A tribe called parents

On Sunday we went for a family fun afternoon in trendy Balham. I mention this because there are areas of London that I find a bit intimidating - Balham isn't one of them, but the relevance of geography will become apparent. The kind of areas that house the trendy types that out-of-towners think all Londoners are. I grew up in West London and for a few years in the mid seventies we lived in Greenwich - before it was gentrified. I have an aversion to North London and the East End leaves me cold so I rarely bump into the painfully cool inhabitants that typify those places.

Fixo

Except on Sunday. The noise of screeching children and the general din meant it took me a few minutes to realise that the venue was filled with hipster dads. You know the chaps who wear needlecord drainpipe jeans and questionable facial hair. In this day and age there's no excuse for a moustache unless you're a Sikh, an eccentric or into steampunk. If you're going for the full effect it has to be a handlebar style groomed with old school wax or the stuff my Dad used when we were growing up - Fixo. It made his beard all stiff and scratchy, but it also meant it survived all sorts of freak weather. Anyway, I digress.

You see the hipster style isn't genuine eccentricity it's finely created artifice - the 'devil may care' casual look that eschews the appearance of effort. Oh this old shirt ? Oh yes I got it in a thrift store in Brooklyn and this belt was made by a designer friend who sells out of her loft in Shoreditch. As I quietly curse under my breath that Next do one just like it. The Dads were milling with their offspring being all laid back while Oberon, Mylo or Bunty ran amok. One Dad gave up trying to get his boy to share the tunnel that he was gripping onto and left him to "fight it out" with another boy. I was willing him to fall into the puddle of pee left by the child of the man who had been bending over and putting his butt in my face for about half an hour before shuffling off to "tell Mummy your tights are all wet Araminta." Oh how I laughed.

On the other hand hipster women I quite like - the fakery of low maintenance and sensible shoes seems suitably empowering and it's a cute look. I admire the nerdy glasses and satirical cardigan wearing. As someone who needs glasses and whose cardigans are for comfort and warmth I accept that I am more hip replacement than hipster, but that's ok.

Pre-parent Boho me

You see it's all about tribes and being a parent doesn't give you automatic membership to the 'fabulous parent' tribe. In my late teens and early twenties I was all about tie dye, fringed skirts and sensible shoes. At university all my friends were the same in our goth/greebo/indie stylings. When Boho fashion came along I was delighted that I was already equipped for that - albeit quite a few pounds heavier.

Since becoming a Mum I've gone from Boho Chick to Hobo Chic. I was never trendy, but I did once care about what I wore and how I looked. I'm hoping to get back to some semblance of pride in my appearance again. Out of trackie bottoms and into slimline jeans. From hooded sweat tops to fitted shirts. I'm wearing scarves again and sometimes I even remember to put on a watch and some jewellery. I've no idea if it's a look, but I'm working on it.

I'm hoping there's a tribe that will have me - any takers ?

It's like invasion of the body snatchers

About a month ago I decided to get my hair cut shorter. It's been quite long since before I had my boy and I fancied a change so I had more than half of it chopped off. I love it, it's much handier to style and I've now got the hang of using far less shampoo and conditioner so I'm not left rinsing it out for hours. The strange thing was that only two people noticed and commented. It made me paranoid as I was convinced that meant that it looked terrible.

I don't mean I was fishing for compliments. I mean I was surprised that no one seemed to notice. If someone has changed their hair I will mention it, but I might say, "you've had your hair cut shorter, it suits you" rather than, "your hair looks lovely" if it doesn't - after all if you think someone looks rotten you won't say so will you ?

At university I had quite bad acne that I was sure people stared at. I was convinced that if someone was looking at me it was that they were staring at my blemishes. If you ask anyone I knew then if they recall my appearance they normally mention my very long hair and obsession with shoes rather than my (mostly imagined) hideousness. I've realised that a lot of people don't notice at all - they just don't look at faces or features. I notice things about people. I look at their appearance when I talk to them, but you have to choose when to tell someone they look tired - it's just not polite, so I'd err on the side of never.

I rarely look in mirrors these days so I have no idea what I look like. I manage to go whole days without looking at myself and use either the small mirror in the back of the sun visor of the car or a handheld mirror that is smaller than my lipstick to apply eyeliner and lippy. It isn't because I don't care, I just don't prioritise myself any more. I also have quite a low opinion of my appearance so I'd rather not have it confirmed by looking.

Once upon a time I used to go to the gym every day - sometimes twice a day. Admittedly I was single then and could only access the internet at the gym so I spent hours there and would go to kill time and being able to swim and exercise was a bonus. I was a lot fitter and took part in charity runs, did the Moonwalk one year and could walk up stairs without groaning about my knees. I trained to teach yoga and all the others on my course were slimmer and fitter than me so I dieted and lost weight and was the slimmest I've been as an adult.

