Watching my son playing, it strikes me that the differences between his outlook on life and mine are worlds apart. He demands, he takes, he lives each moment without concept of consequence. He is unapologetically selfish - and I don't mind a bit. But I wonder at what point he will become aware, as many of the rest of us are, that imposing nothing but our own wants on those around us is something of a drain.
Of course, there are those among us who never realise this. Those who seem totally indifferent to the fact that other people exist just as fully and consequentially as they do, that others have wants and needs as well as them. Those who perhaps somehow believe that everyone else in the world was put there just for their amusement and employ. Of course, I speak of no-one in particular.
There are people who believe the world owes them a living. There are people who want to be like this but just can't quite cut it. And there are those who live for everyone else. How does this happen? Is it inbuilt, or is it social conditioning, instilled in us by our families from an early age. Is the eldest in a family more likely to take, whilst the youngest is raised to share and give? Perhaps it is more complicated than that.
Selfishness is a funny thing. We are all selfish to some extent - that episode of Friends where Joey tells Phoebe that there is no such thing as an unselfish act is surprisingly spot on. Whether it be for personal happiness, professional advance, or even just to assuage our own Catholic sense of guilt - he's right. Or at least, it's very hard to think of one.
Personally I find selfishness easier to take in others if they so it unself-consciously. Yet it annoys me more than anything when people use it as a self-contained excuse. "Sorry, I was being selfish." That is not an excuse, it's a description. I maintain - we are all selfish, it's just that some of us are more ready to yielf to the selfishness of others. But why? To satisfy our own sense of martyrdom? I am guilty of that to some extent - of course, there is a practical level at which I know certain chores need to get done, but I am useless at asking for help - perhaps because I would rather have the satisfaction afterwards of having done it all alone. Being hard done by. It's a luxury of those who have never really been hard done-by - a bit like rich people saying money doesn't buy happiness. I'm not saying it's the answer to everything - but it makes the process of figuring out what is a damn sight easier.
So I joined this writing course, and from it, a splinter writers' group. And lo and behold, what do I find, within just a few short months. Everyone is posting their assignments merrily every couple of weeks - but for the last 4, only 1 other person has bothered to feed back on mine. I, of course, have fed back on everyone else's each time, however laborious that can feel. Which is does to some extent because let's face it, we are all in it for ourselves. Some of them provide very good reading and are a pleasure to work on - others feel like homework. But why is it that these other people feel no guilt in just taking all the feedback and giving none back? We are all there for the same reasons.
Of course this is just a small, petty example. And perhaps labelling everything others do in their own interests as selfishness is too pejorative. After all, we can't help being the centre of our own universes - I suppose it stems from the fact that, from the moment we are born, most of us are lucky enough to suddenly become the centre of someone else's. It stands to reason that rubs off; just a little.
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
Sunday, 28 March 2010
Once in a while...
... there comes along a show that seems to capture the imagination of the nation. Recently, these shows seems to have orbited around celebrity, reality, and various (increasingly ridiculous) different takes upon those two things.
But sometimes, a more intelligent show comes along and just enough celebrities endorse it enough for the common man to feel it's not uncool to say they watch it too. Wonders of the Solar System is such a show.
Twitter is all agog - any given night that it's on, a pretty high proportion of people I follow seem to be both online, and watching Wonders. They comment liberally, they praise - Professor Brian Cox has rocketed into the public eye and is single-handedly making intelligence - nay, physics - cool. OK, maybe not cool. But people want in on this.
Is it that celebrity endorsement has made us all watch in the first place, or that the endorsement makes us all more vocal about liking what we see? It's quite a strange feeling, knowing that across the country there are so many of us watching, mouths slightly open, thinking very similar thought.
A Twitterer I follow wrote this just now: Got to say though-how things actually are makes religion seem like a very mundane, quite silly, explanation for it all.
And that sums it all up rather beautifully. The world is capable of, and displays across the world in a million different ways, miracles far greater than the feeing of the 5000, or the parting of the oceans. The more I consider it, the more I am convinced religion is only there as a human construct to help others feel better about death. But then again - does it matter?
What I mean is, whether there is technically a "God" or not is almost irrelevant - if people believe, then it's there. I think therefore I am - it's basic philosophy, not religion. If God is nothing but an ideal by which people choose to live, a code of ethical or moral conduct - where's the harm? OK, I hear you shout, the harm is in the wars, the misinterpretation of religious text. And yes, of course, I am with you on that. But for the first time in my life I find myself thinking that perhaps God does exist - in the same way that I will one day have to accept that popular usage WILL make the meanings of infer and imply the same. I shall cry, but it won't stop it being true.
