Category: Stuff that just happens

Is it just me, or are people getting excited about Christmas earlier this year? Yesterday a friend posted a photo on Instagram of Christmas decorations adorning a window, with the words: sorry, not sorry. Today another friend has posted a video of her decorating her tree. It’s November! And not even the end of the month.

I have a theory on this. The world is in a very strange place. Life carries on: the kids have to get to school, we have to get to work and the dust still settles. However, underlying all of this is the knowledge that Brexit is probably/possibly going to fuck up our finances and Trump is going to probably/possibly fuck up everything. Alongside both these matters, you’ve got the constant niggle of Europe becoming frighteningly right wing and the worry that you won’t get your hands on a Hatchimal. In fact, so worried are people about this, a family organisation has issued a letter from Santa that parents can show their kids, telling them that: ‘due to the current climate within the North Pole it has been decided that Hatchimals will no longer be given out as presents.’

So, my theory is that with all this terrible uncertainly bubbling under our everyday lives, we have to grab what we know to be real by the baubles and thrash the life out of it. Christmas is the one thing that is certain right now: we know the dates, we know where the decorations are, basically we know the routine. Even the stresses are reliably inevitable. Choosing presents gives us a clear focus. People are even getting a buzz from: the Elf on the Shelf. I had to Google it – only to find out that they’ve been around since 2005. I have clearly had my head shoved right up my own arse, because I had absolutely no idea what it was until yesterday, via a Facebook post asking whether anyone else finds them creepy. Creepy? We’re living in a world with Donald Trump’s face plastered all over the place. Trust me, that elf on a shelf looks like a choir boy.

My theory also extends to explaining why Ed Balls is still on Strictly, when he is so clearly shit. Not even funny shit, just shit. He’s a known. Completely harmless dressed as a Grinch, there is no way this one is going to steal Christmas.

In times of uncertainty, we need to grab what’s real by the balls. We need to get out our Christmas decorations early and focus on certainties: friends, family and Christmas spirit.

 

Whilst chatting to number 1 friend about communication the other day, I realised just how bloody complicated the art of communication actually is. No wonder it’s called an, ‘art’. It certainly deserves that accolade.

Recently I’ve read a few, ‘what not to say’ posts by other bloggers: what not to say to parents who adopt, what not to say to parents of an autistic child and so on. Personally, I find these blogs very useful, because I’m one of those people that may well just say one of those: what not to says. These sorts of blogs have, however, made me slightly paranoid when talking to other parents now. As I’m talking to someone, I may be so busy thinking: can I say this or that, I feel like I’m jumping around like a cat on a hot tin roof. If I think that I may have said the wrong thing, I always recount it to number one friend, who communicates with me via her facial expressions, before any words need to be uttered. ‘Oh shit!’ I often think to myself, as her face contorts into a, ‘you shouldn’t have said that’ sort of gurn.

Anyway, back to our chat the other day and we were discussing the fact that if someone asks your opinion, then of course you are free to give it and they understand that you may not agree and are happy to accept the consequences of this. Conversely, if someone is simply telling you about a situation, then take the time to listen. Gauge how you think they feel and respond accordingly, in a supportive manner. If you disagree with what they are saying, then gently put your point across using non-inflammatory language. If not, they may become defensive and this only serves to close down any further communication. Jeez, complicated huh?

I think that we get most defensive with the people closest to us: our parents and our partners. We’re far more tolerant, generally, of other people’s views. There are some days when I can’t complete a single conversation with one of my daughters, because her defensiveness keeps shutting them down. This is one of the most frustrating aspects of teenage behaviour. There are basically only two viable solutions: hitting a wall and wine. Yes, hitting both, hard.

So, considering that a large part of teenage communication is via a screen, are their communication skills going to suffer? I think that it is vital that we ensure that our kids are brought up to value social interaction and to understand its importance. But what about when they are parents themselves? I wasn’t stuck to a screen the way my kids are and so my values will not reflect theirs. How much importance will they put on their own children’s communication skills? Time will tell. The art of communication may not die, but it will certainly continue to take on new aspects, just as any form of art does over time.

