"Mummy I don't like you. Daddy is my favourite."

Drawing Daddy 

I'm so sorry I'm just no good at the fun stuff. I seem to be the one who's always saying, "be careful" and "don't climb on the sofa" or "well I did tell you not to stand on that didn't I ?" The only reason I can give you is that it is what my parents did and I can see now that it was because they were so afraid all the time. The difference is that you have me (not fun) and Daddy (fun) so your life is not solely about being surrounded by fear and discipline.

I know son. I realise that I'm not your favourite. It's been sunny all weekend - an oasis of warmth in a wet and miserable Summer (so far) - and I tried to tempt you off the sofa where you were watching Firehouse Dog for, I don't know, the 60th time ? You know, Firehouse Dog, the movie I recorded for you because I thought you'd enjoy it. I was wrong of course. You're obsessed with it. 

It is true I'm not the fun one. Daddy is the one who is good at the fun stuff. He will play with cars and run around the garden or the park and he takes you to football. I feel so guilty and I wish I was more fun, but it doesn't come naturally to me.

Daddy loves to take you to the park whereas I'm looking at my watch and finding excuses to move on and do something else the whole time. Actually I'm watching your scooter as I'm so convinced that some random stranger will come and steal it. I have no evidence on which to base this suspicion, but I do it anyway.

When you go to football I pack you off with healthy snacks and a water bottle for half time and when you get back you tell me you've had a Kitkat and biscuits in the boardroom. Of course there was the time that he forgot to take your shoes and a hat so Daddy had to go to the supermarket next to the ground and buy emergency plimsolls and a baseball cap. 

When we all go swimming Daddy splashes around with you in the kid's pool and you both pour water into boats, race ducks and throw a ball if the nice lifeguard is there. I swim up and down the lanes of the big pool as I don't like being splashed. Mind you the fact that you have a towel and a snack afterwards is my doing and there was that one time that Daddy left your costume behind in the changing room and this weekend he forgot your shower gel.

I've always taken you out and about to activities and you've met Peppa Pig, Thomas and the Fat Controller and had a tea party with Mickey and Minnie Mouse. It's just not my thing to get involved in toddler activities. While Daddy will run around with you at Totstars football I'm complaining about my dodgy knees and looking for the tea trolley. 

I'm not entirely useless though. This stuff doesn't matter to you, but here's what Mummy is good at:

• Before you go to bed I like to have some special time just you and me where we talk about your day. About what has been good and what wasn't so good. It's a space for you to share your feelings and for me to help you make sense of things that might be difficult to understand. 

• When you're asleep I come into your room and kiss you and move the toy cars on your pillow so that you don't roll onto them in the night and hurt yourself.

• If you say you like something I listen. It's important to me that I know you love Big Ben, windmills, Minis, fans, Spider-Man, buses and - at the moment - dogs.

• I don't buy things for myself, I only shop for you. On the rare occasions I do get something for myself I end up taking it back so I can get something for you instead. 

• Any conversation I have becomes about you. It's terribly boring for everyone else, but you know how you're obsessed with Firehouse Dog ? That's how I am about you. Even on days when we aren't getting along you still make me smile and I am proud of what a bright and funny boy you are. 

• When I get it wrong - which seems to be often - I say sorry. It is important that you feel heard and respected and I want you to grow up to be a man with integrity. As far as I'm concerned that means I have to lead by example. 

• I tell you I love you many times a day. I know you don't get why this is important, but you are kind enough to say it back and that makes my day. I hope that you will grow to realise how special it is when someone you care about tells you they love you. My parents never did, so I tell you every day. A lot. 

Lastly, I write about you and our adventures in this blog. I hope that when you're older you will read it with some pride. That it will remind you of things we did and times we shared that you can look back on and smile about.  

I know I'm not the fun one, but I did teach you the words to "I Fought the Law" by The Clash. That has to be worth something ? 

I'll be honest, I'm just not a very good Mummy.

I have failed my boy - I'm not fit to call myself his parent. Someone will soon be sending me this notice in the post from the Parenting Police headquarters.

