Crummy Mummy (who drinks)

Grateful

2012-01-25T22:37:00.003Z

Sproglet can now lift Sproglette from her cot. So the mornings are no longer filled with her wailing cries from down the hall. Instead the two of them toddle in and say 'Morning Mummy!' to wake me from my much loved slumber. Then we have a group hug and head downstairs for bagels and smoothies and whatever I can manage to force down their gullets. They have become buddies, partners in crime - and Sproglette loves Sproglet more than anyone. Before I had no 2 kid someone told me that the relationship your kids develop is such a joy to behold - and they weren't wrong.

Me and Sproglette are having a ball together at the mo. Well apart from running out of nappies today and having to use the old 'swim nappy' trick. But a poo in a swim nappy? The WORST THING. Memo to self - NEVER FORGET NAPPIES. EVER.

Life is flying by in a haze. I read back on some blog posts when I was working full time and realised what a frazzled old mess I was at times. So I may have no cash, and most of my life is spent wiping something or other - a surface, a bottom, a nose - but I'm pretty damn happy. I've got a little bit of worky stuff going on to keep my old grey matter ticking over, have sorted some creche time at £4 a time (hurrah - cheap childcare - holy grail) for the Diva (Sproglette) and am getting some lovely time with the bairns. Sproglet will be 6 this year. More Sprog than let these days. Where does the time go?

Last week a friend told me she would never be able to have kids. I won't go into details because that isn't for me to talk about - but safe to say, we both cried. I just felt so sad for her that this life choice had been taken away. I felt it most acutely because so much of my life is wrapped up in my children - and the thought of not having them... She said that although she was never sure that she wanted kids (but more yes than no) that as soon as something is taken away from you, you just want it all the more. Adoption may not be possible either. A woman so amazing with kids - always has been - in some sad irony, will never have her own. Words failed me, because no matter all I could say about travelling and having time to yourself and life being rich with possibilities for other things - she knew that for me, the greatest thing I have ever done in my life, is have my kids.

I know many women who wanted two babies and only manged to have one; many folk who miscarried and then went on to have healthy children; people who got pregnant accidentally and had the babies; people who have had abortions and then had children; people who couldn't conceive and used ivf; people who couldn't have kids biologically and adopted; people who had children and left them - but they all got to mother. Im not saying that any tragedy is worse than the other - I think everything is relative - but losing the choice of whether or not to have a child is so unfair.

Every day when I hear the pitter patter down the hall, when I shove off my eye mask thing and bleary eyed stare at my wakers - I am so damn grateful for them. I kiss their heads and lift myself from my cocooned bed - and slump down the stairs trying to focus on breakfast. And Sproglet says he doesn't like pancakes any more and Sproglette screams for the drink Sproglet has opened and through it all I feel utterly blessed.

Gossip Girl

2012-01-09T13:28:00.004Z

We all love a bit of tittle tattle don't we? A harmless sport where we dissect and judge other folks' lives, speculate about circumstances and dish the dirt that we know, or heard about from a friend of a friend of a friend. I am as guilty as the next person of joining in and adding my tuppence worth. When I was a teenager my next door neighbour and I called good gossip 'juicy tomatoes' and would often phone each other whispering excitedly about some nugget of juiciness that we would be spilling later.

Poisonous, vacuous and often tinged with bitterness and jealousy - no gossip is as innocent as it appears to be. At the heart of gossip is darkness. A need for people to accept us and our tales, agree and conspire with us - so we all feel so much better about others misfortunes. Whoever gossips about anything GOOD? Anything sincere?

So, I plan to forsake it. I won't be saying a single bad thing about anyone for the forseeable - won't make presumptions, won't delight in other's woes, won't judge, won't 'confide' or share or even discuss others in any way that could be deemed mean. Too often I am sure that I am fodder for other's gossip - which is half the reason I write this blog - by doing so I am owning everything that happens to me - by sharing it - it aint gossip because I CHOOSE to tell it. Or if it is used as gossip - well it can't wound me or effect me in any way. I think often the worst gossipers are those we think are closest to us... we think they care when really their interest is to gain some more info for tomorrow's gossip session. I don't think men gossip do they? They are too interested in the football scores/a new car/news...

Anyway - I am abstaining. Gossip girl, no longer.

Some pics from Xmas day....

2012-01-08T22:32:00.008Z

Justice, finally.

2012-01-04T18:49:00.007Z

The year has already started well. Finally, after campaigning for justice for 19 years - longer than her son even lived - Doreen Lawrence watched today as Gary Dobson and David Norris were convicted for the brutal racist murder of her son Stephen in 1993.

We all know the case, we all remember when it happened. I was a student in London at the time and was sickened by the callous way Stephen's killers knifed him at a bus stop in Eltham. Stephen didn't provoke the gang - he hadn't been drinking - he didn't even speak to them - he never got a chance. They saw him and they pounced. 5 or more of them - plunging a knife into his body twice - severing axillary arteries. Stephen's friend Duwayne Brooks began running, and shouted for Stephen to run to escape with him, but Stephen collapsed and bled to death on the cold wet street. He was only 18. He was only a year and a bit younger than me. His life so full of potential was tragically struck down. His killers were even younger than him. What motivates a group of young men to perform such evil? Undercover footage of their racist rants is possibly one of the most shocking videos I have ever seen. Who raises their children to be this way?

The police's failings in the case are legendary - not least failing to assist Stephen when they arrived on scene - questioning Brooks instead - as if he was a criminal. The attempts to put the 5 murderers behind bars came and went - all buried in 'lack of evidence' and idenification evidence being classed as 'unreliable.'

With new scientific evidence - a fleck of blood found on Dobson's jacket that was Stephen's and some fibres from Stephen's clothes were found on Norris's jeans -
they were brought to trial and finally convicted. Dobson will serve a minimum of 15 years and Norris 14 at the very least - one hopes it will end up being far more. And what of the other three murderers - Jamie and Neil Acourt and Luke Knight, at large? The Scotland Yard commissioner today said that 'they should not rest easily in their beds.' I really pray that somehow there is fresh evidence - something new comes to light and these three get a similar punishment.

Stephen Lawrence left a legacy. In light of the blatant racism on behalf of the police and how they conducted their investigations into his murder -(taking 2 weeks to even arrest the suspects despite having been directed towards them) which were identified in excruciating detail by Sir William Macpherson's inquiry report in 1999, Police operate now in an entirely different way (or at least one would hope they do). Racial aggreviation is now seen as a crime in itself. The ripples of the report were felt across government, the judiciary, the National Health Service and schools. So much has changed since Stepehn's death - perhaps folk would say not enough... His Mother's courage is awe inspiring. Her eloquence, poise, dignity and determination are an example to us all. A Mother's love knows no bounds - and she proved this. I hope today brought them some peace - although as she said, her son is dead so how can she celebrate?

Maybe when all 5 are behind bars she will have some closure. Please let that happen soon.

Hello to 2012

2011-12-31T10:46:00.003Z

So farewell to 2011.

A lot of folk I know won't be sad to see the back of such a difficult year. I only know of a handful of folk who have found this year to be a vintage one - the rest of us muddled through and tried desperately to economise and keep the wolf from the door - I for one am delighted to welcome in 2012 and wave a hasty goodbye to 2011. Not that anything bad happened - and it was great to spend time with my kids in years I'll never get back - but I struggled within myself, worried about how to juggle the whole 'me' thing - and still be a great Mother. I'm intending to give myself a break next year - I'm the best Mother I can be - and that is good enough. Now it is time to get the 'me' back... Let's see what happens.

I have a really good feeling about next year, tomorrow. No idea why - not basing it on anything in particular. Just a feeling of 'out with the old and in with the new' and welcoming what is to come. I feel excited, this year has potential.