 

 

Yesterday, I was at Blogfest16 which is organised by Mumsnet, the UK’s biggest parenting network. The day consisted of various discussion groups with panels made up of some extremely inspirational and successful women: in politics, comediennes, authors, campaigners and the day was rounded up with a keynote speech from Davina McCall. It was a day that was rich in women. The audience was packed with them – most bloggers are female and I counted 4 men. As I listened to the speakers, I thought to myself how uncomfortable it must be to be a man in the audience. Themes began to emerge and repeat themselves. As the panels changed and a new group of women spoke about an entirely different subject, the same issues were being said over and over again and what was being voiced was just how much woman struggle in the face of men. Even these wonderfully intelligent and incredibly strong women were telling us that they have to fight because of men, again and again. I use the word ‘fight’, because from where I was sitting it sounded as if it was a daily battle to deal with the overbearing strength of the males in our society. Women’s voices aren’t heard, they were saying. We have to shout, but men don’t like us shouting because we are supposed to be happy and when we shout we don’t appear happy and when we don’t appear happy the foundations of society are rocked. Shouts of complaint are referred to as ‘moans’. Haters on line are always male, one panelist said. Ignore, ignore, ignore was the repeated advice. Sexism in the workplace is still rife, particularly in certain sectors – commercial radio didn’t get good press. Women must support each other, was another emerging and recurring theme. I sat and listened and I sat and thought: but we are not supporting each other. I read comments where women are judging women on line every day. Forty two per cent of Trump’s voters were women. Women who would rather vote for a man who demeaned them and bragged about sexual assault, than support a woman’s bid to be the first female president. I have recently been thinking about how there are still huge inequalities between men and women and as I spent the whole day listening to these strong women, it really brought it home to me, when I saw that even they seem to be struggling to be heard on the same grounds as men. Venus and Mars are still miles apart. “Women, support each other” they said, but the truth is: we don’t.

I suddenly felt a huge responsibility, as I have 5 daughters I can influence. I questioned whether I am doing enough to make them realise the task that lies ahead for them. How can I best equip them to be able to fight these battles? I don’t want them to be afraid of what the future holds, but I want them to be aware of these divides: forewarned is forearmed. Yet teenagers don’t seem ready for this fight, or particularly interested or bothered. This worries me. There is a palpable apathy that comes from their attentions being drawn on line to other things: to a celebrity, selfie, body-obsessed culture. A culture where fighting male dominance is irrelevant, but rather grabbing their attention is key. Just getting attention, anyone’s. It’s less about supporting other girls than comparing. It’s less about ignoring the haters, than letting them affect you and allowing them to drive you to being someone you are not.

I thought about my teenage years. I remembered the abuse I got from male friends through banter and how I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I took it. Harmless right? But it hurt. It confused me. Because I never learnt how to deal with it, I carried this confusion through my 20’s and 30’s – accepting that the male voice is louder. Expecting to be talked over. Expecting my voice to be the smallest in the company of men. 

Last night in the post-Blogfest bar, partner said to me suddenly: “listen.” There was a cacophony of female voices. Loud, deliberate, intelligent and strong. “This is how I want our daughters to be,” I said to partner and it is my responsibility as their mother and their most influential voice, to get it right.

I’m having one of those weeks where you watch your hard-earned cash slowly but surely, being pissed down the toilet.

My trusty Previa, fondly known as: Aunty Al’s Bus for the past many a year, died in quite a dramatic fashion, on the way to work last week. As I watched the smoke bellowing from the bonnet and I was warning my fellow passenger to evacuate with me for fear that it would explode, I thought to myself two things: the first was, ‘oh shit!’ and the second was: ‘this is going to be expensive’. Any minute now I am going to watch it being hauled onto a tow truck and driven to the scrap yard. I think I will run down the road after it, waving a white flag and scattering petals – we’ve been through a lot together.