I may not believe in the big guy in the sky - but when I look at the things on shows like Wonders - I can't deny that God exists. Not that he created it - but that there is a part of all of us that created him to help explain what physics can do.
But sometimes, a more intelligent show comes along and just enough celebrities endorse it enough for the common man to feel it's not uncool to say they watch it too. Wonders of the Solar System is such a show.
Twitter is all agog - any given night that it's on, a pretty high proportion of people I follow seem to be both online, and watching Wonders. They comment liberally, they praise - Professor Brian Cox has rocketed into the public eye and is single-handedly making intelligence - nay, physics - cool. OK, maybe not cool. But people want in on this.
Is it that celebrity endorsement has made us all watch in the first place, or that the endorsement makes us all more vocal about liking what we see? It's quite a strange feeling, knowing that across the country there are so many of us watching, mouths slightly open, thinking very similar thought.
A Twitterer I follow wrote this just now: Got to say though-how things actually are makes religion seem like a very mundane, quite silly, explanation for it all.
And that sums it all up rather beautifully. The world is capable of, and displays across the world in a million different ways, miracles far greater than the feeing of the 5000, or the parting of the oceans. The more I consider it, the more I am convinced religion is only there as a human construct to help others feel better about death. But then again - does it matter?
What I mean is, whether there is technically a "God" or not is almost irrelevant - if people believe, then it's there. I think therefore I am - it's basic philosophy, not religion. If God is nothing but an ideal by which people choose to live, a code of ethical or moral conduct - where's the harm? OK, I hear you shout, the harm is in the wars, the misinterpretation of religious text. And yes, of course, I am with you on that. But for the first time in my life I find myself thinking that perhaps God does exist - in the same way that I will one day have to accept that popular usage WILL make the meanings of infer and imply the same. I shall cry, but it won't stop it being true.
I may not believe in the big guy in the sky - but when I look at the things on shows like Wonders - I can't deny that God exists. Not that he created it - but that there is a part of all of us that created him to help explain what physics can do.
Sunday, 21 March 2010
To blog or not to blog...
You see, the thing is, I get the impression that very few people are blogging for themselves. It seems to be that the vast majority are doing it in order to either publicise their writing abilities, or in some other way put themselves in the eye of many more beholders than they would normally reach. Whether this is because they just want to share, or whether secretly everyone is hoping to be "discovered" as the next major talent of the century, or sell their stories for a small (or ideally large) fortune.
And that's where I fall down. Because naturally I too want to be discovered as the next big talent, but I don't feel a blog is the best way for me to publicise myself. Certainly not this blog, and certainly not the way I am writing it at the moment. It's too personal in some ways, yet not personal enough. Like most of my writing, I feel that it's slightly wide of the mark.
The chances of me having sufficient talent and imagination to "make it" as a writer are slim. That doesn't stop me wanting to try, but I wonder whether it means I may have failed before I even start. If even I don't have that degree of self-belief, who on earth else is going to? And yet I keep plugging away at it, without much conviction, and yet reluctant to give up on that lifelong dream of being a writer. I wonder whether, at the heart of it, I just know I am not good enough. But there is a stubborn streak underlying it all, a single thread of titanium obstinance that wearily binds the disintegrating wisps of doubt together. Because, a bit like the maxm that in order to outrun a lion, one only needs to be faster than the person next to them, perhaps it will be enough not to necessarily be the best writer ever born (Lord knows I've drunk away too many brain cells for that) but perhaps just better than a lot of others will be OK. Because there is some terrible stuff out there - I know I can do better than some. The vision in my mind is sheer brilliance. Sadly its translation into black and white remains some way short of the ideal.
I need to remember how to think.
And that's where I fall down. Because naturally I too want to be discovered as the next big talent, but I don't feel a blog is the best way for me to publicise myself. Certainly not this blog, and certainly not the way I am writing it at the moment. It's too personal in some ways, yet not personal enough. Like most of my writing, I feel that it's slightly wide of the mark.