Then I fell pregnant and my body changed. That was fine and I was delighted with my growing body as I was pretty sure I had the capacity to get my shape back, maybe not at my thinnest, but certainly slimmer than I am now. I tried everything that I was told, breastfeeding didn't make me slim, walking everywhere with my boy in a pram helped, but it didn't make me thin. And now my boy is three years old and I'm still avoiding mirrors as I don't want to see what I already know. That I am still not a 'yummy Mummy' and while others snap back into shape after making many babies I'm morphing into my aunties after having just the one.

My sister cursed me when I was pregnant by saying that I'd get fat and not be able to lose the weight - I laughed it off as I was sure she was wrong - she was right. All the women in my family are big and I spent my youth trying to keep fit to avoid the inevitable. Now I have creaky knees, a persistent shoulder injury and while I still exercise every day it's through gritted teeth. I do 100 stomach crunches every morning (VB does many more than that), but I'm not about to show off a washboard stomach any time soon.

Victoria Wood made a joke years ago about walking into the Body Shop and saying, "I'd like mine in a size ten please." I hear that.

Does anyone know where my body has gone and how I can get it back please ?  Mine appears to have been snatched !

In these shoes ? I don't think so…

I went back to work two months ago. In order to make it possible for me to work we have a finely tuned operation involving dropping off to and picking up from nursery, some home working and family childcare. My boy goes to nursery from Monday to Wednesday and on a Thursday he is at home with either Hubbie or my sister who is a nanny and has helped take care of him since he was a baby. 

The new routine has been tiring and repetitive and yet I've lost all ability to dress myself properly. You'd have thought that I'd have found my groove with what to wear to work by now, but apparently I have time to find clothes for my boy, but not for me. I was so perturbed by this revelation (brought on by two days last week where I was wearing entirely inappropriate clothing for the weather) that I put my name down for a style session at the Britmums event on Saturday.

Now bear in mind that I have always loved clothes and shoes and handbags and accessories and pretty much everything to do with fashion. I've never been a trend setter, but I always took time to keep up with what was in fashion and would browse and spend time and money in clothes shops. My happy place was Topshop Oxford Circus and if I was late home on a Thursday night Hubbie would call to check if I was there for late opening - I usually was. If friends phoned me I would often be part way through buying clothes or I'd have just bought some shoes. I loved clothes. I still do. I just don't know what to wear any more.

On the Saturday morning before I went to Britmums I got up early and looked outside the window to see what the weather was doing. I chose some loose fitting trousers instead of my usual jeggings and a shirt that I thought was light and pretty looking. They weren't high fashion or frumpy, they were ok. Kate (the stylist) took one look at what I was wearing and said, "your clothes are too big for you." I stammered a response along the lines of, "these were my post pregnancy trousers and the top was from East because I had a voucher to spend." How post pregnancy is three years exactly ? I'm seriously failing at being a yummy mummy.

Then yesterday I wore a top that kept falling off the shoulders with some jeans that are a bit loose and realised that I do it all the time. Today I caught sight of myself in the mirror at a pilates class and I saw an older version of my teenage self. Since I was 18 I've worn enormous clothes to disguise my shape. I used to buy men's large size t shirts which swamp me now, back then I was almost 2 stones lighter so I must have looked even more ridiculous. I still buy and wear clothes that are too big for me. I've done it for years. Well, decades actually.

In my head I'm much bigger than I actually am. In my mind I have fat knees. a massive body and chubby arms. Wearing clothes that are too big for me doesn't make me look slimmer, or shapely. They make me look like I've got someone else's clothes on. Dark clothes that don't fit too close to the body or flatter my figure.

In order to be able to dress myself properly do I need to become one of those odd people who break a biscuit in half or eats 2 rice cakes for lunch ? Do I have to become skin and bone to be happy with my body so that I don't mind wearing clothes that fit me ? 

Or do I just accept that I'll never be skinny because that requires too much deprivation. I don't want to be so obsessed with myself that I only think about my own body shape to the detriment of all else. When I lost weight and was a size 10 I never truly accepted my smaller size. I kept all the jeans in larger sizes (just as well really) and still thought I was enormous. I was convinced that the labelling in Dorothy Perkins was somehow flawed.

So if I spend more time planning what my boy wears than what I wear I think that's ok. I've spent enough of my life (and money) on myself. Now it's his turn.

I have seen a great pair of shoes in Next that I think I might have to have though…  

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.

Fear and loathing in the muddled mind of a middle-aged mother.

