled on a writing course, I am trying to launch a new career as freelance writer, and I'll be home alone every day. I have truly appreciated having the two of us around for the first year of our son's life, but it does feel like the time to make a change. The purpose of this blog is varied. It should partly reflect and record things that happen to me, how I am feeling about things, and as a record for my son when he is old enough to read but not so old as to be bored stupid by his mother's ramblings. Secondly, it gets me writing. Whatever I write, i doubt anyone else is reading this, so no point worrying about that. Just getting back into the habit of writing is enough. And lastly - hopefully it will allow me to play around with a few ideas that could turn themselves into something better. As most ideas can, if given the right encouragement.
Right, primed and ready to go, my writing career awaits.
Time to put the kettle on.
Anyway, I begin this new blog with the best of intentions. It is the end of an era, and the beginning of one. Next week, my husband goes back to work for the first time in fourteen months, and I will, quite literally, be left holding the baby.
Not such a baby now, he's getting on for 13 months, and I haven't written a word in my other blog since pregnancy. Given that its title was Bumpdom and Beyond, I feel I have done my own titular assignations a significant disservice. Still, onward and upward.
So yes, some time ago, my husband and I decided it would be brilliant if he took a few months off work when the baby came - we were in the very fortunate position of being able to afford it thanks to his contracting jobs in the City. Who says banking doesn't have its upsides... that was 14 months ago now, and the last year has been great. And stressful and worrying and argumentative and everything else that goes with a new baby. The best and worst in both of us are brought to the surface a little more often than we might like - but we have survived. Many of my friends have commented that they didn't think their own marriages would have survived a year at such close quarters. To them I say - having different interests really is a wonderful thing. I am sure I shall dwell on this subject more over the coming months, so won't go into it all now.
Because he's got a job. He hasn't looked at many and this one doesn't pay anything like as well as banking did, but it's a job that has him really excited, and that counts for an awful lot.
So on Thursday I shall find myself in the position all my friends with babies were in after just two terrifying weeks of parenthood - home alone with my son. And to be honest - I can't wait. Not that I don't like having my husband around, I truly do - but I am looking forward to the time that it's just the two of us, that new "two of us" that sometimes causes a father some not inconsiderable anguish. (My son has a little sleepsuit set with various slogans on them - one of them is "Mummy's New Man" I don't think my husband was too impressed with that one - perhaps it's a little close to the bone)There are aspects of it that scare me though. I have got used to having that spare set of hands when I need it, and think I have taken for granted just how helpful those hands can be. But I feel stupidly like I am going it alone, as though it's some sort of adventure. I have a year's mothering experience under my belt (along with over a year's worth of eating for two, sadly) and hope that I will really enjoy this next phase.
So here goes - I've enrolled on a writing course, I am trying to launch a new career as freelance writer, and I'll be home alone every day. I have truly appreciated having the two of us around for the first year of our son's life, but it does feel like the time to make a change. The purpose of this blog is varied. It should partly reflect and record things that happen to me, how I am feeling about things, and as a record for my son when he is old enough to read but not so old as to be bored stupid by his mother's ramblings. Secondly, it gets me writing. Whatever I write, i doubt anyone else is reading this, so no point worrying about that. Just getting back into the habit of writing is enough. And lastly - hopefully it will allow me to play around with a few ideas that could turn themselves into something better. As most ideas can, if given the right encouragement.
Right, primed and ready to go, my writing career awaits.
Time to put the kettle on.
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