Trump being elected as President on Wednesday, has done nothing to make this week any better. At the ladies’ Taekwon-do class that I teach on Wednesday morning, our two American students gave each other a hug. I suspect they were exchanging whispers of what alternative accent they should adopt for the rest of the week. It can’t feel good to be American right now. It feels bad enough being English and wondering: how the…? What the…? Why the…? Who the…?

As I sat in total shock that morning, clutching onto my third mug of tea and listening to his victory speech, I thought to myself that the discomfort his son was obviously feeling, standing next to his Dad in full view of millions, was equal to about one thousandth of how many of the viewers were feeling. Uncomfortable would be a terrible understatement. I looked at his family standing on the stage and all I could see were spray tans, Botox, over-coiffured hair and the air of ‘fake’ hung heavily around them. It’s a reality show that has just got horribly real – with all the narcissism  that goes with it. There is a man, I thought to myself, who doesn’t like being told: ‘no’. There is a little boy who is dressed like a man. There is the President of the United States of America and for the second time in a matter of days, I thought: ‘oh shit!’.

Still in shock, daughter 1 caught me off guard last night and I found myself sitting next to her in the car, as she attempted to pull out of our driveway – she’s only had four driving lessons thus far and up until now I have resolutely refused. As we careered around the industrial estate in the pitch dark, I remembered why. ‘Break!’ I screeched at her, as we sped towards a corrugated iron structure at several miles an hour. “Why didn’t you brake sooner?” I asked, once we’d come to a stop, inches from the wall. “Because I had to check my mirror first” she replied, with the voice of someone who is new to something and doggedly follows the rules. ‘Oh shit!’ I thought, not for the first time this week and I have a niggling feeling, as the aroma of cat’s piss is wafting down the stairs, that it won’t be the last.

There goes Aunty Al’s Bus…oh shit!

 

 

 

I came across a post by the Unmumsy Mum, yesterday: An Open Letter to the Mum with the Red Coat. In it, she speaks about feeling judged. It really resonated with me and as I reflected on why, I realised that when my children were younger, I felt judged a lot of the time.

It was at its worst when the girls were all pre-school age. When daughter 4 was born, daughter 1 was 4 years and 8 months, so I had 4 kids under the age of 5. I can clearly remember a mum from a toddler group saying to me when she heard I was having a second baby: but your first child is still a baby! These words have stuck in my head ever since. It was the start of me feeling judged.

When I went shopping in my local town with the double buggy, I would huff and puff my way around the shops – doggedly determined to show everyone that I could cope with a small tribe myself. Which is just as well, because very few people offered me help – in the form of perhaps holding a door open, or squeezing to the side just a little, so that I could get passed. No. Overwhelmingly I felt judged. I was tutted at by other women, mainly older women who might have known better, but whose memories had faded with the years. I was stared at. I would smile back, thinking they were making a fleeting, but kind connection. No. They would continue to stare at me, stony faced. Sometimes when I was feeling particularly sleep deprived or brave, I asked them what they wanted of me and they would always turn away. They had made their judgement, without even wanting to test out my willingness to smile.

I soon discovered that however well behaved my children were, independent cafe owners and pub landlords felt very unnerved by our presence. I ended up using the larger chains, who seemed far more accommodating and kind. The issue was never space – I wouldn’t try to squeeze us all in to a quaint tea shop and expect a hug with my cup of tea. The thing was that because other parents also felt judged, they gravitated to the places they could almost relax. Many independent hostelries should have painted: children not welcome, on their doors.

In fact, I felt unwelcome so often in those early years, that when I occasionally did feel welcome, I would be ridiculously happy: oh thank you so much for showing some kindness to my relatively well-behaved children today and for not giving me, ‘that look’. Please can I give you a hug?

It was pathetic. Why couldn’t people just help, ask, chat, smile, not judge?

We all make assumptions, but they don’t have to lead to judgements. God knows, life as a parent is hard enough.