I was out powerwalking the other evening and I'd taken a short cut across the golf course near our house. As it was evening I guessed it wouldn't be too busy and was pondering the previous time I'd wandered too far along the path and been met with a chain across the dead end that warned 'no public right of way.' As I started to walk back uphill I became slightly anxious as I had low battery on my phone and my feet were getting tired. In my head I saw myself twisting my ankle, being stranded and not being able to call home or for help. As I quickened my pace it became more and more of a worry until as I got back to the top and found a path that I could get back home from. It was this path I was on when the following occasion I saw a golfer waving at me to tell me off for walking through the course. The irony made me laugh. I'd been so concerned about the catastrophe that could happen that I hadn't considered the issue that would catch me out - the tartan legged 'sportsman' showing his son how to use a 5 iron.

A 'cat'astrophe ? 

It's this catastrophic thinking that makes my life a constant worry. I can't stop myself - in idle moments - from taking a mental walk to the least desirable outcome. It takes time to realise that I have worked myself up about absolutely nothing, but I know I'm not alone in thinking every siren is a bad news one for me when Hubbie isn't home yet. During a recent spate of burglaries in our area I actually spent every minute I was out of the house worrying about it. While it would take a lot of pages to list all of my insanity I've decided to share the most irrational ones for your amusement.

1.  Hubbie and I had only been dating for a few months and I was going away with friends on a skiing holiday. We were going to Whistler for two weeks and I was thinking of asking Hubbie-to-be to flat sit for me. I kind of knew he could be trusted, but there was still a nagging thought maybe I didn't know him that well. I mean those people he'd introduced to me as his parents could have been actors he'd hired and maybe it was all an elaborate con trick ? Of course it was all fine (as evidenced by that fact we're married now) and the actual problem that occured was one I hadn't even considered. It was when we were in Heathrow waiting to check in our bags that one of our party decided to tell me that I needed to have at least 6 months on my passport to visit Canada and I only had around 4 months on mine. I spent the entire flight expecting to be immediately deported while Harriet kept saying she'd just show them her police warrant card (I'm not sure what that would actually do). As I was preoccupied with this drama I didn't even have time to realistically consider that I wouldn't have been allowed on the flight in the first place if it was an issue. The plus side was that with this nonsense to occupy my mind I forgot about my fear of planes.

2. I used to work in a job that took me all over the UK and at one point I visited Cornwall for the first time and while there I picked up a leaflet about surfing. Convinced that I should try it I booked myself onto a surfing course in Cornwall and paid a deposit to secure my place. I was going alone, but the accommodation was in a shared hostel so I was bound to make friends. About a week before I bottled it and cancelled. I'd gone from "it'll be great, just like Blue Juice and everyone knows it's always sunny in Cornwall" to "I'll break something or drown, they will all be fit and blonde and I'll be small, dumpy and clumsy." I still haven't gone back. Of course now I'm obsessed with Hawaii 5-O and Alex O'Loughlin so I may have to revisit this plan.

3. It was for similar reasons that I didn't get too far with my fledgling stand up career. I did a course in the early '90's when it was all the rage. Some of my fellow students actually went on to become something on the circuit. I, however, struggled to write material, talked over the laughs (if I got any) and just felt terribly embarrassed. The entire premise of failing at comedy is that you 'die' on stage and that has to be the ultimate in catastrophe thinking surely ? I mean, who wants to die in front of a room full of strangers ? At least with impro you have a group of people to share the laughs and the silences with and I'm still friends with some of my impro pals.

By far the worst of my catastrophe thinking involves my beloved son. Every new scenario is fraught with potential fears, but the example I've chosen is particularly bonkers:

3. I've taken my boy to a playgroup called Little lions since he was 4 months old and it's a lovely group of Mums and babies with the occasional special day with pampering for Mums. On one of these days I had booked to have a treatment for which I had to go downstairs to the beauty room. My boy was about 6 months and would sometimes cry if he lost sight of me so the other Mums reassured me he'd be fine and they would keep an eye on him and bring him down if he got too upset. While I settled onto the beauty couch I tried to relax, but the thoughts whirring round my head included, 'I don't really know these people, What if they are baby snatchers ? What if they steal my baby ? I don't know where any of them live. I don't know anyone's last name.' etc. etc. Needless to say he was fine and I had spent my pampering time winding myself up into a frenzy of fear for nothing.

All this self-induced trauma does is give me sleepless nights. I know that's part and parcel of parenting, but what was my excuse before I had my son ? The positive in all of this is that I am so very grateful that the things I worry about are just a figment of my fevered imagination. If it stays in that realm I am a very lucky woman indeed.

