Abigail's Party

The boy went to Abigail's party this afternoon. Hubbie was so amused he kept mentioning Demis Roussos and cheese and pineapple on a stick - which I've only ever had when my friend Lou had a party years ago and I was so surprised I recall telling my Mum, "No it's a real thing, white people eat it at parties !!"

We got the invitation month ago and I didn't even know who she was, but clearly she goes to his nursery and never one to turn down a party I scanned it for the date and panicked when it didn't have one so I thought it was that Saturday. Turns out it was actually today and we could make it so we sent an RSVP saying he'd be delighted to go.

Planning today was a little more complicated than we had hoped for as the boy stayed with my parents last night and me and Hubbie stayed at a hotel so the first thing we had to do was get back home. Then I did that thing where I wanted to make sure we all go to do something we enjoy today so that meant the boy going to his party, Hubbie going to football and me going for a swim.

The logistics of this meant that the only way to make it work was a strategic and perfectly timed plan:

1.30: Hubbie takes the boy to the party on the bus
1.45: After tidying the lunch stuff I go for a swim
2.30: I drive to the party to take over from Hubbie and he leaves for the match
3.30: Party finishes and I take the boy to the football ground to meet Hubbie at half time
3.45: The boy and Hubbie watch football and I walk 3 miles in training for the Moonwalk

Neo and friends :)

So Hubbie and the boy made it to the party and I went for my swim. I was rushing to make sure I was on time for Hubbie to get to the football, so I didn't get to swim as far as usual or to dry my hair, but it was sunny so that was ok. On the way to the party I got stuck in traffic behind a massive Tesco lorry that was reversing into a residential road for some reason. I was now panicking quite a lot as it was perilously close to 3pm and I wanted to ensure Hubbie would make it for the start. It was clear this wasn't going to happen.

I sent Hubbie a text to say I was in traffic and he sent me one saying he'd been offensive about teachers and both Abigail's parents teach. I rolled my eyes and pasted on a smile as I walked to the door of the house. When I arrived at the party I met Abigail's lovely parents - she's Aussie and possibly pregnant, but I wasn't going to cause offence by asking. It turned out that ours was the only boy invited to the party and I half wondered if it was because he has a Punjabi name and they didn't realise he's not a girl, but it turns out that Abigail had said she loves to play with him at nursery so he was surrounded by girls - including Abi's older sister and her friend - he was in his element !!

Hubbie handed me an open packet of milky bar buttons (which I don't buy so they were a real treat) and we did the official handover. He left for the footie. Kids were assembled around to cut the birthday cake and my boy sat next to Abi, started the singing and scoffed pizza, cake and jelly tots. I knew we'd pay for it later, but hey it's a party.

I got a text from Hubbie saying the footie wasn't on. I rolled my eyes at the ceiling.

So, I didn't need to rush around all afternoon to make sure they got to where they needed to be on time. I could have taken my time and swum 40 lengths instead of the 20 I had to make do with. I didn't have to drive in Saturday afternoon traffic to get to the party to drop off the car and do 'parent tag.' I could have had an afternoon doing what I wanted to and they could have stayed at the party with Hubbie talking about music with the Dads and the boy being fussed over by girls while rifling through the dressing up box.

When Hubbie got back to the party he got 'the wife stare.' You know the one where your face is smiling, but your eyes are saying, "what the merry hell do you think you are doing ?" I had sacrificed my Saturday afternoon so that I could politely sip a horrifically weak cup of tea and thanks to my diet I couldn't eat the cake or pizza. We did some bonding as parents of threenagers and it was a lovely party, but to be honest I hadn't planned on the stress it took to get there. All Hubbie had to do was check the game was on and he hadn't even done that !! I rolled my eyes again.

Then I put on my walking trainers and set off to walk the 3 miles home.

He's so lucky I wasn't in the car going home !

Project parent: the sequel.

I've mentioned before that sometimes Hubbie knows me better than I know myself. He diagnosed I was having a migraine (and not dying as I thought I was) and he often tells me to drink water when I'm feeling a bit flat. He is also able to pinpoint more serious concerns in a way that previously only my friend Neil could. It was Neil who pointed out that I was so discombobulated in my new flat because I was surrounded by boxes and this disorganisation offended my sense of order. He knew this because we had lived in shared accommodation at university so he is familiar with my insane OCD tendencies. Also, his housewarming gift to me was a step stool for my kitchen and a can of flea spray - before you wonder why we are still friends I'd asked for both of those things. 