 

I love Autumn: those deep reds and golds, reflecting the sun’s warmth. That chill in the morning air, that makes you wish you’d worn a coat. The evenings drawing in, giving you an excuse to light the fire and put on your pj’s at 4.30pm. It’s not as cold or as dark as Winter. There’s a glow to Autumn that is still hanging on to the heat of the Summer.

On our dog walk this morning, the grass looked as if it was covered in frost, but of course it wasn’t. It was covered in tiny spiders’ webs that were glistening with dew. Partner was suddenly the font of all knowledge on spiders and told me that in every square foot of grass, there are hundreds of them busying away. He saw a programme once – I was almost impressed.

I was more impressed than I was with the professional leaf blower, who was shifting leaves yesterday on our estate, with his powerful machine. They billowed up in all their gorgeous, golden glory. A feast of autumn confetti for those who were lucky enough to be twitching their curtains and watching the show. Then they settled back down, a mere few feet from where they started. Perhaps I am missing the point. Perhaps someone who may have seen a programme on leaf blowing can put me right. I have always seen the job of the leaf blower as a thankless task. One undertaken by retired men, who need a purpose while their wife is at pilates. One of those jobs that is further down the list than mowing the lawn and strimming the hedge, but that they eventually get to with a sigh. My mum used to use a rake. Every Sunday in Autumn she would be out in our garden with her woolly hat on and a rake. I can clearly remember asking her why she was bothering, because more leaves will fall during the night. Besides, I liked kicking the leaves up at my sisters and smelling their earthy, rotting smell.

I love Autumn. Especially when we have got through the horror and drama of Halloween and we can look forward to fireworks and huge bonfires. Collecting chestnuts, despite no-one actually liking them when they are roasted.

Autumn has the anticipation of Christmas hanging around it, without the stress. There is a frisson of Christmas excitement in October. It builds-up in November, reaching fever pitch and drunken parties by mid-December: hangovers and too much Camembert. By Christmas day, you are wondering how you actually ever drank mulled wine without feeling repulsed, but in the Autumn it is pure nectar, as it is symbolising the start of something, that like childbirth you have forgotten how it ends.

I love Autumn. I looked at the spring bulbs on offer in the supermarket this morning and I thought how lovely it would be to plant them now and see them spring into life in February, when we are feeling at our lowest ebb. When we are so low that we grab hold of Valentine’s Day by its balls and thrash the hell out of it, because we all need an excuse to drink champagne in the depths of Winter. But today, I resisted the urge to buy. I resisted because I want to be mindful and live in the moment of Autumn. I want to indulge in the richness of the colours and maybe, in December when it is too late, I’ll plant those bulbs.

As I lay in bed this morning, awake a little earlier than I would have liked, a piece of the jigsaw puzzle of my life slotted so easily into place, that I wondered why I hadn’t found it long before. The truth is, that piece of the jigsaw has always been lying there, next to others and I had picked it up and tried to place it in the jigsaw many times before, but it hadn’t quite fitted and so I’d laid it back down to the side. This morning I picked it up and it was the final piece. It was the piece that completed the puzzle. On this piece the word that is written is: affection.

Affection can mean many things. It can be deeply needed and unwanted. It can be between lovers and family and four legged friends. Humans need affection and depending on who or what this affection is between, it can be shown in a multitude of ways. Above all, affection makes us feel secure and wanted.

‘Secure’ and ‘wanted’ – the power of these words is the crux of my missing jigsaw piece. You see, you can have a relationship with someone or something that looks as if it functions. It can even feel as if it functions pretty well. Yet, without that missing jigsaw piece that has the word: affection on it, it is, ‘functional’ and for me, this is a word that lacks power. A lack of affection makes us unhappy, stressed and lonely. Yes, we can still function. To others looking in our lives look good, because we are functioning. We are getting on, succeeding, reproducing, aspiring. We are achieving all these things and more – so why don’t we feel happy? How can we possibly not feel ecstatically fulfilled? What the hell is wrong with us?