The chances of me having sufficient talent and imagination to "make it" as a writer are slim. That doesn't stop me wanting to try, but I wonder whether it means I may have failed before I even start. If even I don't have that degree of self-belief, who on earth else is going to? And yet I keep plugging away at it, without much conviction, and yet reluctant to give up on that lifelong dream of being a writer. I wonder whether, at the heart of it, I just know I am not good enough. But there is a stubborn streak underlying it all, a single thread of titanium obstinance that wearily binds the disintegrating wisps of doubt together. Because, a bit like the maxm that in order to outrun a lion, one only needs to be faster than the person next to them, perhaps it will be enough not to necessarily be the best writer ever born (Lord knows I've drunk away too many brain cells for that) but perhaps just better than a lot of others will be OK. Because there is some terrible stuff out there - I know I can do better than some. The vision in my mind is sheer brilliance. Sadly its translation into black and white remains some way short of the ideal.
I need to remember how to think.
Saturday, 6 March 2010
One more step
It's funny, the things your mind does to sabotage you. Perhaps there are people out there who truly believe they deserve good things, people who fully expect to win the lottery and actually do, and people who look themselves in the mirror's eye and believe they are good at whatever it is they say they do. I do not fall into this category.
I am delighted to report that I have had my first magazine acceptance. Pregnancy and Birth are allegedly going to publish my short article on bump names. Of course, I am still to await details, so they still have a couple of days to realise their mistake and decide that someone needs to be fired over the decision to publish my sorry little offering. But still. I liked it. My tutor liked it (whatever that's worth - I can't help feeling she's far too easy on me, going for the easy course pass rather than really challenging me as a writer) And yet, as soon as someone wants to publish it, I can't help wondering what the hell was wrong with it.
Having said that I am still happy about the news - I just don't quite believe it. And so I can't help but wonder... if this is how I feel about one simple article... I mean, I did study English at one of the best universities in the world, I really ought to be able to string a few sentences together - it's little wonder I haven't done anything big in life, is it?!
Nuff for now - supposed to be keeping this professional. Perhaps I'll go back to just doing little articles on here. It's not a diary, is it? Though I'm sure that's how it started...
I am delighted to report that I have had my first magazine acceptance. Pregnancy and Birth are allegedly going to publish my short article on bump names. Of course, I am still to await details, so they still have a couple of days to realise their mistake and decide that someone needs to be fired over the decision to publish my sorry little offering. But still. I liked it. My tutor liked it (whatever that's worth - I can't help feeling she's far too easy on me, going for the easy course pass rather than really challenging me as a writer) And yet, as soon as someone wants to publish it, I can't help wondering what the hell was wrong with it.
Having said that I am still happy about the news - I just don't quite believe it. And so I can't help but wonder... if this is how I feel about one simple article... I mean, I did study English at one of the best universities in the world, I really ought to be able to string a few sentences together - it's little wonder I haven't done anything big in life, is it?!
Nuff for now - supposed to be keeping this professional. Perhaps I'll go back to just doing little articles on here. It's not a diary, is it? Though I'm sure that's how it started...
Thursday, 25 February 2010
There's just no pleasing some people...
Sadly I refer to myself. Whilst usually an avid supporter of the "think positive, life is what you make it" school of thought, I do allow myself the occasional moment of self-indulgent griping. Actually I do quite a lot of griping, I just prefer to focus on the more positive bits.
So - why am I impossible to please? I have sold my first piece of writing, Snapdragons, a children's illustrated narrative verse story, to an online magazine. I have heard back from Sprouts editor that he liked my article and wants another to go with it. I have been sent a features list by an old contact in the DVD industry to write for him. And my response? Disappointment. There must clearly be something wrong with all these people if they want to publish what I have written. I think it's also because I didn't think these were the best things I'd ever written so it's a little sour that they are the ones that have succeeded.
Then again, there's a little piece of me leaping about in excitement - first step on the ladder and all that. I do get painfully jealous of the success of others though. Bad me.
So - why am I impossible to please? I have sold my first piece of writing, Snapdragons, a children's illustrated narrative verse story, to an online magazine. I have heard back from Sprouts editor that he liked my article and wants another to go with it. I have been sent a features list by an old contact in the DVD industry to write for him. And my response? Disappointment. There must clearly be something wrong with all these people if they want to publish what I have written. I think it's also because I didn't think these were the best things I'd ever written so it's a little sour that they are the ones that have succeeded.
Then again, there's a little piece of me leaping about in excitement - first step on the ladder and all that. I do get painfully jealous of the success of others though. Bad me.