Anyway, I digress. Recently I asked Hubbie - yet again - if he minded me not having a 'proper job' (my words not his) and he said he didn't. Then he had a genius idea. Our new house (of over a year now) has a garage that is riddled with asbestos so he suggested that I project manage the rebuild. I have no experience of building projects so I looked at him sideways. Then I realised that actually what I need is something to keep me busy - other than a toddler and a cat that is. 

Having a project keeps me out of trouble and stops me from pondering and falling into depressive moods. Since we've been together my projects have included; training to be a yoga teacher, moving house, (twice), planning our wedding and the assessment process for our first adoption application. As you probably know I became pregnant with our beloved son so that adoption process came to a halt while we celebrated our new family member. 

Not having a project has left me feeling a bit empty and pointless. While I was pregnant I watched the entire box set of the West Wing and when my son was taking his time to be born I was getting a bit bored so we went out shopping for a car - which we were going to do anyway, but later. Of course having a baby kept me occupied and since then we've also been trying for another with little success and more than a little failure. 

It has left me feeling like my body isn't good enough or that my temperament isn't positive enough to make a baby or that I just don't deserve it enough. All of which is self-defeating. Now that Hubbie has given me a project it's injected some fresh enthusiasm into my well planned routine days. The new routine includes waking up earlier than I have in months to practise yoga - helped by the lighter mornings. This means I'm cheerier when the boy wakes up rather than being as tired and grumpy as he is. 

Being able to take on one new thing means feeling strong enough to take on more. Hence the biggest decision that we've made to get through this phase. We're going back to adoption to complete our family. This means we can look forward to an initial assessment to check we meet the criteria, hopefully further interviews and then the long process of preparing our F1 form for the adoption panel.

We have been here before. It won't be quick and it won't be simple. It will, however, be very different this time. This time we have a young son and he will be part of the assessment process and his interests will be taken into account. This time we have experience of parenting and of preparing for an adoption panel - although not at the same time admittedly. 

So here we go again. 

It's back, it's Adoption: the sequel.  

Foodie Friday: Life is all about Chocolate, Chips and Cake.

I met a friend for dinner last week and she reached into her bag before eating so she could check what she was allowed to eat. I asked the obvious questions, 'on a diet ?' 'Pregnant ?' Turns out she has IBS and has been advised to avoid certain foods. Now I am way ahead at this particular party as I had severe problems with food around ten years ago and it took the GP two years of testing to conclude I had stress related IBS. Frustrated by the medical advice to eat charcoal (for real !) I decided to have a food allergy test at a health store to see if there was anything I should be aware of.

Now I know I brought this on myself really and if you have seen a 'nutritionist' or a 'holistic therapist' or spoken to anyone from the world of food health you won't be surprised by what the nice man told me after a highly unscientific test undertaken in the shop. I was advised to avoid: bread, caffeine, chocolate, onions, peppers, cabbage, red wine and red meat. In fact the only cliche he managed to avoid was that he didn't tell me to stop eating dairy.

The world of 'healthy eating' seems to be all about exclusion. We are advised to cut out wheat, sugar, dairy and caffeine. It's supposed to 'detox' the body. Now I don't know about you, but I don't feel toxic when I have a cup of tea. I feel pretty horrific at the thought of custard, but that's a preference thing. I used to feel a bit poorly if I overdid it with the wheat and I haven't drunk real coffee in ten years, but give up sugar and tea ? Give me a break. What's the point of living a long and essentially crappy life ? No cake - no tea - no hot buttered toast ? I realise that some people have genuine allergies to foods and I get that, what I'm talking about here is the self-imposed misery of food exclusion either to lose weight or to stay well.

I tried being a vegan for a few months in my first year at University. It struck me that as I already didn't eat meat I could easily be a vegan if I skipped butter on chappatis, left out the raita with my food and denied myself my beloved boiled egg and soldiers. However, I did struggle with tiredness, terrible skin and I was the most miserable I've ever been. I can see why Morrissey is such a grump most of the time -- hence it was only a shortlived experiment.

If life is about anything surely it is about enjoyment and experiencing and trying new things ? If I didn't eat sugar I'd never have tasted the exquisite chocolates from Rococo in Chelsea (also available online).

If I gave up dairy I'd never enjoy Ben & Jerry's ice cream on a hot day in Clapham Common watching live music and seeing the sheer bliss on my son's face as he scoffs two cones at once.

If I stopped eating wheat I would deny myself the pleasure of eating toast or pancakes or chappatis or cake. Personally I don't see wheat as the enemy, I love it. Most cultures in the world have a wheat based diet be it pasta or chapattis or bread and who am I to fight against those odds ?