My resolutions - or rather, my hopes for the year:

1. To run a 10k in the spring. Maybe late spring. But some time this year. Hopefully not to injure my ankle in the process. God that is a lot of red faced sweating and huffing and puffing. BRING IT ON!

2. To enjoy the moment more, to worry less about what is happening next and just go with the flow - I am exactly where I am meant to be right now - and I'm happy with that.

3. To not care what anyone else thinks. And anyone who judges me - to eradicate them from my life.

That is all, pretty much. My aim with the whole running malarkey is because I remember how damn good my lungs felt when I pounded along the canal, all the blood rushing around my body. My circulation has always been that of a 90 year old woman - Husband complains nightly of my ice like feet clamped against his legs for warmth. So it is time to DRINK MORE WATER - (have been swearing that for the last ten years at least) and get the blood rushing around. I know I'll be starting from scratch again - but it is amazing how quickly the body responds to exercise.

Maybe this coming year I'll sort out once and for all job wise what I want to do... I know what I DON'T want to do - so that is a start. I've got itchy feet that's for sure. Husband and I are talking about how many years we have left in this house... I really feel ready for change - which is something I normally fear.

So to you all - I hope you have a swell new year's eve (hate the day if I am honest - all that need to have a great time - why?) and a brilliant 2012. Let's hope it is memorable, for all the right reasons.

And to all you lovely commenters and regular readers - thanks for sharing. Keep on sharing!

Love Suzanne (CM) x

Yultide cheer

2011-12-23T23:13:00.003Z

So it's that time of year again. Stress, family squabbles, overspending, overeating and feeling like it just didn't quite live up to your rose tinted expectations.

But not this year! Nope. We have negated all stress by going out for Xmas dinner to the lovely Orrery on Marylebone High Street in London for 7 courses (memo to self - wear loose clothing - kinda Joey from Friend's Xmas day outfit) and a skinful of wine. We are taking my Mum and are also joining one of my oldest buddies in life, his wife and Mum. It should be great. I did all my shopping on-line and everything arrived in time! Hurrah! And I managed not to overspend (and luckily got some freelance work just before Xmas that paid for the lot). Husband and I aren't buying each other gifts this year because I am not earning - now those 3 weeks of work have finished) so technically he would have to give me the money to buy it. And also you know, I don't want anything. Maybe an address book and some rose oil bath lotion, or some of those lindor chocs. But in all honesty I'm pretty stoked with what I have - so don't need stuff to make it special.

Sproglet watched The Grinch this week - a family favourite at this time of year (just behind Elf on the Xmas must see list) and then that night as I tucked him in, I said 'what if Santa misses our house?' Sproget said 'It doesn't matter Mummy. It doesn't. Christmas isn't about presents, it's about having fun.' Gawd bless him. In saying that if Santa did forget to drop by he would be beyond gutted. As crap as it sounds I'm just happy to have some fab home made mulled wine that Husband will rustle up, watch my kids play together and eat some fabulous food. That is enough for me. My Mum is so excited and all the old ghosts of the past beween us are long buried - so now we can just relax and enjoy each other's company. I feel pretty darn lucky. I have a great feeling about 2012 - don't now why... maybe because it is my last year in my 30s!!!!!! I just think a lot of folk I know had a hard 2011 - and next year is sure to be better.

My plan in a few years is to take my kids volunteering on xmas day - so they can see how freakin' lucky they are to have families, and toys, and shelter and love when others have so little. Xmas is such a hard time of year for so many people - it breaks my heart to think of an old person alone all day, with no one to talk to. Or a parent who wishes they could give their kids some gifts... or even a home. it really is a time to be grateful for what we have. Ok, I'll get off my soapbox...

So, to you all - my lovely readers, I wish you a wonderful Xmas - I hope Santa is good to you and that your local store still has mince pies (as mine does not!!!). Here's to a memorable 2012.

Much love and hugs

CM xxx

Caroline Flack I salute you

2011-12-20T23:17:00.006Z

I've resisted the urge to jump on the bandwagon and cast judgement on the relationship of Caroline Flack 32, TV presenter and Harry Styles 17, Boyband member. But I can resist no longer. Caroline I salute you!

Here are some photos for those of you not familiar with the jobbing TV presenter of the X Factor after show on ITV2 (who I think has a great dirty laugh and can do the job a treat - something her co-presenter Olly Murs cannot) and the typical boyband fare that the X factor spawned -

Now Harry - he aint my type. Too much coiffed hair and arrogant flick of said hair - but I know rather a lot of women my age who fancied him when he warbled on the X Factor last year and came 3rd. But what I support is that even if he is 17 - he is in a band - they tour, they don't exactly sit down for dinner while Dad reads the paper - and he clearly is a bit more worldly than most 17 year old boys. Scrap that - just show me a 17 year old boy that WOULDN'T want to shag Caroline Flack? Exactly. I once dated a 17 year old when I was 27. It was blissful. I mean, we didn't put the world to rights or talk about the economic situation of the time - but for some friskiness with no strings he was perfect. He also told me he was 20, as he looked 20 and was very tall. But he was 17. Bless. Anyway, I wasn't planning on having an in depth relationship with him - I didn't dream of aisles and frocks and babies on my hip. So as long as Caro doesn't expect any meaningful commitment - then what's the problem? I mean he is 17. He is in a band. Do you really think he'll be her 'the one?' I doubt it - but maybe she - like I did - wasn't interested in 'The one.' Instead, she just wants some great sex. I say you go girl!

I also say this because I was out with a group of women on Fri night and I got chatting to a group of well bred stallion types next to me. They were all about 19/21 age group. I asked one if they had gone to the posh collegiate school in my town - and naturally they had. They asked how I knew this and I explained it was all in the jaw. Posh types - strong jaws, well bred bone structure - and a healthy glow, like they've been raised on calves who only eat chocolate and milk. Now one of the women in the group was mightily uncomfortable with my chatter - which is fair enough as I did tell the uber handsome one that he could be in the band that old Harry is in above... But this woman was deeply uncomfortable - to the point I stopped yakking to said stallion boys. Turns out she likes older men - she is 40 and likes 50 + year olds as they make her feel younger. I am at the opposite end of that scale - as the thought of gassing to some beer bellied bald bloke all evening about banking does not thrill me one jot. I am sorry, but I think my 'attracted to' button stopped when I was 17. I only am attracted to younger men. There, I said it. I'm no paedo - by younger I mean 20 and up... Is that wrong? That I could have birthed them when I was 18? Eeek. Now I do feel old...

My Husband is younger - by 4 years and looks pretty youthful. My Father always looked much younger than he was. I don't know, I first fell in love at 17... Maybe I'm trapped in the mind of a 17 year old... And before you chastise me - Husband and I think it is wildly healthy to be attracted to other people - but obviously we don't act on this. We're loyal, we believe in vows etc. But does that mean I do not wish I could have one night of passion with such veal fed young men? (and it would be all night at their age). Does it heck! Not that I would ever do that... But that you see is why I support Caroline in her fling. Young girls entice older richer men all the time and not a word is said. 52 year old actor from The Green Mile (what is his name?) and his 16 year old bride, Bill Wyman and his bride Mandy Smith, any man over 60 who has just 'fathered a child,' AND there is 17 years between these two - the exact same years between Dustin Hoffman and his wife, Donald Trump and Marla Maples, (now 24 between Donald and his latest squeeze) Jerry Seinfield and his wife... and 25 between Bogie and Bacall... and that is nothing compared to the 35 years between Woody Allen and Soon-Yi Previn. So don't get me started on the one rule for one sex and one for another malarkey....

At the end of the day - what harm are they doing? A few jealous older women getting their knickers in a knot because of the age gap - bitter because the last time their husbands shagged them X factor wasn't even on telly. Give over Ladies and let them have their fun. The day Kerry Katona slags off your relationship, you know you are doing something right.

Is it Xmas time or something?