From Clockhouse to Yessica and back

As my little man goes to nursery on Mondays and Tuesdays I now have time to do nice things for myself. On a Monday I present my radio show on Croydon Radio and on a Tuesday I usually catch up with some boring housework and watch a DVD if I have time or like today I get something to eat outside the house. I decided to have some dim sum for a treat today and was really surprised at how many families were eating out too. Then Hubbie reminded me that as it's the last day of school hols for most children this is their last hoorah with the grown ups.

When I was at school we didn't have a ritual other than to get our bags and clothes ready the day before we went back for the new autumn term. What we did have was the annual shoe shop on the Saturday before we went back. Every year my Mum would pack us all off in the car and take us to Hounslow to buy everyone new shoes. We always began at the C&A end of the High Street. For the youngsters out there it was like a department store that sold skiing gear at affordable prices and was a favourite amongst Asian families. I was delighted to find a few years ago that C&A still existed in Europe - we bought a pretty ropey suit for Hubbie in a branch in Paris and a vibrant pink coat for me that all but two of the buttons fell off after two wears.

The reason for beginning at C&A was so that my Dad could take hours to buy the same blue shirt and sand coloured trousers he bought every year. It took so long because he was so outraged that his size had gone up since last year and he'd try all permutations of outfit before reverting to his usual style and colours. He was also the wild card in the shoe buying stakes as my Dad has always worn slip on shoes, but he'd insist on trying every pair in every shop before choosing the same ones as last time. I have a theory that he can't actually tie shoelaces which is why he wears slip-ons. He never helped me tie my laces and seemed a bit befuddled when I did them myself. I will test this again when my son has shoes with laces and get back to you.

Of course the trawl of the High St ineveitably ended at Curtess shoe shop which provided most of my teenage footwear. It was affordable, pretty fashionable, but not trendy. Also, Paula Rushbrook from school worked in the Greenford branch on Saturdays so she'd slip friends a sneaky discount. I bought my first pixie boots in Curtess and probably many other ill-advised fashion choices. A woman with a love of shoes is so cliched as to be beyond parody. I mention this only because my own love of shoes has slowed in recent years due to swollen feet in pregnancy and now the need to be able to put on shoes quickly to get out of the house to do whatever activity is planned for the day.

I pretty much only wear sandals or boots now anyway as the trawl of the High Street was usually a pointless and ultimately unsatisfying search for the Holy Grail of shoes. A non-ugly, practical and yet nice to look at pair of shoes. I've found they just don't exist so I now own beautiful impractical shoes kept in clear boxes to look at. Lots of flat sandals that tone my legs (apparently) and many, many pairs of boots that keep my feet super warm.

However, it's the pair that I don't yet own that interest me most right now. A few years ago me and Hubbie made a bet which he lost - the details of the bet are not that important - suffice it to say that he owes me a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes and it's now time to collect. I've never spent more than £50 on a pair of shoes (boots don't count) so this is a pretty major purchase for me. If I'm not careful it could end up being the most expensive pair of flip flops ever or a disastrous foray into the world of slingbacks (after a bad experience at Nine West in Las Vegas we don't mention them any more in this house).

I'll keep you posted as the search progresses...

Lipstick, powder and paint.. and a shedload of shoes !!

In my dreams this is what I'd look like

I told Hubbie a few weeks back that I wanted to change my image. Being a polite chap who has learned the art of not saying stupid things to his wife when she has access to a range of things to throw (macbook, mug half full with tea, remotes, etc.) he just hummed and said, "Ok."

The phrase 'change of image' suggests I had an image to start with, which is not entirely accurate. What I have is an idea in my head of how I used to dress and do my hair and nails and a distant memory that I used to think about my appearance before I left the house. I've realised that I rarely look in the mirror and don't know what I look like when I go out. So imagine how surprised I was when today two young women complimented my appearance.

Of course this is post image change and it has been many months in the making. Firstly I decided to trade in my post pregnancy jeans with wide legs and stretchy waistbands for fitted styles with a panel that holds every flabby bit in and up. I got the ones that Gok Wan makes (natch !) and put them away while I thought about wearing them when I felt up to it. I also went through a process of collecting suitably stylish tops that would be wearable and washable (essential with a toddler who likes to throw things). It wasn't until a few weeks ago that I started to wear the slimmer jeans with massive baggy blouses over the top and then today with a fancier top than I've worn in ages.

Today I read this blog about nail varnish adding-bit-of-colour and it reminded me that I used to take time and effort over my appearance. I used to paint designs on my nails and do my hair differently every day. Well it was always a variation on plaits, but it was still different. I also used to co-ordinate my shoes, bag, belt, scarf, etc. It was a full time occupation choosing what to wear and how to look. I'm not suggesting I looked any better than I do now, but I made more effort.