What the hell is wrong with me? I asked myself. Over and over again. I searched for the answer. I am a kind and thoughtful and intelligent person, I told myself, over and over again. Why can’t I find the answer? Why can’t I complete this puzzle.

Then this morning, there it was. So now it is complete. That final piece of my jigsaw is so powerful, yet I had passed it over. I had picked it up and turned it around with my finger tips many times. I had even tried to fit it in the hole, but I had underestimated its power. I had underestimated just how important affection is. So important that a lack of it can undermine almost everything you have built up in your life. Showing affection is essential. I know that now. I want you to know it too.

It isn’t just important, it is essential.

 

 

As a mum to 5 girls, I have been particularly interested in all the reports in the papers recently, about how much we are damaging girls psychologically by calling them, ‘pretty’. According to psychologists, this is undermining their self esteem, as they grow up feeling that they are ultimately defined by their looks. In one article I read, Linda Palmer, Chief Executive of Lady Geek, seemed to be getting particularly hysterical. In an article entitled: Don’t you dare tell my daughter she’s ‘pretty’, she says: ‘tell your own daughter, and your nieces and cousins and grandchildren…just how much they can achieve. Don’t define girls by their looks; show them what they can do.’ I thought about the last couple of times I had seen two of my nieces and remembered that on each occasion I had complimented them on what they were wearing. Shit, I thought after reading Linda’s article, does this mean I am part of what she calls: ‘the “sugar and spice” adage that ‘just won’t die – setting our girls up for failure’? But you see, I don’t think I am. Because if you strip away the fear of me complimenting their skirt and their sparkly cardigan (and for that compliment I got a twirl) you will see that there is so much more to what I say to them than this. This is just a small part of the way in which I talk to them. My complimenting their clothes is not defining who they are, it is simply complimenting them on their clothes. I also recently told one of my nephews that I liked his t shirt. People are also getting very hett up about the different ways girls and boys are spoken to. Examples are cited of how little girls are told by strangers that they are pretty, while their brothers are told that they are smart. Is this really true? I mean, I am constantly telling people that all their children are gorgeous. Crikey – there I go again. I must stop before I set any more children up for failure.

I am not dismissing the reports. I do think that as parents and relatives it is important that we don’t only talk to girls about their looks, but what I am questioning is, do we? Or is this is yet another example of reports that have been seized upon by journalists to terrify parents and undermine their confidence? 

In another article I read, Sarah Newton, the author of: ‘Help! My Teenager is an Alien: The Everyday Situation Guide for Parents’, tells us that statements like: ‘you’re so pretty’ to our daughters, ‘can have a devastating effect on a girl in the long run’. Oh god, I think I may have told my 4 year old she looked like a beautiful princess a couple of times when she wore her Cinderella outfit. Hell, I may have told ALL of them at some point or other in all those years of dressing up and parties. Should I have even let them dress up in those damn Disney dresses? Don’t worry though, ‘a subtle shift in language can ensure your daughter grows up much more prepared for success and the adult world.’ Thank goodness for that, I can redeem myself by ‘commenting on what they are doing and asking what interests them. Instead of telling them they are good girls, we should be saying how patient they are or that they listen intently. Instead of commenting on how a girl should or shouldn’t behave, we should be telling them that we love the fact that they can express themselves and stick up for themselves.’

My point is, that we are telling our daughters all these things, aren’t we? I have never been a parent who constantly tells my girls how beautiful they are and reading all these recent articles I wondered whether it’s because my gut instinct as a parent is that sub consciously I don’t want to define them by their looks. However, I’m not sure parents should get too hung up about it. Yes, it is sad that a recent BBC survey had found that six out of ten eight to 12-year-olds thought they’d be happier thinner, and that research by Girl Guiding UK had found that girls under ten often link happiness with body image. However, the blame for this cannot simply lie with the parents. There is a much bigger picture here. There is a media fire that is burning so hot on body image that it is impossible for girls to grow up unaffected by it. The message to parents should certainly be not to add fuel to the fire, but equally the blame for the pressures their daughters may feel as they are growing up, should not be laid squarely at their feet. 