2011-12-07T19:43:00.004Z

So yesterday The Diva (aka Sproglette) was 1. Yep a whole year has gone by since I waited a whole day and got bumped 5 times to have my C section from which she appeared.

Here is how she felt about her b'day:

Just a bundle of joy. She was grumpy all morning, howled in Waitrose, caused an old lasy to recoil when she glared at her in the trolley and moaned all through her cake and semi-party. She liked her toys though. Particularly anything she could be violent with - hammering pegs was a real hit. (No pun intended).

Anyway, I am struggling to my head around the fact a year has gone passed since I spogged and still don't quite know what I am going to do work wise. But it is nice to relax into Xmas (if one can relax into the whole nightmare lead up to the BIG DAY) and not really have to give a feck. If I get a wobbly moment where I wonder where my life is going, I just stuff a mince pie down my neck with more cream than you could hake a stick at - and voila! I am fine.

Some of my old script ed buddies have started to have babies - so I am watching to see how they juggle telly work and motherhood. They all used to marvel at me working on the same show as them - me with a toddler and Husband who did crazy hours. Maybe they'll inspire me - who knows. To be honest though - I am really digging some time with my kids. It all is going by so fast - so to take some time with these little people feels right. They'll be grown up and slagging me off to their Uni mates before I know it.

Anyway - enough of that, there is Xmas stress to be had people! I try to get cool gifts I really do, but after three hours flicking through seven shops on line and debating how much to spend, and blue or red? And have they got that? And, does that look cheap - oh maybe because it is cheap... I end up at M&S and buy everything in one swoop. Then I beat myself up over - will they like it?

Real Tree or not real tree? That is the question. I am going real tree - but where is the time to get the thing, get the decs out and realise that your tree screams 'gay man trapped in a woman's body!' Think we'll be doing the deed on Sunday. Saturday - it is much more important to introduce Sproglet and his chum to Scorsese - not through Raging Bull or Goodfellas - no, Hugo. Hoping it will be wicked.

We are off out on Xmas day for grub at fancy schmancy 'The Orerry' in London. Hurrah! No idea how we will entertain a one year old during the seven courses - but that is what cough syrup is for isn't it? Only joking... brandy in the bottle... JOKE!

I just don't feel all festive yet - so in a bid to do so, I'm getting my best mate and her Mum over next week for mulled wine, mince pies (and cream of course) and 'It's a Wonderful Life.' If that don't get me in the spirit - nothing will.

How did you lose yours??

2011-11-30T17:34:00.006Z

The other day in the Dr's waiting room I read a magazine article about first loves. This is mine:

It all began with a purple orchid. Or at least the promise one.

His name was Ben. He was tall, blonde, hailed from Germany and smoked so much weed he was barely coherent. He was my first love. I'd seen him around but it wasn't until I'd been roped in by my art buddies to paint a huge mural in my sixth form centre at school, that our paths began to frequently cross. So after school, in the evenings I had begun trek back across town to school and wield my small paint brush. It was a garish collage of various sporting activities - painted originally in the 70s, across an entire wall, and we were updating it - with even more hideous colours. It was spring, the school formals were just around the corner and there was sense of excitement in the stale school air.

Every evening post study (he boarded at my school) he would slouch down to the rec floor (recreation floor) and muster a few sentences through his stoned stupor. I was bewitched. His long dirty blonde fringe swept across his face, hiding one eye. He told me he planned to send a girl a purple orchid as a valentine and proceeded to ask me at length what I thought of such displays of affection. I blushed, unsure who this orchid was meant for and then muttered some inane reply. (This was the staple of our conversations - he would be direct whilst obtuse and I would stumble through the chat avoiding the grenades, barely aware what I was saying). Anyway, this night, we chatted on while the others painted, and just as the bell for boarding bed time rang, he got up announced that he wouldn't be buying ME an orchid after all. Then he was gone. I know, what a twat. But I was hooked.

Every evening I would down tools and wait for his appearance - he would saunter in, all scruffy shirts and thick boots, his silver ring gleaming in the glare of the bright school lights. It was if it pained him to speak. He was monosyllabic, with the most intense stare I have ever had bear down on me. So, I sent him a valentine card, but my promised orchid never came. I felt foolish. He stopped me as I left the local coffee house - The Mad Hatters - and thanked me for the card - I denied all knowledge of it. Annoyed at my refusal to admit being the sender, he strode off - leaving me in the lurch as always.

Then one night - March 15th 1990 - he finally, finally asked me out. It was in the days when if someone asked you on a date - it meant you were 'going out' already. He was constantly gated (kept in school over the weekend) for bad behaviour - so we only got to be together a handful of times. His A levels were looming - he was repeating them and this time could not afford to fail. He was 19 to my 17 and seemed wildly exotic compared to all the dull Belfast boys I had known all my life. We would meet at The Empire - a musty pub with a cinema on the stage. We would sit in the gallery and kiss over cheap pizza and cold beers. I could barely eat, I was so full of butterflies and excitement. We got drunk and foolish and were barred from The Empire for fooling around in the toilets together. It was worth it. Every night he would call - at the beginning of our relationship I would get 70p worth - and by the end, maybe 25p... Calling him was a nightmare - in the days before mobile phones - the line was always engaged and when someone did answer it took them ten minutes to find Ben - and often he wasn't around - getting stoned in the rafters no doubt.

We always knew there was a clock ticking - the end of term meant he would fly back to Berlin and then head off to Manchester University while I remained in Belfast, with A levels to complete. I kept a diary for every day of our last month together - an ode to those tortured days of first love.

As the weather began to warm we would lie in Botanic Gardens opposite school, smoking cigarettes, hands entwined. I was in love. I didn't even know what love meant - but every minute of every day I thought about him. My stomach flipped every morning when he would walk past my assembly room and grunt hello. He came to stay at my house - separate rooms, and breakfast with my step family. He gave me a rose and my first orgasm. We wrote letters when he had to disappear to Sri Lanka (where his Dad lived) for the Easter holidays... I still have those letters.

By June, I was on the pill and debating when, not if, I would have sex with him. I was ready. I was prepared. He wasn't a virgin - I was. I prized my virginity - thought of it as a gift to give, rather than something to be taken. But I always imagined having a daughter and her asking me how I lost my innocence - and I always wanted to tell her - that it would be through love.

His A levels finished, as did our summer exams - a sense of liberation rushed through us all. My Mum went off to visit relatives, so my house was 'free.' I drank cheap wine and worried about whether or not it would hurt. He was famed for being well endowed - just to add to my fears. And yes, those are the things you think about before you get around to having sex at 17.

Now my first time - on June 22nd 1990, wasn't great. Quick, painful and forgettable. He asked me for a number out of ten and I think I gave him a seven - when in fact I thought it was barely worth a 2 and I wasn't sure what all the fuss was about. The following night we had another go. Better, but no great shakes. But by my 4th time I'd got the hang of the whole idea and had begun to enjoy it. He taught me how to have sex, how to love and how to have a relationship - and for that I will always be grateful. My firsts in all these arenas was one of joy - and consideration and being cherished.

That summer I went to Berlin to visit him - my Dad paid for the flight after asking me of I loved this guy. I said yes. I flew to London then on to Berlin and he met me at the airport. His Mother met me in a bar, with with a rose between her teeth - she was not long out of a mental facility - that is the truth. She was vivacious, flirtatious and fun. She asked me what contraception I used and then announced that the first time she had sex she got pregnant and got VD. She said an injection cured both. I was expecting chat about school and hobbies - but with her, you always got the unexpected. She was amazing, open and a slight bit unhinged - telling us to vacate her flat as her lover was coming over and then would complain about sore nipples all evening.