This week I've made peanut butter cookies (a bit crumbly, but taste great), chocolate chip cookies (the boy loves these) and honey cookies (wanted to use up a jar of honey, they smell incredible and taste very sweet, but the boys both devour these for breakfast !). The simplicity of these and the happiness they create in my home cannot be overstated. 

All of which is a very long-winded way of saying that I'm going on a bread-making course this weekend. It's with Daniel Stevens who wrote the River Cottage bread handbook and promises 'all the bread you can eat' as well as lunch and wine - sold !!! 

It's a very early birthday present from Hubbie and I'm ridiculously excited about it. I will take photos and tell you all about it next week. 

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.

Yoga Bunny vs Super Nanny

At around lunchtime today I officially fell back in love with yoga. Of course being taught by Howard Napper who is hunky, good looking and super fit does help. The fact he remembered me from the class I used to attend in Notting Hill was a bonus. In case I sound completely facile, I actually do have a practical reason for remembering why I came to yoga in the first place almost 20 years ago.

At least I'm not drooling :o)

My yoga journey has included the obligatory phase of being obsessed with posture and having a great body - which was what we all did in the noughties. I used to attend an Ashtanga class that was so popular that we'd all arrive early and wait outside for the teacher and fight for a space for our over priced sticky mats in the hideous mirrored room of the gym. My first teacher had been a dancer, my second a super fit ashtanga yogi, then there was Eddie the marine. I don't know if he was actually a marine, but he was the polar opposite of what male yoga teachers usually are ie. long limbed, slim and with that vaguely transatlantic accent they affect to sound more cosmopolitan. Eddie was husky, cockney and also caused queues round the corridors of the community gym that he taught at. He was the teacher who told us it's ok not to bind as some of us have short arms and I have used that excuse ever since.

When I was training to teach I started to attend classes with Howard at the Life Centre in Notting Hill. It was during these classes that my style of teaching began to take shape. It was also when I changed my approach from 'doing' yoga to 'being' yoga. I know that sounds hippy and odd, so I'll keep it simple. Instead of trying to get into Lotus position I began to listen to my body and to enjoy the practice of yoga again. After years of being taught and getting injured here was a teacher who advocated listening to your own body and instead of pushing on through pain and injury backing off and doing less. It was revolutionary !!

So, today I rediscovered this approach and after a challenging week with my son I spent a day finding my foundations, going back to basics and remembering why I do yoga at all. I drove home in the sunshine with a smile and a warm feeling in my heart and head. As I pulled up to the drive my son saw me and screeched "Mummy !" in delight.

Half an hour later there was an upturned bowl of pasta on the floor and a smattering of the accompanying tomato sauce and a few vegetables on the left left leg of my favourite yoga pants. Now I don't really have favourite clothes any more. Since I became a Mum it's whatever is clean or hasn't been spit up on, or had food thrown at it. In his current phase of randomly throwing food and shouting  "NO !" it's becoming the norm to feed him in his vest to save on washing products. After this week I may have to do the same.

My boy is going through that phase of challenging behaviour that all toddlers do. I realise that he is testing the boundaries and that this will only be for a while, but this week I had a very difficult time coping with it. I'm working on being more patient, but I hear myself sometimes sounding like I'm whining at him and frankly I don't blame him for not listening. There's only so much 'don't do that, Mummy doesn't like it' that we can both put up with.

Last weekend I made the mistake of watching Supernanny. Before I had a child I thought it was an interesting show with some good ideas. Now I watch an episode with a Mum whose six year old son hits her and is out of control and I'm terrified that it is a premonition of what my boy will turn into. He doesn't take after his father as Hubbie was, by all accounts, a fabulous little boy and no trouble at all (although Mother-in-law may not be an objective witness). I sometimes think he gets it from me, but I wasn't a challenging child as I was too scared of my Mother to ever tell her I didn't like certain foods so I just ate them. As an adult I am a seething mass of anger about all sorts of things, but I'm pretty sure that isn't genetic.

So this week we've been learning to say sorry (both of us) and to be nice to each other. It's a work in progress and one that is tiring us both out. Even Neo was called in to help the boy learn to be gentle and he did very well not running off as the toddler approached him with a brush to smooth his fur with. As with all things, it's small steps.

Today reminded me that I have to take time to do things just for me and to be 'not Mummy' for a while. It's in that time that small miracles can happen. Like standing outside in the sunshine and not thinking 'ooh I should hang out the washing.' Like making a cup of tea and drinking it while it's still hot.