On Friday after his swimming lesson one of the other mums came up to me to say he was splashing around and taking up a lot of the attention from the teacher and as a result the others were missing out. Apparently because I'm swimming in the adult pool she thinks I haven't seen him even though I look over every 3-4 minutes and every time I hear his name called (which is frequently). He loves swimming and he loves to splash around in the water. Some children don't love this and he is only 3 so he doesn't appreciate that his idea of fun is not theirs. I've spoken to him about it before, but he is 3 so I may well have to say it quite a few more times before it sinks in.

The problem is that after she'd had this dig at me for not sitting on the side watching him swim - like all the other mums do - I was upset at what she'd said. It made me resentful. So when we got in the car instead of being reasonable I took it out on my son. This was unfair as I don't think he's done anything wrong and the teacher hadn't said he was being disruptive either when I asked her. I was cross with the woman who told me off and as a result I told off my son. We had a row. There were tears. It was horrible.

So I feel I've failed because surely in the rules of how to be a parent one of the first ones is that you are on your child's side ? If I'm not on his side and defending him then who is ? It's my job to defend him and to speak up for him and to show that I believe in him. I'm not saying that if he hits or spits or steals I'm going to give him praise and defend his actions. I mean when he's done something that I don't think is wrong I should defend him shouldn't I ? If I don't then whose side am I on ?

I'm the oldest child of four and when I was young my parents were quite strict. When I fell over they would tell me off for not being careful or for not looking after my bike - it did cost money after all. I had a bloody knee from falling over in the park once, as I limped home I was told off because my socks were ruined. When my younger siblings fell over or got hurt in my care I was accused of trying to kill them - I am not joking this really happened. The result is that I never felt that they were on my side.

The other day my son fell off a chair at my parents house. I checked to make sure he wasn't hurt and told him that he should be more careful. My parents looked at me with what I can only call ironic concern - they thought I was being too hard on him. I was. Did I mention he's only 3 ? What is wrong with me ?

I'm grateful to my parents for a lot of things. They taught me a lot of important values and they raised me. They are wonderful grandparents and love my son. They are on his side as much as they weren't on mine. Maybe that's why I feel like such a traitor for not being kinder to him when things happen. I know how it feels if you make a mistake and your parents are the first ones to point out how stupid you are. That's why I'm so hard on myself first - I'd rather not hear how I've let them down and how disappointed they are. So why do I hear their words coming out of my mouth to my beloved son ?

I don't want my son to grow up thinking I am not on his side. I want him to know that I will defend him and stand up for him. When he's a grown man I want him to know I've always been proud of him. I will cheer his achievements and when things aren't going his way I'll be there to support and care for him or just to listen.

So why is this simple thing so difficult for me to get right ?

So where *do* babies come from ?

A holiday might help ?

I've learned a lot of new terminology since becoming a parent. My least favourite right now is secondary infertility which sounds rotten however you look at it. I do, of course, appreciate that having my beloved son is a wonderful gift and am very grateful that we have him in our lives. I guess I just hoped that when we tried to have another baby it wouldn't be quite as fraught as the first time, nor take as long. So imagine how much fun it is to find out that we aren't in the subset that fall pregnant again really easily the second time. Instead we're finding it's startlingly similar to how it was the first time. This time with added guilt as craving another baby makes me feel I'm devaluing my son in some way. I also realise that it's nothing like it was when we genuinely believed that we wouldn't be able to have a child at all. For anyone who is in that situation what I'm struggling with right now must seem a bit 'princessy.'

In the first instance we were able to dodge enquiries about babymaking with the usual 'we want to spend some time just the two of us before we start a family.' or 'I'm concentrating on my career right now.' After a few years had passed though I was reduced to a terse 'we can't have children' in response to any polite enquiry from a stranger who didn't really need to know the details of my life.

The enquiries from family were more difficult. Telling my own Mother that it wasn't about not having enough money for IVF, we'd genuinely prefer to adopt was a repetitive conversation that only really ended when we did in fact find out we were expecting a baby. Whether this can be attributed to a miracle or tenacity I still don't know.

Of course now the questions are, 'will you have any more ?' or 'when do you think you'll have another baby ?' Both of which cause a ripple of panic as I haven't yet worked out a response that isn't tinged with bitterness or tears. Telling people that you're trying and it's making you feel like a failure doesn't seem to be enough to head off an awkward personal conversation.