We spun a line to my Mother that I was staying at his Mum's - when in fact we holed up at his Dad's empty apartment. We drank red wine, watched videos (I remember watching Rosemary's Baby in German and still loving it... and also Uncle Buck - what a combination. I read Riders and a book about sexual fantasies called 'My secret garden'). ran long baths, got stoned and made love for ten blissful days. Then I left.

At the airport I could barely see I was crying so much. That fucking Roxette song from Pretty Woman blared out from any radio I passed.... 'It must have been love, but it's over now...' Wearing his old tatty jumper and stubble rash, I said goodbye. Then a kind guy in the boarding lounge offered me a Marlboro red and asked me if I had 'thrown the apartment at him? Or getting divorced?' I couldn't even reply. I spent a lonely night at Gatwick airport, smoking endless cigarettes and pouring all my coins into phones as I sobbed to every friend who would listen.

I returned to grey skies and A levels, boring Belfast and life without Ben. I was lost. I went back to Berlin again, the following year and then to Uni... we hooked up again when I was 21 for one night... We kept in touch with letters and then emails - until he got together with a girl who had been a few years younger than us at school - and had always had a massive crush on him. I wasn't her favourite person. Then the radio silence began. I asked to be his friend on facebook and he ignored my request. It made me momentarily sad - I gave you my virginity and you can't me my facebook buddy?? But really, things are best left where they were. I will never regret loving him, learning from him and all the adventures we had. I was playing at being a grown up in Berlin and it paved the way for all my subsequent romances. The world opened up to me in 1990 and my life, and my heart, were never the same again.

Now I can I look Sproglette in the eye and tell her that I lost my virginity in love. So I kept that promise to myself. For all those memories of a wonderful angst filled first love - I thank you Ben. But I never did get that purple orchid...

*****************************

If anyone wants to share their first love/losing virginity story, I'd love to hear it.

Just a catch up...

2011-11-25T21:38:00.004Z

Sproglet made Sproglette into Marge Simpson and she wasn't happy...

Fri night - watching an amazing documentary on Prince. Man, I just love that guy. He has inspired me, comforted me, cheered me, and been my own little talisman, since I was 11. I wish he would gig over in the UK again. I have blogged manys a time of my love of the purple one, so I won't bore you all again. But whenever life is shit, I stick on Dirty Mind, or Sign of the Times, - and hell, nothing is that bad anymore, because there is always Prince.

Anyway, I digress. I haven't blogged in ages - not because of any dark old reason - just a lack of time. I've been doing a bit of script work for my old bosses - and between that and raising two small beings, Husband starting a new job and all that jazz, I barely get time to pee.

For example - I am now looking on ebay for Prince T shirts and watching Purple Rain - when I should be packing for a trip tomoz that I am SO exited about. I am off to Newcastle with my sprogs and Husband to see my good buddy who recently had twins. Meanwhile another schoolmate is heading over from Leeds way with her new baby and another from bonnie Scotland. Hurrah! While our babies all gurgle and our older boys run riot - we can all drink fizz and blether. Oh I just don't get enough time with my Ya yas these days (as in 'The Ya Ya sisterhood) so it is long overdue. But it does involve a 3 hour train journey with kids, so it aint all joy...

So what's been goin' on down my way? My once razor sharp memory is toast these days. Today I did a food shop and then - no card! Genius. Had to trek home again... Well, After I threw a fab Halloween party for myself, I mean Sproglet, well November happened and now it is nearly over and in between there has been an enormous amount of tea drinking, manys a mince pie shoved down my gullet, a few wobbly moments when I thought 'what the fuck am I going to do with my life?' and lots of joy as Sproglette now leans in for kisses and has become more Miss independent diva by the day. There has been a special row where I was so tired I threw a cup of (sadly cold) coffee over Husband and I now have a dining room wall to paint... Some Xmas gatherings coming up, the starbucks red cups are out and I have yet to partake, and festive spirit has begun ever since I took Sproglet to see 'Arthur Christmas' which only cost me £24 for two tickets. £24!!!!! Bloody 3D bollox. Plus some exiting movies coming up - Scorcese's 'Hugo', Fincher's 'Girl with a Dragon Tattoo' and then all the pre Oscar stuff...

The Killing 2 is on!! And a bizarre new series by the Glee team called 'American Horror story' which is NUTS. I'm mightily enjoying 'The Slap' on BBC4. A character gets an episode a week and I find it riveting. Which is why I sat up last night until midnight watching a recording of it... TV is back in the good zone again - so why go out?

A new year will soon be upon us and I have a feeling that 2012 may just be my most memorable year yet. For a few reasons - but we'll have to see. Cryptic I know. But I just believe in fate and I think the universe is aligning at the mo. Plus the happy pills are keeping me chirpy. People keep remarking on the fact I have lost weight - I don't see it myself, but my jeans are all falling off me, so I've been scouting ebay for a size lower... The weird thing is I worked my ass of for 6 weeks before a wedding in May of this year and then after it I kind of thought, sod it and just ate cake again. Then the weight came off. Totally odd. It's like when you don't think about it every minute of every day, then it looks after itself. Mind you post xmas I may have to take up running again.... euughhhhh...

Ok Purple Rain really has the worst script ever. But I don't care. I love it. Sproglet asked me last week if I wanted to marry Prince (as we grooved post bath to 'Raspberry Beret') and I said yes. He totally understood. I am bringing him up to appreciate all things Prince. So far he is non plussed. I'm working on it. And so I am off to begin what husband calls 'stage 1' of getting ready for bed. I have packing to do and washes to fold and just pockling do to and then papers to read so it may take a while. Oh and last news - my best friend is making progress! Hurrah!

The old Me

2011-11-11T23:14:00.003Z

Yesterday I went into central London to Soho, to meet some buddies I used to work with. It was a drizzly, grey nondescript kinda day, but still I felt cheery. I rarely get into London much anymore and when I stride through Soho, it feels like I am walking in a life I lived many moons ago. I used to work at various TV companies dotted all around the area - and frequent the bars and cafes for long boozy lunches/dinners justified as 'expenses' in the good old days when TV companies had money. One street always takes me back to my first ever date with my Husband - in a cafe in possibly the campest street in London. He was getting the eye from manys a cute boy when I arrived... all those years ago. Other places take me back to our dating days - double cinema dates at the Curzon Soho, endless thai meals at Busaba, dinners at Cafe Boheme... Days felt long and full of possibilities.

Mainly it reminds me of my single days - stumbling from one bar to another - blagging my way into member's only haunts, and creeping down dark stairways to late night lock ins... It all feels so normal - I feel myself again - and then I remember I am boring Mother in the burbs these days.

The gang I met yesterday, I started to work with in 2008. My second career - whereas for them, mainly this was their first. So that makes me that bit older than them all - that bit further down life's track. Sometimes I feel like the freak girl who is trying to be this good mother at home - and then with them, I guess around anything job wise, I'm worker CM. The holy grail is trying to marry these two states. I listen as they talk of exciting new jobs and experiences - all of which are so foreign to me (I know virtually no one in the drama industry here) - I couldn't possibly take jobs that they have with all my commitments. So it is strange - on one hand I envy their ability to just have themselves to think of, while I juggle playdates and baby stuff, school activities and all the after school malarkey - and feeding and raising two kids - and on the other I know that at some stage I will be out of these woods and be able to jump into work again.

I listen to myself and my only interesting gambits these days are child related - because that is what my life is filled with. I am turning into the person I never wanted to be - the woman who talks only of her kids. Maybe that isn't true - I can comment on trying to put a gypsy curse on someone even though I am no gypsy; gossip about ex colleagues; predict a winner on the X factor and throw in some opinions on various tv shows... But the thing that bound us together - work - is no longer in my life. Sometimes I wish they all had kids and could advise me how to juggle it all - but maybe by the time they do it they'll be well off enough to afford nannies and big houses, so they won't contend with the trivial issues that keep me awake at night.