In all the years I've practised yoga, in all the classes where I've tried I've never come close to achieving the Lotus. I think it was Howard who told me that a lotus can grow in the dirtiest, grubbiest water. It is the beautiful flower that we see on the surface in spite of the grottiness underneath and around it. Today while I was doing less and enjoying some 'me time' I looked down at my feet and saw this.

It's almost a lotus, but not quite. I'm happy with that.

Like I say it's all about small steps.

Then the miracles can happen.

Making a drama out of … well not even a crisis really

A week ago I developed an arm pain that reduced my arm movement and made hair washing very difficult. It was inconvenient as it meant I couldn't go to dance, aerobics or swimming and as a result I was very grumpy. Then we had my boy's birthday party at the weekend with family and friends and a full house. It was a busy day and by the end of it I was a bit tired and relieved.

Feeling a bit pants

Then yesterday evening I developed flashing lights before my eyes while feeding the boy his dinner and a couple of hours later my head was thumping and I thought I was going to throw up. Unfortunate as I was driving at the time. I got home and cried before putting eye drops in for my son and going back to stand over the sink in case I did indeed throw up. I told Hubbie what was going on and he told me I was having a migraine.

I have never had a migraine before, I don't even get headaches often. So imagine what I thought was going on when I had a pain in my left arm and a massive splitting pain in my head and a feeling of nausea. Yes, I had in the ten minutes it took to get home convinced myself that I was either having a stroke or something even worse. Here's what went through my mind:

1. I regret not having sorted out that life insurance I promised I'd get

an imperfect Lotus

2. Oh, I should have posted Mum's birthday cards, dammit she won't get her cake now either

3. Is there enough milk in the fridge ?

4. I'm going to miss the yoga day with Howard Napper at the weekend - so unfair, he's yummy !!

5. I haven't told Hubbie that I was going to get the boy dressed for nursery in a waterproof coat tomorrow morning, he'll send him in his bus jumper… ooh I hope it's dry now

6. At least I remembered to put the week's meal schedule on the front of the fridge so Hubbie knows what to cook when

7. Who will take over my radio show on Monday ? Will anyone even notice ?

8. If I get offered an interview for that job I won't be able to go - they're going to think I'm such a flake

9. I haven't chosen any music to be played in memory of me. I do hope Hubbie doesn't pick The Fall or My Bloody Valentine

10. The moon looks ever so big tonight - I hope the boys have seen it


I got home intact, went to bed early and slept until this morning.

Drama over.

Oh and the arm ? It's tennis elbow. I don't even play tennis.

Go figure !

My baby just cares for me...

I dropped my son off at nursery this morning and as I left I could hear him crying, but Petra told me he'd be fine and to leave, so I did. Then on the other side of the gate I paced up and down the pavement before getting into my car and bursting into tears.

I've known this was coming and it is part of the process of helping him to learn how to be independent. I was hoping he'd skip into the nursery all smiles and with nothing more than a jolly wave over his shoulder he'd go and play with other children and not notice me at all. Instead he fools me into thinking that he's ok by showing interest in toys and as I say "see you later" he comes over to me and grabs my legs to take him with me. Then as the staff peel him off and take him over to play with something I hear his heaving sobs as I go to the door.

Of course it's only his second day and they assured me he was fine for the hour that I was away, but his tear stained and snot covered face when I returned told another story.

It was my choice to give up work and stay at home with my son and I don't for a moment think it was anything other than a good idea to be the adult he spends the most time with. I've taken him to playgroups, parks, libraries and sung songs with him for almost 2 years now. It's me who spends 11 hours a day with him so I choose which tantrums to respond to and when to just walk over him and pretend he's a small noisy rug.

It's also me who hears most words for the first time. I watched him take his first steps. I helped him feed himself for the first time. I showed him how to give the cat biscuits (just before he put his foot in the cat's water bowl). It is only right that I take him to nursery and do the official handover of responsibility for my beloved boy. It's also only right that we both find this difficult.

I reassure myself that he is of course fine when I am gone and that he is just trying to make me feel better by being suitably upset for my benefit alone. In psychology speak it's called a "secure attachment." If we didn't love each other so much it wouldn't be so upsetting to be apart.

That's what I'm going to tell myself tomorrow, and the day after that …

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.

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…

The incredible Sulk

For those of my readers who are not in a relationship this post will either be of little interest or make you glad you're not. It's about the trials and tribulations that living with another person can cause.

People are annoying. They can be friendly, kind, loving and even funny, but mostly other people are annoying. From the music they listen to on their headphones, to the opinions they have to the way they eat food in public, other people are just a mish-mash of things that are designed to get on your nerves. Take all these qualities and put them in your house and try living with them and you have a marriage. Or if you're not that into marriage, you have a partnership.