Monday, 8 February 2010
Don't read this if you're religious
The more I think about it, the more religion strikes me as absolutely preposterous. I mean really. Most 7 year olds are aware that there is no such thing as Father Christmas, the easter bunny or the tooth fairy - but at least all those things have real manifestations in humanity. OK so 9 times out of 10 it's their parents, but at least real, tangible things result.
Laws are passed, wars are fought and millions upon millions of people die every year in the name of God (whichever name those people are choosing is, for the purposes of this rant, irrelevant) A being whose existence has no basis in fact whatsoever, whose representation through history is at best sketchy and for whom, conveniently, the lack of proof of existence is meant to be taken as a test of faith, proving even more that he exists. (He, she - again, it's irrelevant) It's just utter tosh.
I do not gainsay spirituality, and I do believe that the human soul / conscious mind has more to it than simple mechanics, that we are perhaps more than just a bunch of animals roaming the earth in search of food. But I also suspect that that belief is, in most people, born of an inability to comprehend the idea of Nothing. Death is scary scary scary, never seeing those you love again. The idea that you can go through all the crap we go through, with no point or "higher meaning". But isn't our own existence, evolution and experience exactly what we're here for? Is God just a construct to comfort those who have lost loved ones? Some kind of insurance policy against a life cut short? Even some kind of omiscient boogeyman with which to scare children into behaving themselves. People have joked in the past that much of the world's turbulent history could have been avoided had the Bible had another page at the beginning saying "this is a work of fiction."
I believe in morality, I lead a relatively ethical existence (certainly in terms of the 10 commandments.) So much of the bible is just extremist, racist, homophobic evangelism, encouraging awful acts of retribution on what nowadays would be considered relatively minor sins. We throw up our Western hands in horror at the idea of Arabic cultures engaging in practices like cutting off the hands of thieves, or punishing women who have been raped. And yet it's all there, in the bible. If God were real, what kind of role model is that? I would rather raise my son to believe in a world where that kind of teaching is a thing of the past. We are encouraged to move with the times in all other aspects of life - why not this one? A country plunging further into debt by the day spends £20 million on a visit from the Pope. HOW can it possibly cost that much? I would love to know how much religion costs the average tax payer in this country.
Science has proved so much. We know some things don't exist (sorry Nessie...) And yes, fine, there are still things about this world, and more about the universe, that we don't know and probably never will. I just very much doubt that God's existence is one of them.I am all for people being happy in their own skins and finding whatever understanding of life makes them feel necessary and worthwhile in it. I just can't help feeling it's something that should be left behind with puberty.
Laws are passed, wars are fought and millions upon millions of people die every year in the name of God (whichever name those people are choosing is, for the purposes of this rant, irrelevant) A being whose existence has no basis in fact whatsoever, whose representation through history is at best sketchy and for whom, conveniently, the lack of proof of existence is meant to be taken as a test of faith, proving even more that he exists. (He, she - again, it's irrelevant) It's just utter tosh.
I do not gainsay spirituality, and I do believe that the human soul / conscious mind has more to it than simple mechanics, that we are perhaps more than just a bunch of animals roaming the earth in search of food. But I also suspect that that belief is, in most people, born of an inability to comprehend the idea of Nothing. Death is scary scary scary, never seeing those you love again. The idea that you can go through all the crap we go through, with no point or "higher meaning". But isn't our own existence, evolution and experience exactly what we're here for? Is God just a construct to comfort those who have lost loved ones? Some kind of insurance policy against a life cut short? Even some kind of omiscient boogeyman with which to scare children into behaving themselves. People have joked in the past that much of the world's turbulent history could have been avoided had the Bible had another page at the beginning saying "this is a work of fiction."
I believe in morality, I lead a relatively ethical existence (certainly in terms of the 10 commandments.) So much of the bible is just extremist, racist, homophobic evangelism, encouraging awful acts of retribution on what nowadays would be considered relatively minor sins. We throw up our Western hands in horror at the idea of Arabic cultures engaging in practices like cutting off the hands of thieves, or punishing women who have been raped. And yet it's all there, in the bible. If God were real, what kind of role model is that? I would rather raise my son to believe in a world where that kind of teaching is a thing of the past. We are encouraged to move with the times in all other aspects of life - why not this one? A country plunging further into debt by the day spends £20 million on a visit from the Pope. HOW can it possibly cost that much? I would love to know how much religion costs the average tax payer in this country.