It was so good to see them. For years they were my day in and day out family - I spent more time with them than anyone else. I was devastated when I had to leave them all last year - and beyond anything, they are fun. They make me laugh and rip the piss out of each other (and oh yes, me lots) and there isn't really a dull moment when they are all bantering away. I wonder if in my life I'll ever work with a team I love as much again. We had gathered as one of them is moving back to Oz with his lovely wife. It feels strange to think that he won't be around, even though I don't see him that often.

Yesterday as we left the restaurant where we had scoffed scones and tea (rock n roll baby) I spied some women at the bar necking martinis. For one second I remembered myself in a similar pose, all those years ago (1999/2000). My heart kind of sank because I will always miss those days - presenting kids tv until about 4pm (which meant larking about with my mates in front of camera and getting paid for it in all honesty) on Tottenham Ct Road and then sauntering either up to Noho or down to Soho, then hitting the bars, still caked in the on screen make up that would take 5 wipes to get off. There was no curfew, no worries about pennies in the bank - sure that's what overdrafts were for. Life was so carefree. When I walk those streets I remember myself, the bit of me that feels the most remote at the moment. Maybe one day, Ill be back...

We are all in the gutter but some of us....

2011-11-05T19:17:00.004Z

So did it turn out as you expected? Life I mean... Did you get the job you dreamed of, the partner you desired, the lifestyle you aspired towards? Or has it gone a little off kilter?

Reason I ask, is that I've been pondering this over the past few days - the fact folk assume that things will work out - and often they don't. Or rather they do, but not how you might have planned. Or the fact people are too scared to do what they really want to do and settle instead. So they wind up miles from where they thought they would be... maybe that's a good thing when they think the end result aint so bad at all. Others are filled with bitterness and resentment that their lives aren't quite as exciting, glamorous, fabulous as others.

Whilst I sort of subscribe to the idea that you get the life you ask for - I also see how circumstance and bad luck can ruin people and it isn't their fault at all. People rarely talk about their dreams though... In the Uk there is something terribly galling if someone talks up what they want to do - yet in the US this is positively embraced. Live the dream they say. I often think I was born in the wrong country.

Do people ever talk anymore about what they want - or is it all kept quiet, for fear of failure? Oh I hear weekly what folk would do if they won the lottery - but only one of my friends ever talks about his dreams and what he wants to achieve. He is determined and fearless. It isn't about showing everyone else what he can do - maybe a tiny part - but it is for him, so he can prove to himself what he can accomplish. One blog I love - The Girl Who, talked about what she wanted and made it happen. In life there are the talkers and there are the doers. I have always considered myself more of a doer - but lately I have been mothering and not doing so much. But I have a plan. Well a few. One is so sky high that is verging on impossible - but that is why I like it. I love a challenge. Life is all about the trying. You'll maybe regret the things you did - but more than that, you will regret the things the didn't. Like in 1993 my mates all hired a limo and went to Dublin to see U2. I said I didn't have the cash, being a broke student - and I didn't tag along. But I wish I'd gone, as they had a blast. They rolled up at some hotel where a wedding was going on, and the all the guests assumed that it was U2 in the limo, and not a bunch of stoned students... That is possibly one of my only regrets in life.

I wish I had more time to devote to all things dreamy, but with a Diva daughter and a son with more after school activities than you could shake a stick at... I aint got much time to do stuff. Only after 8pm when I am shattered. I'll have to make hay when the beasts sleep...

I wonder what you all dreamed, and if it worked out. I guess most people wouldn't even say if it didn't - who wants to face up to failing - or worse, not even trying.
But you know, I always think you can do anything you want. Anything. Focus, determination and a tad of talent - go a long way. Reach for those stars, or someone else will...

Jeans, Ren miracles and spooky stuff.

2011-10-28T00:27:00.006+01:00

Hello y'all.

I haven't had the chance to write for a while. Stuff has been a happening in these parts which has been pretty tough. Husband is probably going to have to resign from his job, which is all a bit hideous, seeing as I am not bringing home any bacon. Not even a pork scratching in fact. Is a long and complicated story - and for no doubt legal reasons etc I can't go into it. But we have had sleepless nights, lots of stress and manys a harsh word.

However, in the midst of this moment of sheer terror, there are good things. Such as Sproglet won a trophy at soccer today and he was as pleased as punch - for 'most improved player' during his half term football school. I was beyond chuffed and cheered way too loudly just so everyone knew that was my son - yes, my boy, who won.

I have these vouchers for Selfridges - swanky shop in London - and decided to get myself some new jeans, as all of mine are falling down my ass. Not a good look. I went to the denim section and tried on many pairs - before I knew it, delighted with having dropped a dress size, I was bamboozled into buying a pair of J brand jeans that were sooooo expensive I felt sick. They looked great, were a size I have only dreamt of getting my arse into, and so somehow I agreed to this insanity. Came home, modelled said jeans for Husband who replied 'yeah, they are jeans, and?' Yes, they are going back. For in swapping them I will be able to buy an entire wardrobe of clothes for this winter. In my head you have to be mental to pay over £200 for jeans. They are JUST JEANS as Husband rightly said.

One thing that did excite me on my shop was the purchase of a Barbour International coat. Whatever that title means - but it sounds good doesn't it? Strapped up in it - for it does take a good five mins to do up and belt in around the waist and neck - I feel invincible. I probably look like suburban mother who needs to get out more, but in my head it has a biker feel - it is the closest to a bike I will ever get. I hate shopping usually - am a complete impulse buyer - so when I walked past the Barbour concession - I tried it on and when 3 women browsing nearby told me to get it (and not just the over-keen assistant desperate for commission) I decided it was a must. Winter - I see you and laugh in your frosty face. I am ready for you. BRING IT ON.

As I was leaving the store, desperate to use up all vouchers I stopped in the products area - where women pounce on you like hungry tigers who haven't seen flesh in months. I headed over to the REN counter as when I have had a facial (in about the 5 whole times in my life I have had one) that has a chemical fizzy peel thing in it, I end up with glowing newborn skin afterwards. So, I invested in this product - Ren Resurfacing AHA concentrate. Sounds like a hell of a potion doesn't it? Well, I'm not going to get all Gwyneth on yo' ass, and start telling you what you should afford that is merely 9 million pounds, but I have to say it is incredible, and is only £30. Lasts for ages apparently. It has this little pipette thing that feels very technical and chemical and terribly scientific, (so therefore MUST be good) and you put on a few drops before bed. You sleep and voila! A-MA-ZING skin. Newborn. I have two little dry patches and they are disappearing when they normally stubbornly hang around until spring. You use it for 7 nights and you are 21 again. I am sure this is true as my skin is all a-glow. It is the little things isn't it?

Halloween party time is nearly here - hurrah! I am reciped up - lets hope the Oreo spiders turn out ok - they may look like lumps of brown stuff with legs, but here's hoping. I have webbed out the dining room - plus garlands, streamers, candles, glittery spiders etc and Husband bought me a fabulous cookie tree of Halloween things - bats, ghosts, webs etc. I LOVE IT. I may just have to post a picture of said tree. When the little kids at the party try and get their hands on it - they will be in for a ghostly shock from me. Hands off rugrats!

So, things are still on the up. My best friend has been allowed to take a drug called Tyrabsi which she starts in November - and she will have an 81% chance of never having another MS attack. Fingers crossed. She is slowly starting to walk again - very very slowly, with crutches, but she is being strong. I took her to the movies last night to see 'The Help' - really great by the way (wonderful book, but brilliantly cast film - the book is better (natch) but film is still worth a watch. She really enjoyed getting out so I feel this could bcome a weekly date. Anyway, she spoke to a lady who had MS and lost her job because of it (back in the 80s) and she told my friend - 'Never ask why me? Never wallow. Don't look back at the wasted time being ill, only look forward and you will get better.' I love this idea. We can't change the past but tomorrow is a whole new day.