I live with someone who doesn't argue (and I don't mean my son - he's already able to yell within an impressive range !) My Hubbie is perceived by everyone as being a nice guy and a bit of a softie. So those who think I'm a meanie have this idea that he is hen-pecked. In actual fact he's perfectly able to stand up for himself and not arguing is a real bonus as I come from a family where shouting and arguing are considered primary forms of communication. In fact my father's preferred form of punishment in my teenage years was to just not talk to me for ages. The longest time he ignored me was 4 years and at this point he even walked past me in the street and pretended he hadn't seen me. In his mind withdrawing any form of communication was the ultimate sanction in a household where the decibel level was critical all the time.

If I'm upset I snap, or I cry, or usually I do both. It's immediate, it's done with and as soon as it's over I regret the bad feeling I've caused to others in my warpath during the dark mood. This is why I can't abide two things:

1. the lingering nonsense that is sulking.

2. being constantly reminded of how I was really angry about something that time. 

If you sulk it's self indulgent and it doesn't achieve anything. It doesn't clear the air and it doesn't explain to anyone what your issue is. It also doesn't leave any space to apologise for being selfish as it's just too long drawn out for that. Reminding me that I was upset about something years ago (or as one person I know likes to do constantly telling me I'm unreasonable) ignores the fact that I do apologise and try to make up for being in a bad mood which a sulker doesn't do. 

I live with the world's primary expert in sulking. If there were a prize for being able to sulk the longest and with the least reason he'd have won it long ago. I blame myself. Mother-in-law did tell me this years ago and I smiled and thought, "what does she know ?" I mean she's only his mother after all. He is able to sulk for days that go into almost weeks. I make his favourite foods, offer him the remote more often and keep asking if he's alright. The mood doesn't shift. Then I finally snap and lose my temper and revert to type and demand an explanation for the moping around and get a teenage response akin to "nuffin" and a shrug.

In some ways it's good to have different conflict styles. Not for us the constant hum of low grade bickering you see in other marriages. I remember getting caught in the cross fire of an argument about whether or not to paint radiators once - it was petty and ugly, much like that couple's arguing style. Just once in a while though I'd like the simplicity of one of us saying what is wrong and the other one responding with kindness and a cup of tea. 

It's difficult enough to be nice to strangers without having to do pleasantries with him indoors. If you can't just say "Oi ! Stop leaving your socks on the floor it pisses me off !" what is the point of being married ? Surely it's about being able to let off steam to the one person who you know can take it and will be alright with you about it because they know you're just upset and not being a nasty, selfish pig.

Every now and again I want to switch off from making sure everyone else is ok and just have an off day. It doesn't happen often, but it does happen. A cup of tea and a bar of chocolate is a great solution, but just not having someone else sulk about it is even better. 

My mother's daughter

As I was half listening to Radio 4 yesterday I heard that a report had found that mothers who work are less likely to become depressed than women who stay at home with their children. One of the women commenting on this report stated that she would be bored senseless if she stayed at home with nothing to do but look after children and going to work gave her purpose and meaning in life.

Having been at home for over a year looking after my boy I noticed that recently I had become resentful of not having any time to myself in a day and waited with impatience for Hubbie to get home so that I could go and do something other than be with my beloved offspring. I was a seething mass of unexplained anger and found that being by myself with my son was appealing for only so many hours of the day. I don't know many people in the area where we live and the ones I do have mostly returned to work or are pregnant again so I don't even see them much. The weekly routine of playgroups and activities gets us both out of the house and I make sure that we do something constructive every day even if it's just a walk to the park. Coupled with an insane paranoia about leaving the house because of a spate of burglaries in our local area I've become a bit reluctant to go too far or out for too long. This is no way to live I was aware that if I didn't pull myself together I was going to become agoraphobic.

I finally opened up about this to a few friends and they concluded that I needed to go back to work as I was bored and underachieving at home. So in the last month I have returned to working a few days a week at a job that is not far from home. I was absolutely miserable for the first few weeks. I missed my son terribly and couldn't bear being in an office on my own for a whole day with only the scale filled kettle in the finance office to lure me out for the occasional cup of tea. It was, however, lovely to come home to hear all about what my boy had been doing and to see his smiling face and acknowledge that he hadn't been irreparably harmed by me not being there to tend to his every whim.