Science has proved so much. We know some things don't exist (sorry Nessie...) And yes, fine, there are still things about this world, and more about the universe, that we don't know and probably never will. I just very much doubt that God's existence is one of them.I am all for people being happy in their own skins and finding whatever understanding of life makes them feel necessary and worthwhile in it. I just can't help feeling it's something that should be left behind with puberty.
Saturday, 6 February 2010
Ponderments and Wonderings
Before I had my son, I had a Good Job. We’re not talking six figures and a Canary Wharf penthouse here, but it kept me in unlimited free DVDs and all the film premieres I could want. And I am a big fan of film, so this was a Good Thing. And yet, when my crumpled little beauty of a son arrived, I took everyone, myself included, by surprise, and decided not to go back to work.
I was proud of my decision, and I stand by it – I love being able to spend every day with him, watching him discover and experiment in his own ways. And yet. Every so often I have a feeling that maybe I am somehow letting the side down, that I should have at least tried it out, and perhaps I gave in too easily. I was in the extremely fortunate position of being able to choose not to go back to work, and although it was a difficult decision, it really didn’t take me too long to make up my mind.
A few months ago, I went to a university reunion (I know, more fool me really) I was persuaded to go along against my better judgement by my best friend, and decided to take it at face value – an opportunity to meet up with friends in London and be out sans fils for once. We dutifully mingled and sipped our drinks, and waited politely to be routinely questioned by our old tutors, who we hadn’t seen for 10 years or so. Second in line, I waited patiently for my friend Mark to give a full life and work history of his path to becoming a successful sound engineer in the computer game industry. Suitably impressed, my tutor turned to me. Confident that she was going to be similarly impressed by my own sojourn in the world of film marketing, and my recent efforts to finally become a writer, I began with the proud words: “Well I recently gave up my job to stay at home with my son.” Before I could wow her with detail of my budding literary career, or bore her with highlights from my previous one, she interrupted me. “Oh how lovely,” she said. “And Liz, how about you?” That was it. My moment was over. I had been unequivocally and summarily dismissed.
But why? Surely it’s not just my own hackles that rise at such behaviour. Female emancipation is, in my perhaps flawed understanding of it, all about women having the freedom to choose the lifestyle they want for themselves, without being pressured into it. Well I have chosen to be at home with my son: so why do I feel so guilty about it?
Women in today’s society can have it all, and God forbid we don’t try to have exactly that. If we’re not juggling 4000 things then we’re obviously not working hard enough. It seems like we are living in the shadow of some giant, unspoken judgement that looms over us all. We have a collective chip on our shoulders the size of Mount Rushmore, and quite honestly, we need to cut ourselves some slack. We say the words but do we believe them? “Being a stay at home mum is a full time job.” There, I said it. And yet, do I believe it?
Well, my son certainly fills up most of my time, but because he doesn’t pay me a salary, set me ridiculous targets and assess me on a quarterly basis, I find it hard to take him seriously as a boss. The very fact that I am writing this might suggest that I am not entirely comfortable with the sole role of “stay-at-home-mum” just yet. Since university I have been entirely, proudly self-sufficient, and why should I give that up? I’ve worked hard to save up enough to maintain some degree of financial independence even now, without a salary. Women have fought so hard to be taken seriously, to stand on our own well turned-out feet that it rankles to take on a role associated with a much bleaker time of inequality. Most of my friends say they’re jealous that I can be at home all the time and I don’t doubt that in some ways that is true, but we all make our choices based on our own situations, and I’m not sure many of them would really be too comfortable with it either.
So was my tutor really blanking me, dismissing my status as unimportant and unworthy of input? Probably. But the fact that it bothered me reflects only on me, not on her. She has her own issues, her own filters through which she sees the world, and I have mine. Having children really does change your life, your perspective, and everything else. I for one am grateful that I have the opportunity to spend the first years of my son’s life with him, and I know that thousands of women out there will be envious that I can do just that. Maybe it’s just that the expectations we lay on each other and even on ourselves are so high that simply being one thing in life seems too simple to be truly rewarding. As most mothers will say, becoming one is the most empowering, memorable and unique moment in their lives – it seems that being able to focus on it for longer than your average maternity leave just seems too good to be true. But the time will come around all too soon when my son wants his own space and freedom, just as I need mine from time to time, and then I will look back on these precious years with longing and fond nostalgia.