Here's looking forward. x

Pray

2011-10-12T19:54:00.003+01:00

We take so much for granted. Bitter when we run for the bus and miss it, never stopping to think that 'hell, at least I can run for the sodding bus!' The little things get us down. Only when something really awful happens do we stop and gain a bit of perspective. Life isn't so bad after all.

My best friend has MS. She was diagnosed with it almost 2 years ago - after her first 'episode' (as they call it) when her foot went numb. Scans revealed lesions on the brain. She recovered, she got on with her life. Then in the summer she fell while on holiday and hurt her shoulder. She was in excruciating pain - on tonnes of painkillers and then she began to feel numb - all the way down, below her chest. It kept going and after a couple of weeks she could barely walk - she hobbled like an old woman. She went through 3 doctors, two physios and one hospital trip until she was finally referred by her GP for MRI scans. I took her to hospital and we sat for 5 long hours waiting to seen by a consultant who finally agreed an MRI scan was needed. It showed inflammation to her brain and spine. She was in hospital for a week being pumped full of steroids. I held her hand when she had to endue a lumber puncture in her spine. All she was worried about was the fact she was wearing big pink pants. I told her thank god she was wearing pants - and talked through every episode of 'The Killing' while student doctors debated how to stick a needle in her spine. I brought her cup cakes and flowers and tried to be chipper, then would go home and worry.

Eventually, when she was well enough to make the journey she went to Scotland to stay with her parents, who drove her all the way there. Last week she came back and they brought her to see me. I was shocked. She was even worse than when I had taken her to hospital, back at the end of August. She couldn't walk at all without crutches, she couldn't stand to hug me, she can't get up stairs without help. We had tea and cookies, but she had to leave as she was in so much pain. When she left I sat on my sofa reeling, wondering how on earth she had gone backwards. Turns out steroids only temporarily help. She was back to square one.

She is seeing her consultant on Friday - and has started thrice weekly physio. It seems she can go one of two ways - she can take steroids which will prevent another MS episode (there is no MS cure) and do physio, acupuncture and the like to get her mobility back. It will take months. She won't be back at work this year. Or she can try a drug that has not been trialled over here but has been used in the States - LDN. My Aunt knows a woman whose niece takes it and she has gone from wheelchair to training to be personal fitness coach. Thing is, this doesn't prevent attacks, it just helps solve one. She has no idea what to do and is trying to do as much research as she can. A nurse told her that LDN is just a placebo - that it doesn't actually work, but yet my friend has read tonnes of cases online where it has helped folk.

She is so strong it is amazing. I really am in awe of her. I pop round with the kids as they create havoc and she hugs them, pulls them to her lap and shares a joke. Occasionally her eyes water, when I say that her parents are doing a brilliant job of taking care of her and she replies 'it should be the other way around though.' I hold her hand and tell her it will all get better - that she will walk again. That there are options. Then I go home and sit in a quiet rage that this happened to her and try not to cry because that would be so weak, when she is so brave. She is my oldest friend, godmother to my kids, my bridesmaid, the girl I travelled the world with. I have known her since we were 9. In a job she once started, she had to write a biography - and I wrote it for her. She is like a sister to me. Why has this happened to her? She's had a shitty time already with a divorce and men - she needs luck and joy and she needs to bloody well be able to walk. I feel so useless. I don't know much about MS - only what I read on line. I don't know anyone who has it.

I pray for her - and honestly, I am not religious. I just want her to get well. She is probably the nicest person I know. She is kind, thoughtful - always helping others, always thinking of people. She has a great heart. She has more courage in her little finger than I have in my entire body. It saddens me that life can be so cruel - that things we take for granted can just disappear. Every day now when I get up and deal with the kids I think how lucky I am to be able to carry my daughter down the stairs, to chase my son around the house. I'm off now to look up LDN and do some research of my own. As silly as this sounds - but faithful readers, would you do something for me? Will you include my friend in your prayers?

She will walk again. Hopefully to the pub with me. When we can celebrate her health and this horrible horrible time will be a thing of the past.

Halloween is coming and the geese are getting fat!

2011-10-12T10:34:00.006+01:00

So I'm throwing a party for Sproglet for Halloween. Ok that is a big fat lie. I am throwing a Halloween party because I love Halloween and am pretending that it is for the kids, when in reality, it is all for me.

Husband isn't exactly jazzed on my crazy decoration shopping - he asks 'are these glittery spiders an essential purchase?' And I reply 'yes, of course.' I have seriously gone to town - I have pumpkin and bat garlands, bunting with ghosts, scary tinsel, pumpkin fairy lights, a skull cupcake stand and the said glittery spiders. That is even before I get going on the scary food and carved out pumpkin lanterns... Halloween is my favourite holiday. I put that down to growing up in Ireland where we never celebrated Bonfire night - as far as the Irish were concerned Guy Fawkes was a hero in blowing up the Brits in the olden days - and as we were knee deep in the Troubles you weren't allowed fireworks in case folk thought that a bomb was in fact going off. So we went big with Halloween: trick or treating (for a good few weeks before the event), carving pumpkins or turnips, and embracing the finger burning nightmare - 'indoor fireworks'. In reality these were a burning pyramid, a weird snake that bubbled up from embers and a strange blue dot not unlike a pill, that would flicker intermittently and smoke the entire house out. Guaranteed trip to A&E with every set.

The Indian summer has left a wonderful kaleidoscope of colours in the trees and an amazingly satisfying crunch when jumping in the fallen leaves. Bonfire smoke curls through the air and evenings become cooler - blanket reaching times. I cannot wait to head out trick or treating. They go to town in my neighbourhood - those who want to play along stick a pumpkin in their window as a sign. I've got a fabulous wreath for the door, so they know we are IN!

Life is pretty damn good at the mo. I've decided not to go back to work this year - which gives me more time to concentrate on important things like Halloween decorations and how to make witches fingers... Sproglette is almost one. Where did that year go? She will be dressed in something suitably spooky and ridiculous this Halloween although her trick or treating days are a few years off. Sproglet has a bat costume and is beyond excited. Almost, but not quite, as excited as me.

GracesGift

2011-10-08T17:15:00.005+01:00

Last night when I was lying in bed, reading Red magazine, something caught my eye. A small column, but a really significant one. A woman wrote it called Helen Salberg and she told of how she suffered a stillbirth three years ago - losing her daughter Grace, who she never really met, due to being horrifically ill and asleep for 3 days after her emergency C section. I can imagine nothing more horrendous in life than having a stillborn child after going through pregnancy. What I cannot imagine is how someone begins to come to terms with such a devastating loss, or how life ever feels 'normal' again.

I know several women who have sadly gone through this experience and I have always struggled with what to say to them - what words are good enough? Once you are pregnant your whole body changes - from your glossy hair to your swollen toes and your head gets to grips with what is happening and what will happen. There are tonnes of books to read, websites to pour over, friends to swap stories with - even strangers smile at your bump in the street. You pick out names, plan the nursery, imagine yourself out with the stroller, stroke your belly, feel the life kicking inside you. Your future is planned - the weeks counted off. The biggest moment of your life is about to happen. No matter the heartburn or the breast pain, or the sore limbs, swollen feet, aching joints, sickness and nausea, it is all worth it at the end.

But to go through all that and then - an empty cot... What is meant to be a time of joy suddenly being a time of unmeasurable grief. While all around the world carries on its merry way and seemingly every other celeb announces their 'great news' that they are expecting. It is so terribly unfair and unjust and sad.

Helen did something incredible - at a support group she went to, she found that lots of women noticed changes in their baby's movements before losing them. So she designed wristbands, which have babies footprints on them with the idea that when a pregnant woman feels her baby kick she turns it over - so it acts like a warning signal. A fundraising event she held on what would have been Grace's second birthday provided the funds to start production of these bands. Her local hospital is trialling them with 300 women and the feedback so far has been amazing. She hopes to go national. Helen strikes me as an amazingly brave woman - to try and find positivity through such heartache. To want to help so that others will never suffer what she has. Women like Helen render me speechless. I am simply in awe.