In reality it's more like this 

In reality I was experimenting with different looks until I found what suited me. I wore pretty much only black for about 12 years so just moving onto colour was progress. It's also been a long road which has resulted in my having far more shoes than any person could ever reasonably need and so many bags that even when I give away ten of them it still looks like day 4 of the Next sale.

As well as an inordinate amount of accessories (I haven't even mentioned scarves or jewellery !) I own enough make up to pass for a WAG. This is all the more disturbing as I barely remember to put on lipstick and eyeliner (my minimum) let alone the mascaras, eyeshadows, glosses and powders that have quietly accumulated over the years.

The only time in recent months that I've looked like anything other than a suburban Mummy is when I went to a ball and got all dressed up nice for an evening out. Before I left I said bye to my boy and he looked at me with a sideways glance. He gave a shy smile and looked a bit puzzled. I realised that he never sees Mummy look less than dull and seeing me look nice was such a surprise to him that he automatically switched to his flirting face. He usually reserves that look for Lucy the librarian, Maureen at Sainsburys and today the girls who served us in Wimpy who all waved him off as we left as he blew them kisses.

So I'm not quite in the Victoria Beckham stakes when it comes to full on glam, but I'm making more effort to look less rubbish. If for no other reason than I like the idea that my son thinks his Mummy looks pretty enough to flirt with.

My festival baby collection (Next competition entry blog)

I went to spend a Next voucher that I'd been given for my birthday yesterday having decided that I wanted to get a new bag for the summer. I was distracted on the way in not only by my boy straining on his reins to rush over shouting "buggy !!" at any he saw, but also by the range of t shirts they have in for children this season. 

When I was pregnant I spent time looking at the children's clothes in Next and loving the styles for boys so much it made me glad I was having a boy. The clothes aren't twee and they also don't all say "little monster" on them. The girls clothes also look pretty good and I can see why when they have the massive half price sales it's always the childrenswear that sells out first. I've been in my car at 6am waiting for the sale to start only to find it was open at 5am before now so I gave up trying. Instead my sister does the legwork and finds some great things for my boy to wear and I get to lie in :o)

This season has really surpassed the usual at Next as they've gone for cool young dude look which I love. The ones that caught my eye were the Stone Roses designs, but they also have the Jam, the Beatles and various other 'I'm with the band' themed styles. http://www.next.co.uk/boys/younger-boys-best-of-british/2

Now, I've spent a lot of time looking at rock t-shirts for kids online and they are not cheap. The collection at Next averages at under a tenner so I'd be able to get the whole range to ensure my boy has a new one for every festival this Summer. They're also 100% cotton so I can wash them and they should look just like the originals that Daddy and I have. 

In fact if they also do matching ones for adults I'd take father and son in matching clothes to go for maximum dude appeal. After all the comments a Daddy gets when he's out with his cute son are far more gushing than they ever are for a Mummy aren't they ? 

If I had any money left over I'd get myself some of the pretty cotton summer outfits and probably something nice for the garden from homewares. Even if we don't make it to any festivals this summer I think we can all look the part and listen to music in the garden pretending we're surrounded by thousands of other people. 

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…

And now for something a bit serious

There were two news stories that I took particular interest in this week and I wanted to share some thoughts on them.

The first was a news item about the arrest of nine men from Rochdale and Oldham who had been involved in systematic grooming and sexual abuse of young girls. Comment and opinion has come from quarters as diverse as the BNP and the chair of the Equality and Human Rights Commission. Interestingly enough they seem to be saying about the same thing - that race is a factor as 8 of the men are Pakistani and one is from Afganistan. The assertion has been that they targeted white girls due to cultural attitudes towards sexuality. This completely ignores the fact that abuse is abuse regardless of the ethnicity of the victim or perpetrator. It also turns a blind eye to the abuse that takes place within the Asian community (which is the catch-all term being used to describe these men) and goes unspoken about. Additionally there is the practice of underage marriage which pretty much sanctions child abuse and is more common than we are led to believe. To make this about race is unnecessary as it takes away from the reality that these are horrific and cruel acts committed by nasty people. In communities where it is the custom to call all adults uncle and aunty and to show respect to them a child can be placed in a vulnerable situation and not feel able to report it to anyone. Targeting complete strangers and luring them into a dangerous situation is downright criminal and thankfully these men have been caught and charged. Don't even get me started on how unhelpful Trevor Phillips' comments are - just read them and decide for yourself: http: BBC News website

The other news item playing out towards the end of this week was the cover of Time magazine to illustrate an article about attachment parenting. In case you haven't seen it this is the photo:

The various debates on radio and online have included spokespeople from Mumsnet and other parenting organisations. All of them commenting on the pose of the photograph and not the article itself. What was a piece about attachment parenting has become outrage at a woman defiantly appearing to breastfeed a child who can stand and look at the camera. Not for them the traditional babe in arms pose we are used to seeing (or not as the case may be). The various threads of discussion I've followed have been about whether or not prolonged breastfeeding is about the child or the mother. I breastfed my son and wanted to do so for as long as it suited him. Eventually at 14 months I had to concede that he wasn't really feeding any more and it was about me wanting to hold him close and keep the bond we had developed. When he was first born and we were in hospital for a few days I fed him for hours at a time and holding him close was just the most wonderful sensation. Being able to let go of that closeness is difficult, but I have noticed that as he grows he chooses how to be close to me and this autonomy and independence is important. It has always been important that my son feels close to both me and Hubbie and they also have a very affectionate relationship. Being able to breastfeed is a wonderful way to build a bond with your child and one I'd recommend to anyone. However, it isn't always possible for a mother to breastfeed and it isn't an option for the father so attachment comes in many other forms. The magic 2 year goal for breastfeeding is taken from the World Health Organisation guidance to women in the whole world. It is the safest, most hygienic and cheapest option for mothers of babies born in countries where water is not clean or accessible and where healthcare is not freely available. However, in a culture where we have the choice it is the tyranny of the 'Mummy mafia' that makes breastfeeding for years the gold standard of caring. If I sought validation from the Supermums I'd have serious concerns about my own sanity.

Next time: back to usual light-hearted self deprecating schtick I promise :o)

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. 

Chocolate, chocolate everywhere...

On the way to visit my family today we saw a parade of churchgoers walking alongside the road we were driving on. Some were carrying crosses and Hubbie pointed out to our boy that this was taking place. It reminded me that for some people Easter is about a lot more than chocolate eggs and Bond movies on the telly. For my family it is pretty much about chocolate, eating food and hanging out for the long weekend. In particular for me it's catching up with as many Come Dine With Me episodes as possible and telling myself that I'm not going to ruin my diet and pig out (which is not helped when Hubbie has given me a chocolate Percy Pig !!)

I should know this, but I have no idea why we associate Easter with chocolate eggs. It might be that Cadbury were particularly hot on selling the idea of an ovoid filled with fondant and created a parallel celebration to the resurrection. Maybe sales start flagging at this time of year with Valentine's Day and Mother's Day gone - after all Father's Day isn't until June. It's not really much of a chocolate day anyway since Red Letter Days sold us on the idea of vouchers for adrenaline events so that grown men can pretend to be James Bond instead of just watching Daniel Craig drive fast cars.

My own conspiracy theory is that it's the diet industry that creates all these food related celebrations so that we are always fighting to lose weight for something. The post Christmas diet, the pre-holiday diet, the pre and post Easter diet, it's never ending !! Many moons ago when I was still at university I stayed at the student house over Easter to do some work and was following a low fat diet plan. Of course I was twenty years younger than I am today so I was already slimmer to start with, but it's the only time I've actually lost weight over Easter as instead of eating chocolate I was exercising every day and eating sensibly.

The problem with everyone knowing you love chocolate is that there is so much of it out there and even when you say you don't want any it still finds you. The Easter Bunny has been very generous to us this year, so I'm going to pace myself and hopefully the damage won't leave me looking ovoid !

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) 

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.

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. 

Putting the Yummy into Mummy - one cake at a time :o)

One of the highlights of being a stay at home Mum and housewife (besides the obvious one of being with my boy) is that I can indulge my love of cooking and cookery programmes. I am selective though and very snobby about what I consider worthy of my precious viewing time when the baby is asleep.

I cannot abide the 'food porn' style of cooking: Nigella, Lorraine Pascal and Sophie Dahl seduce with food. They caress, tease and flirt with the camera. Very little is said about how to cook the dish and no actual instructions are involved. Nigella is far too busy telling us about how she entertains her retinue of adoring guests who fawn over her gingerbread, Lorraine Pascal keeps referring to her international pedigree (a Polish aunt and some Italian heritage apparently) while Sophie floats through her show as though she's advertising Cadburys Flake. When we do get a reference to the cooking it's all a bit vague - her pinch is my handful and when will they give the temperature in gas marks for those of us cursed with terrible ovens ?

Lest ye think I am being sexist I also loathe Jamie Oliver for his freehand pouring of olive oil like it's on offer in Sainsburys. That's not a splash you fool it's half a bottle !! His other crime (although he's far from alone) is to constantly say "the smells are amazing" are they Jamie ? I'll take your word for it as I didn't get a scratch and sniff card with the Radio Times.