It was actually my old boss who put my mind at rest. He knew I was struggling with my decision – as Free so memorably questioned, should I stay or should I go? He said, “Listen. If you leave, and decide in 6 months time it was the wrong decision, you can always go out and get another job. But if you stay and realise in 6 months it was the wrong decision, you can’t ever get that time back.”
Being a parent is a biological function, one that many will argue is the mythical Number 42 of life. Other people have their own raison d’etres; for some it is a career, travel or another passion. Many women decide not to have children at all, and are fulfilled in so many other ways. As long as we are comfortable with our own choices and understand the big things in life that makes each one of us happy, maybe just one identity is enough. Just because we CAN have it all these days, doesn’t necessarily mean that we always should.
I was proud of my decision, and I stand by it – I love being able to spend every day with him, watching him discover and experiment in his own ways. And yet. Every so often I have a feeling that maybe I am somehow letting the side down, that I should have at least tried it out, and perhaps I gave in too easily. I was in the extremely fortunate position of being able to choose not to go back to work, and although it was a difficult decision, it really didn’t take me too long to make up my mind.
A few months ago, I went to a university reunion (I know, more fool me really) I was persuaded to go along against my better judgement by my best friend, and decided to take it at face value – an opportunity to meet up with friends in London and be out sans fils for once. We dutifully mingled and sipped our drinks, and waited politely to be routinely questioned by our old tutors, who we hadn’t seen for 10 years or so. Second in line, I waited patiently for my friend Mark to give a full life and work history of his path to becoming a successful sound engineer in the computer game industry. Suitably impressed, my tutor turned to me. Confident that she was going to be similarly impressed by my own sojourn in the world of film marketing, and my recent efforts to finally become a writer, I began with the proud words: “Well I recently gave up my job to stay at home with my son.” Before I could wow her with detail of my budding literary career, or bore her with highlights from my previous one, she interrupted me. “Oh how lovely,” she said. “And Liz, how about you?” That was it. My moment was over. I had been unequivocally and summarily dismissed.
But why? Surely it’s not just my own hackles that rise at such behaviour. Female emancipation is, in my perhaps flawed understanding of it, all about women having the freedom to choose the lifestyle they want for themselves, without being pressured into it. Well I have chosen to be at home with my son: so why do I feel so guilty about it?
Women in today’s society can have it all, and God forbid we don’t try to have exactly that. If we’re not juggling 4000 things then we’re obviously not working hard enough. It seems like we are living in the shadow of some giant, unspoken judgement that looms over us all. We have a collective chip on our shoulders the size of Mount Rushmore, and quite honestly, we need to cut ourselves some slack. We say the words but do we believe them? “Being a stay at home mum is a full time job.” There, I said it. And yet, do I believe it?
Well, my son certainly fills up most of my time, but because he doesn’t pay me a salary, set me ridiculous targets and assess me on a quarterly basis, I find it hard to take him seriously as a boss. The very fact that I am writing this might suggest that I am not entirely comfortable with the sole role of “stay-at-home-mum” just yet. Since university I have been entirely, proudly self-sufficient, and why should I give that up? I’ve worked hard to save up enough to maintain some degree of financial independence even now, without a salary. Women have fought so hard to be taken seriously, to stand on our own well turned-out feet that it rankles to take on a role associated with a much bleaker time of inequality. Most of my friends say they’re jealous that I can be at home all the time and I don’t doubt that in some ways that is true, but we all make our choices based on our own situations, and I’m not sure many of them would really be too comfortable with it either.
So was my tutor really blanking me, dismissing my status as unimportant and unworthy of input? Probably. But the fact that it bothered me reflects only on me, not on her. She has her own issues, her own filters through which she sees the world, and I have mine. Having children really does change your life, your perspective, and everything else. I for one am grateful that I have the opportunity to spend the first years of my son’s life with him, and I know that thousands of women out there will be envious that I can do just that. Maybe it’s just that the expectations we lay on each other and even on ourselves are so high that simply being one thing in life seems too simple to be truly rewarding. As most mothers will say, becoming one is the most empowering, memorable and unique moment in their lives – it seems that being able to focus on it for longer than your average maternity leave just seems too good to be true. But the time will come around all too soon when my son wants his own space and freedom, just as I need mine from time to time, and then I will look back on these precious years with longing and fond nostalgia.