Then there are the stupid things people say when they find out it's not happening for you.

"My pregnancy was a mistake." In all the years I've been married (and the ones before) I didn't make a mistake that resulted in a baby - this one baffles me. How exactly do you fall pregnant by mistake ? I used to know a woman who would fall pregnant when she suspected her relationship was skittering into the buffers and I'm sure she used this line on the boyfriends/husbands concerned.

"We fell pregnant on our honeymoon. It's funny really as we were hoping to go back for our first anniversary, but of course we'll have to get a passport for the baby now." How unbearably smug are the newlyweds who score the honeymoon baby ? I cannot stand this one, it's up there with always winning the best raffle prize or getting a strike every time they go bowling.

Lorean

"Have you tried acupunture / shamanistic healing / traditional chinese medicine /  Zita West / co-enzyme Q10 / agnus castus my friend swears it worked for her." I've tried everything - yes even the stupid stuff - and if you suggest another crazy ass idea I'll probably try that too. I'm desperate for something, anything to work. According to one holistic therapist it's about me being honest about wanting another child. Of course I'd never considered that what I think is pain, anguish and desperate sadness might just be indifference and indecision about having a baby. Silly me.

"Oh we just fell pregnant as soon as we started trying. We didn't think it would happen that fast." So why did you start trying then ? This is the person who tells you how easy it was for them to get pregnant every time they tried and is a special from of torture that makes me wonder if they also go up to people who are selling the Big Issue to boast about how big their house is and that they're considering a second property.

Closely followed by the couple who decide to have another child and lo and behold a month later she's pregnant and tells you that she's never had any problems falling pregnant and proceeds to tell you exactly how she does it. For me this is like the person who complains that they just have to eat or the weight just falls off them. If I don't walk away at this point there is a risk that prolonged contact could result in a serious assault.

I have no idea what it was that tipped the balance for us last time - maybe it was the fact that we were in the adoption process, maybe it was one of the holistic therapies we tried, maybe it was the three holidays in a row that we took, maybe it was the champagne that we decided it was ok to drink at New Year. Or maybe it was just the right time for us.

Whatever it was I suspect it's going to be like Back to the Future and however much we try and repeat it something will be different. The main difference - of course - is that we have our wonderful son already.

That's a pretty great point to start from.

There is a light that never goes out

Weekends are always packed in our family with my zumba class, the boys going to rhymetime and football and all of us going swimming. Fitting in anything extra requires logistics that would make the MOD proud. We did, however, manage to find a space in the schedule to attend an open day for a school this weekend. My boy loved everything about it and yelled like a banshee when we moved him from one fun filled room to another as he realised that all of it was geared toward keeping him occupied.

A bit of tutoring with Daddy

As neither Hubbie nor I went to an independent school it was a whole new experience and refreshing to meet teachers who can spell, use grammar and don't dress like I did in my second year at university. I'm not sure why we received a free teddy bear and a big helium filled balloon to take away with us, but I think that is designed to distract from the sting of the fees they charge. I did find myself picturing my son in a school with small class sizes, a swimming pool onsite and an interactive whiteboard in every classroom - including the nursery ones. 

Of course the point of an open day is to show the school in the best possible light and to sell it to potential parents. The main concern I have is whether considering a fee paying school for our son is a sign that we have entirely lost touch with our idealistic notions and rewritten our own history. From being an activist about everything at university to waking up one day middle aged is a salutary lesson.

However, I do console myself that at least I recognise that I'm not a fearless upstart any more. Imagine living with the massive denial that the former frontman of the Smiths labours under. Morrissey has never been a bundle of laughs. Witness the cheerless titles the Queen is Dead, Girlfriend in a Coma and Meat is Murder, as opposed to Vicar in a Tutu and Shoplifters of the World Unite which I thought demonstrated how the Smiths were funny and their lyrics amusing, but now I'm not so sure.

Hand on glove and plant in back pocket

There was a time when Morrissey was the angry young man and poster child for sullen and disaffected youth with his precocious commentary on modern life and all it's failings. Now he's an older man he still deigns to make controversial pronouncements from his cosy ex-pat life in LA where he thinks his teenage rants are still relevant.