I'm still not entirely sure that this is the dream job for me, but I do know that when my son waves me off in the morning he's in good hands all day. I enjoy going for a walk at lunchtime and I like using my brain for something other than planning meals for my family and deciding if the bookcase should stay where it is or be moved a few feet to the left. Ok so I don't get to bake as much - which is completely overrated as a pastime by the way - and I'm sure the cat will lose some weight without me giving in to his plaintive cries for biscuits every time I go anywhere near the kitchen.

My Mum worked full time most of my life and didn't have a choice about it. She still cooked a meal for us every evening and managed the household budget as well as ensuring we were all doing well at school. In my mind that is the gold standard of what I should be aiming for and anything less is just me being lazy or not trying hard enough.

Trying to be a yummy mummy is pretty demoralising stuff. From comparing how much slimmer every other mum appears to be, to feeling guilty for sitting on the sofa watching mindless telly while the baby naps it all adds up to not being the woman who "has it all." Which brings us back to where I came in and the Radio 4 piece about the myth of women wanting it all when actually we just want to not be bored or depressed or taken for granted. Being pregnant again would be a pretty sweet bonus too if anyone is asking :o) 

Mum's the word (which I will get my son to say - oh yes I will)

Today marks the end of my first month as a full time Mummy. The plan was that I'd take my boy to visit my parents and he'd have a lovely day. Instead it was chaotic, delayed and unfortunately he was also poorly and needed an unscheduled change of clothes and a wash at my Mum's house. By the time we got home I was convinced that I'd failed so spectacularly as a parent that it would be a blessing on the poor child for me to go back to work and let a professional look after him instead.

As therapy I've decided to reflect on the month I've had and share the things I've actually learned:

1. Hubbie feeding the boy before he goes to work and giving me a half hour in bed is what makes it possible for me to function without turning into a hideous Mummy Monster - without him I'm just a screeching, panic-stricken mass.

2. Taking my boy out to activities every day makes him happy and encourages me to talk to other adults. It's not like he can't play at home, but being in different play settings helps him try new skills and shows me how much he has learned.

3. It is very, very upsetting when other children hit my son, or take toys from him. I judge their parents for this and even though it probably isn't their fault I hold it against them.

4. Having a cup of tea at a playgroup is a treat. At home I make tea, put it down while I fold the washing and then remember the (by now cold) cup half an hour later.

5. My boy is a master at the art of distraction. If he has knocked over a table, while I am turning it back the right way he is off through the now open kitchen gate to get to the washing machine dial which he is forbidden from touching. This skill will prove invaluable later in life, I'm sure.

6. Always have a small make up bag with lipgloss and eyeliner in it. The number of times I've gone out with inappropriate footwear on is more than made up for by being able to put on a bit of glam before stepping out of the car / off the train.

7. Never leave the house without at least a piece of fruit. The number of times I've been delayed for some reason or other and had to deal with a grumpy infant (or even grumpier me) it's been solved by sharing an apple or banana in the car or waiting room - works every time.

8. I am not cut out to be a Mumpreneur (and don't get me started on how much I hate that word). Arts and crafts are hobbies not a job. Sometimes I bake, sew, knit, make cards, arrange flowers from the garden or even grow stuff in pots. I don't, however, have sufficient skill or interest to do it over and over for a living.

9. A bit of quiet time does none of us any harm. There are times in the day when the boy is playing quietly in the back room (yes it does happen, he does stop being a whirlygig at times) and the cat is napping in his basket and I stop and look at them both and start making a cuppa. I switch off the radio and the television and just look out of the window for a few minutes. Then it all starts again.

10. Make time to do something for yourself. Whether it's 20 minutes in the morning to do some Zumba, 15 minutes to have a shower and wash my hair (during his morning sleep) or an hour to drool over Alex O'Louglin in Hawaii Five-O (during his afternoon sleep) I have to do something I want to do every day. If I don't exercise I am properly loopy (and not a little grouchy).

So that's my top ten things that I've learned about being a Mummy to one very busy, funny, cheeky boy. I could have added that getting a child into a highchair / car seat / walker when he doesn't want to is a feat of superhuman strength with very little reward. I could have added that the meal is over when he decides to drop food or his water cup onto the floor followed by "Oh dear." I could have added that the minutes between me taking the boy upstairs and Hubbie arriving home to take over the bedtime routine are always punctuated by tears, throwing of toys and tantrums (which my son finds highly amusing to watch).