I've read several articles recently where women lost babies after their due dates had passed - one woman wrote an incredibly moving piece about how she always thought she was 2 weeks ahead of the hospital's due date that she was given. She is convinced that if her son had been born earlier that the tragedy would have never happened. There has been a call for the government to fund more regular scans during a pregnancy - (at the moment in the Uk you get 2 in the whole 9 months - at 12/13 and 21 weeks which seems ridiculous when a pregnancy lasts 40 weeks). Hoping for the Tory government to do anything positive seems futile (when we have to fight tooth and nail to stop them privatising the NHS with their planned reforms) so why not check out www.gracesgift.co.uk ?

This tragedy happens in over 4000 births a year - which is 11 a day. If a wristband helps in any small way, then that is brilliant and a wonderful legacy for Grace. I wanted to write about this so we can help Helen to help others. I have never gone through this so I can't pretend to have any idea of how soul destroying and life changing this heartache would be. But as a mother, it touches me. So if you can donate, please do. Thank you.

Update to last post

2011-10-06T21:56:00.003+01:00

I swear my heart was beating pretty darn fast as I watched the verdict on the Meredith Kercher case. It was so bizarre as SKY tv got the verdict wrong and started to flash up 'Knox loses appeal' across the screen, while Knox remained emotionless. For one moment I thought 'Christ she is taking this all really well' and then she began to sob, with what looked like relief, and the screen changed and suddenly all we heard was 'she has won her appeal, she is free to go!'

I watched her sobbing as she left court and it would have been a cruel person who did not feel for her - so tiny amongst the whirl of police, the snapping paps, the booing crowd. But my real sympathies lay with the Kercher family. Her Mother looked completely stunned. She sat, motionless, barely blinking, as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. Poor Meredith, lost in all the palaver.

So Knox got to go home. She was whisked to the prison where apparently the inmates gave her a huge cheer. Then to meet her family - what a reunion that would have be - and to Rome, to begin the first leg of her long journey back to Seattle. How can one begin to process four years inside prison? The life that you have one day and the freedom you have the next? The fame, the doubters, the hungry baying press, Donald Trump on the phone - that alone would fry anyone's head.

And what for the Kerchers? All the verdict did for them was bring them back to square one. Yes, Guede undoubtedly played a role in their beloved daughter/sister's death. But the stab wounds - could only have been caused by more than one one person. Guede did tell a fellow inmate that he had someone else with him on the night of the murder. Is there another killer at large? I hope Guede rots in jail. Only he knows what happened that night. If Knox is truly innocent, he let her and Sollecito suffer for four long years. He has no heart, no humanity. To murder a young girl so brutally, without regard for life - he is an animal.

I'm not one for prayer, but I genuinely pray that the truth will prevail. That justice will be done. That Meredith and her family may at last be at peace.

Knox - guilty or innocent?

2011-10-03T09:10:00.004+01:00

For the past few days I have been devouring all the articles and essays I could find online about the Amanda Knox case. Or rather, as it seems to have been forgotten in the midst of this media frenzy, the Meredith Kercher case.

It is truly fascinating. Everywhere I turn there is conflicting information - the pro Knox supporters (Knoxophiles) tarnishing the prosecution's case with disputes, such as Knox having bought bleach the morning after the killing. They say it took the shop owner a year to come forward and he only did so after receiving a low level of fame through his chats with a reporter. That a shop assistant also working the same day never saw her - because they assert - Knox was never there in the first place. This is merely one small detail amongst many that the defense insist did not happen. The general view in the pro Knox camp is that prosecutor Giuliano Mignini made up the sex crazed orgy story and fitted Knox and her boyfriend into the story - a tale that he created to appease the Italian authorities who wanted a quick resolution to a case that had garnered worldwide interest. They say his tale is fabricated and flawed.

Upon first glance it would appear that it was in fact a lone wolf attack - Rudy Guede, a drifter and petty thief has already been convicted of the murder and sentenced in a 'fast track' trial. His DNA was found on, inside, and all around Meredith - and his bloody hand print was left on her pillow. Why on earth would Knox, seemingly a bright student with no previous record, be involved in a crazed sex game with a man she had only fleetingly met, and her new boyfriend? It isn't exactly the stuff of early dating rituals.

However, I just can't get past the fact she blamed an entirely innocent man, due to a 'vision' she had that he was killing poor Meredith. Patrick Lumumba is currently suing Knox as it was proved he had a cast iron alibi. Why would you blame an innocent man? Why change your story so many times? Why did her boyfriend and co - accused Raffaele Sollecito explain Meredith's DNA arriving on a knife he owned by way of her having dinner at his place - he cut her accidentally when cooking - when she had never been to his home? Then there is the whole break-in issue - was it staged? It was a damp night and yet there were no footprints or scuffs on the wall outside the window that was broken - no signs that someone climbed in. Guede's DNA was not found in the room with the broken window - proving that is not how he entered. Again, this is one mere detail that could potentially point at their guilt - why stage a break-in? When nothing was tacken from any other room than Meredith's? There is debate over when Sollecito called the police, the prosecution arguing he only did so when postal police arrived at the scene, checking out mobile phones that had been found in a nearby garden.

Then there is the DNA - which appears to be inadequate in proof that Knox and Sollecito were in fact there. Guede left prints all the way out the front door - however, the DNA found showing Knox's blood mixed with Meredith's could in fact just be DNA shared from living together. The DNA issues are the reason the appeal has been lodged in the first place. If the two lovers had killed Meredith, why was the room free of their DNA? Had they cleaned it away, if indeed Know bought the bleach after all?

It is mind boggling how conflicting each side is. At the heart of it is potentially two innocent young people who could spend the rest of their lives in jail if today's appeal is quashed and the prosecution wins a longer sentance for them both. But, there are so many odd things to think about - not least Knox's behaviour after finding Meredith dead in her room - that perhaps there is no smoke without fire... Today we will find out the appeal verdict, but will we ever really know what happened to that beautiful, happy kind girl with so much to live for, so much hope for her Italian adventure?

In all the foggy maze, it is Meredith that we should think of and not some trial by media. However, it would be a lie if I said I wasn't on tenterhooks awaiting the verdict. I cannot explain why this case has fascinated me so. The horror in such a beautiful place, the tragedy of it all, the fact it seems unending. I have no idea what the outcome today will be. I hope though that Meredith's family find some peace and finallity in it, as they have suffered enough.

Did she do it? What do you think?

Loving Mr Jamie Oliver

2011-09-28T08:04:00.002+01:00

I think I may be a teensy bit in love with Jamie Oliver.

Not in the 'rip his clothes off shag him into next week, Taylor Kitsch kind of love' but in the 'thank god there are folk out there, celebs even, that say "marriage is hard" and are honest way. (And his is not of the school of Gwynnie "my life is perfect, have you seen my freshly baked organic cookies and my abs are still rock hard.")

In The Sunday Times mag, he talked about how he was expected to do more at home, the more time off he took - which in fairness sounds like most marriages. Women who have been left holding the babies, want a break as soon as their tag team walks through the door. They also bicker. Hallelujah! Someone admitting that day to day is a world of negotiations, quiet simmerings, frustrated looks and endless compromise. The interviewer admitted his wife struggles with being a full time Mum - she gets bored, she misses work. (We could be friends for sure). Jamie then pitches in with 'They do say, and I see it as an employer of thousands of women, that the most unhappy women are the full time workers and the full times mums, and the ones who are the most happy are the two to three dayers. I see both models of Mum and definitely the ones that remain engaged, vivacious, humorous, have got the mechanism of work in their lives.'