Out of loyalty we still listen to his rants, but he's less a national treasure and more a Victor Meldrew figure with a cooler following (my father-in-law thinks One Foot in the Grave is hilarious, but he has no idea who the Smiths were). People of my generation still think Mozzer is like a cool uncle who used to take us to festivals and is now vaguely embarrassing, but we're still loyal to him out of respect for what he once was to us. Anti-establishment and so very clever.

I'm not saying I'm going to get rid of my weird and wonderful music, or give my tour t shirts to charity as a sign that I've grown up. After all I've still got my original Doc Marten boots to show my son when he thinks he's the first teenager to be rebellious and/or misunderstood. 

What I am saying is that when it's his turn he's going to have to go some to find a style of music and a political viewpoint that we find completely disagreeable. If he wanders into the house with a long floppy fringe and a canvas bag with Nine inch Nails written on it in felt tip I will smile knowingly to myself - I just won't let on to him. 

Tuesday's Tarzan Toddler Tantrum and other traumas

I've awarded myself the coveted title of worst mother ever today - again.  As a multiple winner of the title I have run out of new things to say in my acceptance speech - usually my voice has gone from shouting so much anyway.

Having promised myself that I will be a better Mummy today (which I do every day) it often goes very wrong for no discernible reason. I do wish I was more patient, more zen, more loving and kind and better able to deal with:

- just after waving bye to Daddy a pot of yoghurt hitting the floor and a water cup hitting me in quick succession

 - wrestling to get the boy to put some shoes on, to get him in the car and to get his car seat harness done up

- my boy dribbling all his drinking water over his clothes for no reason other than he finds it amusing - four outfit changes later we can leave the house

- assuring him that yes he can go in the "buggy, buggy, buggy" to go to the post box, only for him to screech like a banshee when I try to actually put him in it

- watching him tear around playgroup like he's had sugar coated crack cocaine for breakfast while I wander round holding a mug of tea observing the Mummy cliques and trying to decide if there is seat that isn't 'reserved' for anyone where I can still see him before he runs over any small children with a Tiny Tikes car

Of course I love my son. I already feel bereft when I think about him growing up and leaving home to have his own life. I am not wishing away these golden years when he is forming his personality and testing boundaries. I just hope that I can learn to be a better parent so his memories of this time aren't relived in therapy and mine aren't of hiding in the garage listening to Radio 4.

Kitchen Confidential (or thrills, spills and lentils)

You already know about my unhealthy obsession with Come Dine With Me and food in general. I have also said I'd never do the programme because no one comes out of it looking anything other than grasping and desperate or incompetent and clueless. I have no idea what I'd cook and while I enjoy cooking I don't think I'm especially skilled at it. I also fear a disaster in the kitchen which once on tape would haunt me forever.

True I do sit around thinking about what I'm going to eat next or even tomorrow. If I have a random ingredient to use up I spend a ridiculous amount of time trawling the internet and poring over my cookbooks to find a suitable recipe. Usually I find one that requires yet more ingredients so I end up with even more in the cupboard which I'll need to use up at a later date. This is why I make banana cake so often - we buy a lot of bananas and if they go a bit soft or spotty I won't eat them. The plus side is I don't like cooked bananas so Hubbie and our friend Jan are the main beneficiaries of my baking prowess, so I don't end up piling on the pounds and I appear altruistic.

When Hubbie cooks a special meal for me he will find a recipe that requires at least 12 ingredients (only 4 of which I have in) and I end up with bottles of rose essence, mustard seeds, desiccated coconut and curry leaves to use at a later date. The meal is always delicious and far more inventive than anything I would try, but then it is an annual effort so he does go to town a bit.

Of course cooking almost every day means there will be occasional mishaps and some of them are so bad they put you off that foodstuff for life.

Here - in no particular order - are some of the many disasters I have had in my years of cooking:

1. While rushing around in the world's smallest kitchen preparing food I dropped an entire bowl of homemade potato salad on the floor before a picnic with friends. Only one of them witnessed it and she is no longer in the circle so can't tell anyone when they might have tasted floor food.

2. The options were to steam for 30 minutes or to zap in the microwave for 10 minutes so for ease I did that latter and this meant we had an exploding rice filled lotus leaf with our beautifully marinated and steamed fish.