Rick Stein is another one I fast forward on Saturday Kitchen. I think it's down to a personal grudge against him because I once stayed in Padstow while working in Cornwall and was horrified to discover that it's not even a one horse town, but has a great antiquated book shop. I was so disappointed that I didn't even try his food and bought something from Budgens instead which is how come I found the bookshop where I spent the evening browsing Dickens rather than sampling his seafood delights.

Nigel Slater is the exception for me as he only ever uses about 4 ingredients (supplemented with herbs from his garden) and few measurements or exact timings, but is so personable that I don't mind. He makes it look like you could just put something together after watching his programme with the things in your cupboards. Unlike Delia whose motto seems to be why use only 5 ingredients when 15 and something we've never used before will do ? Remember it's thanks to Deals that we have limes in our supermarkets as she caused a run on them when she made a recipe featuring a lime and they were not widely available at the time.

Delia was scathing about TV chefs endorsing supermarket products and openly criticised them until Waitrose came a knocking with clearly just enough money to buy her endorsements and recipe cards. Don't get me wrong, I'm the first to pick up her cards and have a stack of them with my cookbooks. Feel free to promote a supermarket I have no issue with it. I do, however, take issue with her Christmas cake recipe which I've cooked two years in a row using the pre-measured ingredients and followed the instructions to the letter and it's been soggy in the middle both times.

Mary Berry joined the 'make your own cake using this bag of stuff' brigade this year and as well as a traditional fruitcake she also offered delicious and simple cupcakes (also pre-measured) and the recipe is so simple I've kept it to make from scratch. I'm delighted she's back in fashion as her Christmas cupcakes saved the day for me ! Mary Berry was my first love with baking - years ago I used to make and decorate cakes for my siblings' birthdays so if you see a birthday photo featuring a calculator cake, a hedgehog or a dolly that'll be my handiwork.

Of course it's thanks to the Great British Bake Off that Mary has made her triumphant return, but it is one of the shows I don't watch. That and Masterchef, because while I find Greg Wallace very amusing I cannot watch John Torode. It was his one time covering for James Martin on Saturday Kitchen when he kept telling the chefs to wash their hands like an overeager Home Economics teacher. It is, of course, good sense, but it's also very dull.

I'd make a terribly boring TV chef as I'm a precise cook. I measure everything and follow the recipe to the letter (if I use one). Having said that I'm not too proud to do a cooking programme and if asked I'd be right in there. It seems you don't need to be an actual chef to get a TV show now, just someone who has cooked something once in your life - that's me qualified then.

Of course my first loyalty is to the one and only Come Dine With Me because I prefer my cooking programmes with a heavy handful of sarcasm. That is also the reason why I'd never apply to go on the show. When they were looking for contestants in Croydon one of my friends even sent me the application form. I politely informed her and everyone else who suggested I apply that the very reason I watch it is why I wouldn't go on it. I love shouting out "if you don't eat anything why are you on a cooking competition !!!" and I'd end up yelling at my guests if I did do it.

Also, I am guilty of equating food with love as that's how I was brought up. If anyone criticised my food I'd take it so personally I'd probably come across as a total loser. I never assume my cooking is anything other than adequate, but at the very least I like to cook things most people will enjoy. There are some ingredients I just can't stand. Cooked bananas just don't do it for me, yet I still make banana bread and ply hubbie and my reflexologist with it to buy favours at a later date.

I'm now that person who consults a handful of cookbooks (or t'internet) if I have some pecans to use up or some treacle that I forgot about in the back of the cupboard. Christmas was kind to me and I now have a brilliant selection of cook books to refer to, including one called the Meatfree Monday cookbook that I won from Ocado that was signed by Paul, Stella and Mary McCartney - which was nice.

Just don't ask me what my favourite dish is. Depending on the day of the week it'll either be a fishfinger sandwich or parmagiano melanzane. Now that would get me onto CDWM !!

This woman's work

We went to a wedding on Saturday - it was a lovely sunny winter day and I had been really looking forward to it for months. The planning was as follows:

A few months before:
Received invitation so I completed the food preferences section and gave the card to hubbie to hand to the bride-to-be (his work colleague).
Hubbie forgot to take the card in. He promised to book accommodation in plenty of time.

One week before:
I checked where the wedding card was that I'd bought a while back. Also checked what to get as a gift using the invitation I'd kept safe.
Hubbie went online to finally book accommodation that he started looking at months ago (did I mention it takes him 6 months to get round to doing anything ?) - hence we are staying 20 minutes away and not at a closer hotel with transport to and from the wedding as provided by the happy couple.

3 days before:
I made sure I'd received and tried on the frock I ordered to wear and checked the baby had suitable clothing and a change of outfit.
Hubbie remembered his suit needed dry cleaning.

The day before:
I started to pack baby items and made sure the buggy was in the car and that the baby changing bag was loaded up and ready.
Hubbie programmed the sat nav.