Instead I'll add that however hard a day at home with my son might be I remember how magical it felt when we found out we were having our much longed for baby. How I prayed every day for him to be born safe and happy. Most of all I remember how many of my friends would love to be able to stay at home and care for their children. Leering at Alex O'Loughlin is just a bonus :o)

To be or not to be… a social butterfly

Going out when you're a stay-at-home Mum is simplicity itself. Most of my social interactions involve drinking tea in churches or children's centres. On a Monday there is toast, on a Wednesday there is usually home baking and on Tuesdays and Fridays the lad gets fruit before we all sing songs. Playgroups and stay and play mornings provide activities for children while also giving Mums a chance to stand or sit around making small talk with other Mums / grandparents / aunties. Occasionally the church group I go to has a pamper morning and we get to come home with slightly smudged, but freshly painted nails. 

So imagine my unbridled joy this week at being able to have not just one, but two evenings out sans son or hubbie. I went to watch Michael Sheen as Hamlet - three and a half hours to myself with an interval ice cream and a leisurely walk in the crisp London night. Before you feel sorry for me, please understand that watching Hamlet is a solitary activity for me. I don't need to discuss the plot or the acting with anyone and I prefer to just settle in to the performance and take it all in. Not least as it's a long time to sit with someone if you think you may run out of small talk by half time. 

Tonight, however, was the sociable kind of night out with food, drink and chat. I saw friends I haven't seen in a few years, some of whom haven't met our new family member and they did politely ask to see photos. If you don't have children seeing photos of other people's can be at best boring and at worst wildly inappropriate. I've lost count of the number of people who have shown me photos of their children naked. It's completely uncalled for and makes me very uncomfortable. 

The other thing with meeting up with a group of diverse friends is that the level of noise is like going to my Mum's house. The volume increases as more people arrive at the venue and as my fellow diners imbibe more and more alcohol their volume (and speed of speech) increases exponentially too. Now bear in mind that most of my conversation during the day is slow, deliberate and repetitive. We had more than 20 rounds of Old Mcdonald had a farm in the car today as my boy likes to sing "ee aye ee aye oh." So being at a table of adults who are not comparing stories about teething, eating vegetables and choosing pre-schools is a welcome change. It is also, however, massively difficult as I am just not used to the scattergun chat as I try to teach my son to listen nicely and not to talk over people. It took a long time for me to slow down to a child's pace so really I should have eased myself back into the world of full on noisy adults. 

What is has also given me is an insight into the joy of being away from my family so that when I see them again I remember how much I totally love them. Even as I type the cat has wandered over to see me - he usually just asks for food - as he missed me while I was out. Absence does appear to make the heart grow fonder, even if it's only for a few hours. 

Stressed is desserts backwards - like that helps !

I managed to get the baby to sleep and thought I'd blog a little, then I found a post I hadn't finished and thought that might be fun to share. I must have started writing this in mid-late Sept when the prospect of moving house seemed a distant dream. Now I'm sitting on the sofa in the new house and am in the slightly less stressful process of ignoring Christmas. Oh well it's nice to know that all things (even the stressful ones) pass, so here goes...

--- I'm not sure why it happens, but it just does. All the most stressful things that can happen in life converge at once. The last time I bought a house - as I recall - I managed to get divorced, change jobs, and buy a home in the space of about two months.

As usual my brother drove the hired van, as usual I lost my temper and burst into tears and as usual there was far too much stuff for the space. At the end of it all there was a bed that had travelled with me for many years and a lot of books, but nothing to sit on or to watch or listen to. I surveyed the surroundings and looked at the view of Battersea Power Station out of the window and breathed a sigh of relief. Then I got in my car and drove to my Mother's house.She was preparing dinner and I took a plate out and sat and the table and barely looking round she said "What are you doing here ? Aren't you staying in your own place tonight ?"

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those boomerang children who keep going back home and never want to leave, believe me. I'd gone to university in the Midlands and had even taken a job in Wiltshire to get away from home, however, I had agreed with my folks an arrangement where I'd stay with them to save money and help pay for my home. It had taken so long for it all to work out and happen that I had forgotten that the point of all the hassle was to actually live in the place.

And now seven years later it's all flooding back to me, except this time I have a chain and estate agents to deal with as well as a husband, a baby and a cat.  My first home was a new build and as a first time buyer I had no chain, so I had no appreciation of how mind numbingly tedious and petty the process can be. One evening our estate agent called to ask if we were taking the trees and satellite dish with us. To be honest I felt like saying, "yes, I am planning on digging up the entire garden to take with us - including the new fence - and I will be taking the dish and all the guttering that my husband replaced last summer."Apparently some people take the light bulbs, switches and even plants from the ground when the move. Heaven forbid I add to my already burgeoning loft full of belongings. ---

…that reminds me, now that it's getting colder I need to clear the garage of all our belongings so that the car can go in the garage instead of boxes of things we really don't need. Of course the reason I'm sitting on the sofa now is avoidance. When I could be sorting and finding a place for all the things we moved here with I've decided that blogging is a far better use of my time. The garage and spare room will just have to wait.