3. During an experimental phase with fruit and curry I made an ill-judged decision to put grapefruit in chicken curry. To quote Ross and Monica's dad Jack Geller, "it was not good."

4. In an attempt to use up a box of mangos left by my Dad for my son (which he didn't like) I decided to make my own sorbet / ice cream. I managed to do the stirring every few hours bit for most of the day then forgot and left it overnight. Lets just say it needs to be taken out of the freezer a few hours before eating in order to break into it - yes it is a bit too frozen.

5. I had a pot of quark that I had used about one spoonful of and needed to finish so I had the genius idea to make mushroom pate with it instead of greek yoghurt. The taste was pretty good, but it was quite sloppy. Of course my guests were far too polite to comment on the runniness of the starter.

And the ones that I got away with:

When working in the staff kitchen in Sainsburys I managed to seriously burn the sponge pudding so I poured some lemon icing over it and was astounded at the compliments I got for my "treacly citrus pudding." 

I found a load of seeds and nuts that I'd bought while pregnant and not finished so I adapted my usual cookie recipe to include them. The results were not to my taste, but by all accounts they were a hit with Hubbie's work colleagues. 

Only today I halved the quantities in a recipe for cookies, but a miscalculation meant I added double coconut into the mix. We have yet to find out what the consequences of this error are as the mix won't be cooked until it's been in the fridge overnight. 

Fingers crossed it won't be so bad it'll go into the first list !

To stay at home or not to stay at home that is the question...

Mother-in-law was asking me earlier this week about work. We'd just finished eating and I was still tired from two sleepless nights with a teething toddler, so I was only really half listening. Initially she asked if I had given up working and I said yes. Then she asked if I was going to look for another job and I said I wasn't sure, but I'd probably look for something that fitted round my boy's busy schedule. She then went on to tell me how it's so much nicer to stay at home with your children and it was simpler in her day as you could do that.

This morning there was a discussion on the radio about women 'having it all' and whether or not it was possible or preferable to work or be a full time mum. As I was driving back from an aerobics class while Hubbie and toddler were out doing father and son activities I only caught two soundbites. One was a woman saying that women should never give up work. The other was that men can have it all because they have women to do the other stuff for them.

I stayed at home with my boy for the first year of his life and that was a bare minimum for me to feel ready to leave him. Then I went back to work - ostensibly full time, but with flexible hours and a lot of leave to use up. I hated being at work while others looked after my boy. He was with family members as my sister and Hubbie did the childcare so he was always with people who love him very much. I missed him so much and my work just didn't appeal any more. When the offer of voluntary redundancy came up we discussed if it would work for us and Hubbie agreed that we could manage if I stayed at home. I loved being with my son every day and took him to playgroups and activities every day.

Then a few months ago I found myself feeling fed up. My life seemed to be about waiting for my boy to nap then while he was asleep preparing for him to wake up. I cooked most evenings and my son ate home cooked food every day. He got so used to me that he would greet Daddy enthusiastically and look disappointed if it was just me - AGAIN.

A job came up locally which I decided to do a few days a week to see how it went and if it would suit me to work as my boy was older now (although still under 2 and increasingly cheeky - of course). I did the job a few weeks and just knew it wasn't for me. I was in an office alone and the work was pretty soul destroying. What had started out as a way to have some time for myself and to spend time with other adults became a long walk at lunchtime sandwiched between massive boredom either side. Another discussion with Hubbie about the pointlessness of doing a job that was making me so miserable led to my deciding to give my notice.

This brings us right up to date with my conversation with MiL. Women of her generation do have a different perspective on how to raise children. It took me and Hubbie a long time to have our son so it was important to me that I raise him and care for him as I didn't have him to farm him out to childminders. My mother didn't have any choice and had to work despite having four children. Her perspective is broadly the same and she encourages me to stay at home if I can while understanding (a lot better than MiL I suspect) how hard it is to work and raise a family.

The phrase 'having it all' is misleading:

Women work because we want to or because we need to
We have children and raise them because we want to or can do
We try and do both because we have to or because we are led to believe we are supposed to

The messages we get about being a Mum are:

Being a Mum is not enough to be 'a job'
Working and trying to raise your children will mean you are not doing a good job of either
Being dedicated to your work makes you a poor parent

So I find myself once again tackling the thorny issue of whether to work or not. If I work we can have a few nicer things and maybe a holiday. It means the pressure is not on Hubbie to bring home the Quorn bacon so he can still have some family life and not be a wage slave to support us all.