It was actually my old boss who put my mind at rest. He knew I was struggling with my decision – as Free so memorably questioned, should I stay or should I go? He said, “Listen. If you leave, and decide in 6 months time it was the wrong decision, you can always go out and get another job. But if you stay and realise in 6 months it was the wrong decision, you can’t ever get that time back.”
Being a parent is a biological function, one that many will argue is the mythical Number 42 of life. Other people have their own raison d’etres; for some it is a career, travel or another passion. Many women decide not to have children at all, and are fulfilled in so many other ways. As long as we are comfortable with our own choices and understand the big things in life that makes each one of us happy, maybe just one identity is enough. Just because we CAN have it all these days, doesn’t necessarily mean that we always should.
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
The Land Behind the Sofa
There's a land behind the sofa
That no-one else has found.
It's big enough for you and me and all the frightening, wonderful things we'd like to see
I go there on my own with you,
To hunt the unicorns and beasts,
Eat midnight feasts and scavenge treats and be in danger, sometimes.
There's a land behind the sofa,
That no-one else has found.
It's full of enemies and friends, strange places with amazing mazes of dead ends
And mirrors, ogres, and words like "oubliette" and "misfits"
There's a dragon there I'm sure, or two,
Perhaps one for me and another for you,
In the land behind the sofa.
A roaring crunching munchy noise waved me hello last time,
And I followed crumbs and you gathered them up for later,
And we found the lair of the Cake Monster, but we weren't at all scared,
Because he only eats cake,
And we fed him on Swiss Roll and he became our friend,
In the land behind the sofa.
There's a land behind the sofa,
I stare into it at times. When no-one knows what I'm looking at, say,
I can peek beyond the cushions and rugs and spy the glimmering sunshine
Or fierce storms with drumming thunder, depending on the day.
The creatures cross the glades and mountains,
Shady woods and lake-locked fountains,
Unaware that I can see them, in the land behind the sofa.
We go there you and me, and I feel happy more than scared,
Though sometimes Grumble Beasts can make me shake,
Ice Fairies make me freeze and quake and wish I was in bed,
But then the Hover Doves appear and Sparkle Footed Frogs,
And suddenly bed is the last place I want to be, in this land of you and me,
This land behind the sofa.
I dream about the land behind the sofa
At night, and in the day. I dream of going there alone with you,
To leave behind the broken ribbon of light beneath my bedroom door,
To play at climbing giants' towers unseen and teasing nymphs,
At breathing underwater, because there you can until forever,
And we tame the griffin birds and ride them through the violet sky
In the land behind the sofa.
That no-one else has found.
It's big enough for you and me and all the frightening, wonderful things we'd like to see
I go there on my own with you,
To hunt the unicorns and beasts,
Eat midnight feasts and scavenge treats and be in danger, sometimes.
There's a land behind the sofa,
That no-one else has found.
It's full of enemies and friends, strange places with amazing mazes of dead ends
And mirrors, ogres, and words like "oubliette" and "misfits"
There's a dragon there I'm sure, or two,
Perhaps one for me and another for you,
In the land behind the sofa.
A roaring crunching munchy noise waved me hello last time,
And I followed crumbs and you gathered them up for later,
And we found the lair of the Cake Monster, but we weren't at all scared,
Because he only eats cake,
And we fed him on Swiss Roll and he became our friend,
In the land behind the sofa.
There's a land behind the sofa,
I stare into it at times. When no-one knows what I'm looking at, say,
I can peek beyond the cushions and rugs and spy the glimmering sunshine
Or fierce storms with drumming thunder, depending on the day.
The creatures cross the glades and mountains,
Shady woods and lake-locked fountains,
Unaware that I can see them, in the land behind the sofa.
We go there you and me, and I feel happy more than scared,
Though sometimes Grumble Beasts can make me shake,
Ice Fairies make me freeze and quake and wish I was in bed,
But then the Hover Doves appear and Sparkle Footed Frogs,
And suddenly bed is the last place I want to be, in this land of you and me,
This land behind the sofa.
I dream about the land behind the sofa
At night, and in the day. I dream of going there alone with you,
To leave behind the broken ribbon of light beneath my bedroom door,
To play at climbing giants' towers unseen and teasing nymphs,
At breathing underwater, because there you can until forever,
And we tame the griffin birds and ride them through the violet sky
In the land behind the sofa.
Sunday, 20 December 2009
Getting along quite nicely with the machine, actually...
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.
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, 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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