Oh and I've now iced the Christmas cake - let the festivities begin !!

Work is a four letter word

So, I've been back at work for a month - give or take a day or two. In that time we've moved house, our son has turned one and we've celebrated our 5th wedding anniversary. It's been an eventful month. I've been unpacking since we moved in and if I get it all done before retirement age it will be a miracle. Apparently moving house is one of the most stressful things in life. I can assure you that unpacking is hardly a picnic either.

Since I've been back at work I've come to the conclusion that I just don't want it all. I'm perfectly happy to be 'just' a wife and mother. After 25 years of work (with the exception of a year of maternity leave and a few months of unemployment back in 2006) I'm chucking it all in to stay at home and watch daytime tv. Ok that's not strictly true, but commuting to work in an office where no one talks to me all day and the high point of conversation is the PAs discussing what sangwich (sic) they had for lunch is no match for staying at home with my son.

If ever I was unsure about my decision to quit work today was the final straw. This is how it was supposed to go: wake up, have breakfast, travel to a meeting in a prison, come home. This is how it actually went:

Woke up and hit the snooze button twice. Went to get the baby for his morning feed, while hubbie let the cat out (cat flap due to be installed in the afternoon, we are still acting as door staff for the family feline). Handed baby over to hubbie and went downstairs to find that in the night the cat had decided to create modern art using litter all over the carpet. It was still only 6.30am and I didn't want to disturb neighbours by vacuuming so got the dustpan and brush out to clean up while hubbie gave baby his breakfast. Realised I was running late and wouldn't have time to a) eat anything b) prepare anything to take with me. Ran out of the front door with one arm in my coat and trying to hold onto an umbrella and an apple and pear hastily grabbed from the fruit bowl. The pear was fine at this point. As I opened the front door saw Neo sitting out front and was undecided whether to risk him following me to the tram or to press on and let hubbie deal with him and risk getting locked out with the baby as they were in the doorway waving me off. Half walked, half ran to tram stop - even went through the woods which spook me out, but was in a hurry so risked it by running and jumping the puddles. Made the tram and even got a seat - marvellous ! Checked my phone to see that if lucky I'd actually make my train to Clapham Junction. Pear starting to disintegrate. Tram stopped and the driver announced that we wouldn't be moving as there was a 'revenue dispute.' Tram started moving again. Got to East Croydon two minutes after my train had left.  Went to machine to buy a ticket - got confused by all the options so went to the window and bought the one via Clapham Junction. Ran to platform 1 and made fast train - even got a seat ! At Clapham Junction found the platform for Clandon and realised that had I stayed on the tram to Wimbledon I could have joined the train there - rats !! Went to get a brew from my fave coffee shop and three men got to the queue before me so I went back to the platform and bought tea and croissant from 'Cuppacino.' Got on train and got a seat - yay !! Stood up and spilled very hot tea on myself - ouch !! Spent rest of the journey with half a cup of tea and wet trousers slowly going cold. Pear really not in a good way and now bag smells of rotting fruit. Got out at Clandon and went outside to get a taxi (as advised) to the prison, only to find they don't actually have taxis at the station - you have to pre-book, apparently. A nice man overheard me and offered to share his taxi to the prison, but it wasn't coming for another 25 minutes so I tried phoning the prison to tell them I'd be later than expected - no one answered. Got to the prison and signed in and waited at the gate to be picked up. And waited. And waited. Then went to ask if the knew I was there - eventually got picked up and taken to the meeting. After the meeting was taken on a comprehensive tour of the site, complete with watching the prisoners eat their lunch while not having anything to eat <rumble>. Pear now in need of last rites, but in desperation ate it using a napkin and all my fingers to stop it turning to cider. Finally left prison and was driven to Woking to get the fast train. Went to buy a ticket extension and was told I'd have to buy a new ticket for the journey as it's a 'different line.' Sighed, bought ticket and got on train. Five minutes outside Clapham Junction announcement that we had to move to the front 5 carriages to get off the train so I and about 50 other passengers got up and plodded the length of the train (much to the chagrin of a woman in first class). Finally got back to East Croydon - sent message to hubbie declaring myself hungry and fed up. Cheered up to hear that baby was asleep, cat flap had been fitted and my Mum had brought a hundred weight of yummy food over.

Really wish I'd stayed in bed and watched the fox scrumping windfalls in our garden - think I'll do that tomorrow.