If I stay at home I get to raise our boy with our values, our boundaries and to watch my little boy grow into a confident and engaging little man before my eyes. I can look at him and beam with pride when he says "bless you" for someone who sneezes or does all the actions to Incy Wincy spider, or strokes the cat gently after weeks of being told not to pull his tail. It also means I get all the tantrums, the throwing, the refusing to do as he's told and hearing the word "no" so many times I cannot tell you.

I've said before that I don't want to have it all. I just want to have a son who feels happy and secure. A Hubbie who is happy and feels appreciated and loved. A family who feel they are part of my son's life and valued. Oh and if there is room for one more wish I'd like this body in a size ten please.

I want world peace (and a flatter stomach please)

Last week I had a rare night out with some yummy mummies from a baby group I've taken my boy to for over a year. They really are yummy being slimmer, younger and considerably better looking than me (even the ones who are pregnant again - how demoralising is that ?) so I sat at the dumpy, middle-aged & unattractive section of the table that I had designated for myself. Envy is an ugly thing so I figured the noise of the restaurant and my distance from the others would disguise the gnashing of my teeth. I distracted myself from their loveliness by noshing my pasta and debating whether it would be a bad idea to order tiramisu. For the record, it is never a bad idea to order tiramisu unless you care about getting into slim fit jeans.

Then today a pal of mine has tweeted a link to an article about Aishwarya Rai and her post baby weight gain and the consternation it has caused the Indian media. For those unfamiliar with the phenomenon of Ash she is an ex-Miss World, Bollywood and Hollywood actress and married into the most famous acting family in India (her father in law was voted most popular movie actor in a BBC poll some years ago much to the shock of Westerners who had never heard of Amitabh Bachan). In November last year Aishwarya gave birth to a daughter and since then there has been fevered comment on her weight gain and apparent disinterest in losing it. According to the magazines and bitchy blogs in India it is her duty as a star to set a good example of a slim body and to "do a Posh." Of course we're all familiar with the slim body that slebs parade at six weeks post-partum and even I joked with the Obstetrician who performed my emergency Cesarean that I'd like a "Posh tuck." They must hear that joke at least ten times a day - poor loves smile weakly and just say "not on the NHS dearie."

My body loathing is legendary and a few years ago I finally slimmed down to a size ten and wore all the clothes I had thought I'd never get into. Then I fell pregnant and was overwhelmed with the love I felt for my swelling body when I was pregnant. I was so convinced that I'd be able to get back into the small sizes that the positivity gave way almost immediately that my son was born to a sense of failure that I wasn't as slim as every other new mother I met. There was even a woman a few beds away from me who didn't even look like she'd actually given birth despite the evidence to the contrary snoring softly in the cot next to her. My point is that we put ourselves under enough pressure to lose weight without other people reminding us that we're not as slim and our cheekbones aren't as defined as they once were.

I spent all afternoon sorting out my wardrobes and deciding not to dress like a frumpy Mummy any more. The saying goes that you should dress for the job you want. I can't see myself dressing in a bikini, but it's the only time in my life that I can even approximate looking like a Miss World. Take a look at the post baby Aishwarya and see if you think I have any hope at all…

Never, never, never… Oh well ok, as it's you

John Cusack often tells his Twitter followers that if poor grammar and spelling bothers them they should unfollow him as the content is more important than how it's delivered (my words not his). It's not a philosophy I adhere to usually, but I make an exception for him as I think his tweets have the capacity to entertain and inform, but to be honest I break my own zero tolerance rule because I like him. It's the same rule that applies to the films he has been in - yes even Hot Tub Time Machine which when I saw an online trailer for I genuinely thought was an online spoof as it looked so bad. I can't say the same for Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil which despite being directed by Clint Eastwood and starring JC (a dream combination in my book) didn't hold my attention and bored me to actual sleep. Otherwise I heart John for wearing a Clash t-shirt in any movie where he has wardrobe approval as it shows he has great taste in listening to English bands - if he wore a Smiths t-shirt I might properly explode.