The morning of the wedding:
I made breakfast and packed for me and baby including bedding and spare clothes and food. Packed the car and got myself and baby ready to go.
Hubbie moved loft boards (that have been sitting in spare room in front of the cupboard) and took out travel bags. Programmed the sat nav again.

On the way to the wedding:
I set up the dvd player in the car to keep the baby occupied. Got my book ready to read on the journey while hubbie drove.
Hubbie asked me if I had any money for the Dartford Crossing, I said I didn't and he went quiet. I offered to get some money out on the way. Hubbie said nothing. As the motorway sign indicated the Dartford Crossing up ahead I asked hubbie if he had any money and he said he didn't. When I asked what he planned to do he said, "Shall I pull over at the next services then ?" My response is unrepeatable. After a detour to Bluewater and some circles of the car park I ran into M&S and bought some sandwiches, fruit and drinks, got cashback and then bought some mints to make change. Got back into the car - seething.

At the wedding:
One of hubbie's work colleagues makes a comment about me feeding the baby 'crisps' at the table. I smile and tell her they aren't crisps.
Hubbie carries his son around to show off to other work colleagues and receives plaudits and smiles for doing such a good job as a Daddy.

The next morning:
I load up the car as hubbie and baby stand at the window watching me and click the car lock from inside. I check to make sure I have money for the Dartford crossing and programme the sat nav.
Hubbie starts to hold his forehead - a sure sign that he'll take to his bed later 'poorly,' but he'll still go to work tomorrow and expect sympathy when he gets home. I tell him to sit in the back with the baby and rest while I drive us all home.

Home from the wedding:
I unload the car, put the washing into the machine, feed the cat, sort out some lunch and defrost something for dinner.
Hubbie puts the baby to bed and goes for a lie down upstairs.

I can't wait for Christmas !

I'm sorry I haven't a clue (apparently)

Me and the baby visited friends this week who have a four year old and a newborn. I've only been doing this parenting lark for ten months now, so didn't appreciate that their home was not kitted out for my adventurous and somewhat clumsy ten month old. He used a chair to clamber into a standing position until it swivelled depositing him on the floor with blood coming out of his nose. I did my best to appear like a parent who is cool with mishaps - rather that the insane first time parent I really am - while I was there. Then spent the entire drive home panicking that he wasn't actually asleep, but in a coma from a serious head injury sustained while in my care.I only mention this as for the longest time I thought everyone else knew more about parenting than me. I would ask for advice on every little thing until one day I realised that I am allowed to make decisions about my own son. Then I witnessed the world of competitive parenting.

Actually I first witnessed the world of competitive grandparenting which is far more serious. I am blessed that neither my mother nor my mother-in-law pass opinion unless asked. Ok, the latter does comment on my husband's weight, but as she is his mother I figure that's their issue to work out. Both my husband and I were raised by parents from the "in my day" school of parenting. They believed that complimenting their offspring would make us spoiled and unruly so instead they operated a carefully orchestrated system of sarcasm and apparent disinterest in our achievements.

As grandparents, however, they take a completely different approach and dote on their grandson (while never actually telling us that they do of course). Mother-in-law had friends over from Australia and was hosting one of her famous buffets (think Bridget Jones' mother crossed with Ria from Butterflies). Her friends are all grandparents with a few years under their belts so she is used to hearing their boasts. I am new to this world so imagine my horror as they one-upped each other (including sharing which of their offspring was barren) until there was an eventual and clear winner. This was earned by the grandmother who flew four hours to babysit her grandchildren so her daughter could attend a course for work.

In light of this oneupmanship my own experiences pale into insignificance. It starts as who is breastfeeding and who is not - you're out of the game early if you fail at this hurdle. Then it's weaning and whether you prepare all the (organic - naturally) food yourself. Sleep patterns, teeth, crawling, etc, etc. It's the most dull conversation and lately I'm constantly being asked if and when I'm going back to work. Frankly it's no one's business, but as my husband reminded me, people think I am now incapable of conversing about anything other than babies and all matters related to.

The point of this is the comment a woman made to me as she shared a revelation about my grave error in giving my son water to drink as 'a breastfed baby does not need water.' I instantly felt terrible. She then followed up with an invitation to attend a meeting to find out about 'natural parenting' in tones usually reserved for 'specialist' interests. Up until now I'd thought my parenting was pretty natural. My son laughs, plays, eats really well, sits up at the table when we go out to eat and sometimes even sleeps all night. Apparently I'm a terrible person because I allow him to watch Rastamouse while I pop to the loo or make a cup of tea. No amount of eco nappies, bamboo swaddling, organic baby food and soothing music can make up for that sort of negligence !