Think of a time recently, because I bet there’s been one, where you have had to face ‘moving on’. 

This phrase is so personal to each unique situation it is relating to and it can also be incredibly difficult to achieve. It is, however, so vitally important that we do achieve it: for us, for the people around us and depending on the situation, for the other people who are affected by our ability to do so. 

If you are unable to move on, then you are holding on. What you are trying to hold on to may be hugely important to you, but holding on is so often holding you back. Of course, some things are good to hold on to, such as memories, but at some point it is important to face the concept of moving on. 

Last week I read a letter in the Times to an agony aunt. It was from a man who had lost his wife to cancer and was struggling emotionally with the thought of starting another relationship. When we read stories like this one, we are all able to understand his dilemma and whilst we sympathise with his difficulty, we would most certainly all be advising him to move on. 

When someone feels that they have been wronged in some way, they will often find it particularly hard to move on. Whilst this is understandable, the person who is most affected by this inability, is the person themselves. Bitterness eats away at them and turns them into someone who people may at one time may have sympathised with, but who start to feel frustrated with the person’s resoluteness not to let go of the past. This can be the case in a divorce, where one partner had an affair. Hanging on to hatred for that person is simply stopping them from building a positive and happy life and where children are involved it merely serves to make their lives unnecessarily harder. When moving on requires forgiveness, it can feel incredibly difficult to let go, but ultimately a huge relief from a damaging burden. 

I think it’s important to remember that moving on doesn’t necessarily require you to forget, but to release yourself from the chains of the past. The past is gone and holding on to it prevents us from building a positive future.

It can hurt to let go, but sometimes it hurts more to hold on.

Not another one! No sooner had I sighed a huge sigh of relief that I had completed my answers to 73 questions, after being nominated by Charlie at Mess and Merlot, than I am tagged by Fran at Whinge Whinge Wine to yet again delve into the depths of my brain to find more answers to her searching questions. Fran has been shortlisted for best comic writer at the Mumsnet Blogging Awards, so do go and check out her blog.

So, here goes…

1) There is no electricity and won’t be for the next week. NONE. After eating the contents of the freezer (assuming you have a gas cooker) what the hell do you do with yourself?

Book into a 5 star hotel and claim on the insurance

2) What time constitutes a lie-in in your house?

8am. The kids lie-in now, so what did we go and do? We got 2 dogs who wake us up early.

3) Why is your greatest achievement, bar your children?

Becoming a Taekwon-do World Champion

4) What is your favourite blog post ever (your own, or someone else’s)?

Ooh tricky…I rather like Twat …I just love that word. I loved one of Hurrah for Gin’s I read recently: Mum’s night out

5) If you could only use Facebook, Twitter or Instagram, which one would you choose?

Facebook

6) How often per month do you think ‘screw it, I’ll give up blogging’?

Ha! I’ve only just started, so not often. Give it time…

7) If I was a newbie and just starting my blog, and I came to you for advice, what would you tell me?

Say goodbye to your family and home cooked meals

8) Chocolate or strawberry milkshake?

Strawberry

9) What is the best fruit?

Mango

10) What are your top three hits/bands from the 80s…

Wake me up before you go, go!  – Wham
Girls just wanna have fun – Cyndi Lauper
Eye of the Tiger – Survivor

Now apparently I have to tag people to answer my questions. So, I challenge you: Helen at Just Saying Mum, Mac at Reflections from me, Sharon at After the Playground and Talya at Motherhood: The Real Deal.

Enjoy!

1. What would you like to stop?
2. Which celebrity would you choose to personal train you?
3. What age were you when you had the most fun?
4. What have you had to get used to recently?
5. What is the most annoying habit of someone who lives in your house?
6. Who is your favourite comedian?
7. Who inspires you?
8. What song, if any, makes you cry?
9. What meal do you cook the most?
10. Where is your favourite place on earth? (It may not be somewhere you have been, just somewhere that you feel is amazing).