The same exception applies to my friend Jan who sends me text messages in teenage text speak which grates on me if done by anyone other than her. I suspect it's because I find it endearing that someone who has a senior citizen's bus pass writes "gr8 to c u on Sat, thx 4 cream t." I mean come on that's far too cute to be annoyed about.

On a different tack my husband follows any and all sports (except Rugby, but in extremis he has been known to watch that too) despite the fact that years ago I swore blind that I would never marry a man who was obsessed with sport. Clearly he won me over with his witty repartee, his massive intellect and that meal he makes with prawns and pineapple. Actually I refer you to the previous blog post that lists the lovely things he does which make me heart Hubbie (yes, yes I know I hate when people do that too, I promise not to do it any more). 

An area in which we are perfectly matched is our shared interest in politics which is why my friendship with my closest friend is the most puzzling example of my exception to the rule theory. Our politics are polar opposites, yet we get along and don't actually argue. We disagree, but often find common ground that is not party political. In fact it's thanks to SJ that I shadowed a Green London Assembly member (the lovely Jenny Jones) when I took part in a programme to encourage BME women to become involved in politics. I discussed the scheme with SJ and told her I wasn't sure which party to ask to be matched with and she said that she considered me to be most closely aligned with the Greens. She showed great insight that revealed in all the years we've known each other she has identified something that I haven't acknowledged myself. Now that's a good friend ! 

The most recent revelation has been just today. I have for years been very sniffy about people who home school their kids - and as a yoga teacher and part-time Yummy Mummy I know a few - as I've always seen it as self-indulgent and hippie to take Jacinta out of school because she's far too bright for the rubbish teachers at her school to cope with. This opinion has altered since I've realised that if my son was only offered a place at a very poor school I'd have to seriously consider home schooling him as I daren't risk some yobbish Croydon yoofs hurting a hair on my darling boy's head. Today, however, I found out that my NCT teacher Wendy is taking her daughter out of a local school to home school her. I can't blame her, from what she's told me it's the best decision to improve her daughter's chances of actually getting an education. My own fear has always been that even though I'm a qualified teacher I'd struggle to do a good enough job teaching my own child(ren) the curriculum and I'd feel guilty for letting them down.

So I guess what I'm trying to say is that I have a strict zero tolerance policy on most things with the following exceptions:

1. Poor spelling and grammar - unless you're John Cusack (or Alex O'Loughlin if he's on twitter)

2. Text speak - unless you're old enough to know better and do it to be cool

3. Sports obsessives - unless I married you in which case you put up with far more than I do (and bless you for that)

4. Tories - unless you're SJ, that is the only exception

5. Home Schooling - unless you're a normal person in every other way like my friends Wend and Siobhan. If you're a homeopathic, 'spiritual,' yurt dweller just move along now and we'll say no more about it.

Thanks for listening :o) 

Clooney in cuffs causes chaos

This afternoon the news wires almost melted at the overexcited news that George Clooney had been arrested during a protest. Even Krishnan Gurumurthy - an otherwise respectable news journo type - delivered a breathy promo for Channel 4 news exclaiming that we should all contain our excitement at Clooney in handcuffs. This evening he's been released having posted bail of around £63 ($100) and has notched up a few more cool points which he kind of lost having appeared in the Kony video without his knowledge. 

At the same time the director of the Kony film (Jason Russell) has allegedly been arrested for public disorder of the drunken and masturbatory kind. Not really what we expect of an evangelical Christian and father of two young children who likes to make manipulative videos with dubious factual content. We completely expect Clooney to get arrested at a protest, just like we expect Sean Penn to offer an opinion on international politics without irony or reference to the country he calls home. Just like we expect Angelina Jolie to pitch up after a humanitarian crisis with her shopping list of criteria for the next addition to the Jolie-Pitt brood. 

I'm not cynical about movie stars getting involved in politics, but I am disinterested in them wandering in to foreign countries to research a supposed answer and reporting back to the rest of us. It's not as if America doesn't have poverty, natural disasters or racially motivated conflicts. It just isn't quite as easy to fix if it's on home turf. 

A dual approach has to be the way to go as far as I'm concerned. Get involved locally and take an interest internationally and at least you've got your bases covered. If you are very concerned about the poor children in Africa, but are sniffy about someone who sleeps in a doorway and begs for some change from you I'd say you've got a perspective issue to deal with. 

Fame does add kudos to a good cause though and if you don't have a celebrity endorsement you can kiss farewell to any donations until you get a minor soap actress or reality star to tell Hello magazine how great you are. I only mention this as I've gone back into fundraising and it is terrifying and lonely all at once. 

I have an office all by myself, a cause I've never fundraised for before and I work in a school which I pretty much swore I'd never do again once I completed my teaching degree. Add to this the fact that I miss being with my son and I have to admit it's not looking like a triumphant return to work for me. More like an elaborate attempt to get out of running around after the toddler from the Weetabix commercial every day.

Well at least it's the weekend tomorrow and I have a long yoga class on Saturday afternoon and hopefully a lovely relaxing Mothering Sunday. In the meantime I can consider my days of actually doing something worthwhile and ponder whether I would have gotten arrested for any of the causes I worked for. If there was a chance of being cuffed to Gorgeous George… probably. Otherwise… probably not. 

Let them eat cake. Them, not me.

At this moment I have about 5 boxes and tins full of cake and cookies in my kitchen. I've got red velvet cake, gingerbread, banana loaf, chocolate brownies, carrot cake and good old Victoria sponge. Before you panic that I've gone a bit loopy they were left over from a cake sale to raise money for the premature baby charity Bliss.

While I type this I'm watching Gok Wan's TV show about teens and body image which is making me feel like a total pig for even having cake in the house. Like a lot of women I have a schizophrenic relationship with food, eating and my body. I took some photos at the cake sale to send to Bliss. I'm in some of them and when I saw myself I realised that I look bigger than I think I am right now. The fact that I've been exercising every day since 28th Dec and being careful with what I eat and yet I still appear to be gaining weight is very frustrating. Even more so now I have a worktop covered in delicious tempting treats.

I've never been someone who eats an entire packet of biscuits or a whole cake or loaf of bread. I am a grazer and can happily munch away without realising how much I've actually consumed. The way I've always dealt with weight gain has been to exercise (a lot) and to control my food intake or to skip meals altogether. This is simple to do when you are single, go to work and only have to take care of yourself, actually it's even manageable when you have a partner. When I was at work I'd strictly manage how much food I ate and went to the gym or for a run at lunchtime. Now I'm at home I exercise when my boy is asleep (or weather permitting take a hike up the hill with him in his buggy) and eat once he and the cat are dealt with. I made a promise to myself to never eat from his plate or to finish his leftovers. To my horror I've found a stray piece of fishfinger in my mouth as I've been clearing his plate and the justification that it's a waste to throw it away is never far from my mind.

In general I've tried to embrace the idea that taking care of my boy is far more important than worrying about my appearance. However, this falls down when I see other mums looking great and fear that the family curse has set in already and I will be the size of my Aunty Bably if I don't take control of this situation soon. I love my Aunty, but I also remember how she was just as jolly when she was young and slim. When I was 11 and went to India she hung her long chiffon scarf to dry out of the window of a moving train, she slapped a man round the face for daring to drive his moped in the road in front of where we were about to cross and she laughed more than anyone I've ever met. She also ate voraciously and was delighted when I made us chips during a power cut in the village where my Grandmother was headteacher of the local school. It never occurred to me that my family's obsession with food and eating would leave a legacy of self-loathing and fear of loss of control.

The year before I fell pregnant I lost a lot of weight and was the slimmest I've ever been (as an adult). I was wearing size ten jeans for the first time in my life. This feat was made possible by focusing entirely on losing weight and thinking about practically nothing else at all. I wore a pedometer, wrote down everything I ate (which I still do, but the list of food is longer these days) and was weighed every week. It was a miserable, self-obsessed, but ultimately successful, way to do it.

So it would appear my choice is to be happy and jolly and overweight (as it is written) or to spend most of my life obsessing about everything I eat and how much I exercise. For now I just have to stay away from all the cake in the kitchen. Hubbie's job is to take it into work and get his colleagues to eat it. A kitchen free from temptation and guilt - now that really will be bliss.