Amen Jamie.

The only time I had a little fleck of disgust with his wife was when Jamie said 'She doesn't necessarily get every project I do. She's like 'But why do you care? If you're not going over there and doing it for the money, then why do you care?'

Nice Jools - sitting in your two-put-together mahoosive Primrose Hill mansions, with your designer shoes and endless bank account funds, why would you care about more philanthropic deeds? There again, she may just be a Mum on the edge who needs a break. Here's a thought - hire some help Mrs Oliver, and go do something fun. Then you might be more supportive of Mr O trying to encourage American kids to eat some greens?

Apparently it is all flexi time and work life balance if you work for Jamie - but I wonder if this extends to the folk who produce his TV shows? I doubt that on a budget in the US, that half way through the day the director will feck off to pick up his/her kids or shooting in a studio in Wembley, the producer will nip home to do tea. If it is the case - Jamie, where so I sign up? An employer like you, a man, who understands the plight of Mothers, is quite frankly the holy grail of employers.

Jamie clearly has a heart of gold and an admirable ambition to be a provocateur - funding schools' kitchens and supplying dinner ladies on his endless quest to make us all eat a bit better. But he is also a father of 4 who is needed at home. No matter the help you have with kids, it is always better when you are together as a family. Everyone mucking in, the team supporting one another.

The thing I found most heartening about the whole interview was his complete honesty. If only more people were as brave as old Jamie, the world would be a better place. Instead we are forced to buy into the bullshit idea that everyone has a Tom and Katie style romance, that happy every after exists, that marriage and kids is one easy road.

No one has all the answers, not even Jamie.

For Daycare Lady...

2011-09-22T19:16:00.005+01:00

Ok, maybe it's time for me to be a bit more honest. See, I wasn't into blogging because I thought 'what is the point of blogging, if I am going to keep secrets?' Totally defeats the purpose. But then I kept thinking of folk who read this blog who I know, folk who don't like me, etc and thinking how I really didn't want people to just have a good old chortle at my life. Oh ho ho, CM is having a shit time! Looks like her career is up the left and she's broke! I'd feel bad for her if my diamond shoes weren't so tight and my wallet could no longer hold my £50s... I also felt a bit ashamed, for many reasons, and a failure in lots of ways.

I am on anti-depressants. Yep, I am back on the pills. There, I said it.

I am completely convinced that having a baby does something chemically to me, and that about 8 months or so after having one my head kind of melts down. I am sure it is chemical because not one single thing has changed in my life, not one, since I started taking them - but my god I feel a whole world of better! I still have moments of feeling a tad blue occasionally, but it is more of a 'oh, that sucks, big deal' feeling than a gut wrenching, tormented angst that used to spasm through me.

It all came to head a week ago on Tuesday. Funnily enough, the day I took my first pill, I got my period that evening. So my PMT just about sent me over the edge. I realised I had cried every day for weeks. That aint normal. That I struggled with stuff that really isn't that big. Every day would overwhelm me. Fear of not finding work, fear of finding work and hating it, fear of never getting away from my kids, fear of getting away from them and never seeing them. Realising I am not really that interested in script editing any more, but not quite sure of how to proceed, as the bills keep a'coming. I felt like all my friends have their lives sorted - great jobs, fab homes, success, success, success, and I am here, unemployed, at a kind of dead end in my tv career. Again.

Firstly, I really need to stop comparing my life to others because it is MY life. One I am proud of, with a whole variety of experiences that mean I am a pretty fun dinner party guest. And that is enough for me, it really is. Secondly, my Mother in Law is here and she tells me daily that I give myself a hard time. So that has got to change. I met with some Mums yesterday who I have known for years and all of them had no idea what they were doing and how to make it all work either - suddenly I realised it aint just me who struggles with the whole work/kid dilemma - there are a whole army of women out there who are vastly skilled and would love to working, and have time to see their bairns.

But those few days before I took a tablet, were so damn hard. I swallowed down tears at everything. I flinched when anyone spoke. Things that I thought I had got over made me sad - like seeing an old friend who now hates me and briefly congratulating her on her pregnancy. I walked away in tears, so so sad that this is how it was with us now. Sad that someone I care about, who I thought knew me well - well enough to know I would never hurt her intentionally - can dislike me so, when I thought I had put it behind me. Seems that I am far more vulnerable than I thought.

I wasn't really eating. Life felt grey. I felt lost. I put on a false smile when I saw my friends and then would cry all the way home on the train. It is easy to pretend you are ok if no one challenges you, if no one asks. So I did what I thought was right, and I am so so glad I did. Nothing has changed in my day to day life. I don't have any more answers to my (endless?) job issues. I don't have any money in my bank. Winter marches taking a little bit more light, a little bit earlier every day. But I am ok. More than ok. I am loving my daughter with a newfound vigour. I am throwing out my CV and am not caring too much where it lands. I have hope again. Feck me, you are nothing without your health and hope.

So, that's where I'm at. 5 weeks to Halloween. Woo hoo!

A little break

2011-09-19T14:14:00.006+01:00

Someone emailed me asking me why I haven't blogged for so long. It has in fact been 12 whole days since I last blogged. Which isn't that long, well maybe in blog land it is. Thing is, I'm just not feeling it. Blogging that is. For the first time in like, well, ever maybe, I just don't want to share all my innermost thoughts. I just want to keep some things to myself in this time of change and unsettledness. I feel that for me to continue blogging at the mo would be like a tape being jammed - playing over and over and over. And who wants that?

Things I do want to share however:

1. I am over the MOON that Kyle Chandler won and Emmy last night as did Jason Katims, the lead writer on FNL. So deserved - this show was truly brilliant and should have won best drama and Connie Britton best female actress. I miss it. If you have never watched it - go buy series 1. You won't regret it, I promise. Taylor Kitsch, swoon.

2. I have just finished 'Room' by Emma Donoghue. A brilliant book that will forever haunt me. I won't even begin to tell you what it is about - save to say I have read nothing like it. I couldn't put it down. Mind you, it did cost me £100. I bought it in the local cancer research charity store - when I was dropping off 3 big bags of kids clothes, and as I went to pay for it, a rolled up wad of notes - £100 worth, that Husband had given me to put in the bank, must have dropped out of my pocket. When I got to the bank - 30 seconds walk away, my money was gone. I ran back but it wasn't found. I sobbed and sobbed as I have so little money, what with no income an all. If only I hadn't stopped to buy the book, I never would have lost the money. Oh well, the book was great.

3. My Mother in Law is here for 2 weeks, - helping me with the kids and generally being lovely. In having the slightest time away from my daughter, I have been smitten with her. I find myself torn between wanting time for myself and dreading the thought of work and leaving her.

4. Please DO NOT go and see 'I don't know how she does it.' Seriously, give the money to charity or buy some chocolate or something. Even paying the window cleaner with the cash would be more satisfying. SJP plays Carrie, being a mother. Piers Brosnan should give up acting - now. Right now. In fact why did he ever take it up? There is no plot to speak of and a woman with a full time nanny (one that stays over surely must be about 40K plus a year no?) really can't be struggling that much? It is so dreadful I can't waste any more energy writing about it - but it makes Sex and City 2 look like a masterpiece. Exactly.

5. BBC2's Bake off show is brilliant. Cake and a hot guy called Rob making said cake. What is not to love? I am addicted to this and never knew there was so much skill in having a thin crust, non soggy base and over whisking.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I am sure I will be back blogging shortly. I did toy with the idea of setting up a new blog, under a new name, just for some complete privacy. Which is a complete paradox I guess - blogging for privacy! I feel I am a bit of a paradox at the mo. At 6s and 7s. When I work through this time I will be back. Bleating on about my usual rubbish. Until then, I thank you all for reading, for caring, for supporting me and for making me feel not so alone. In moments of complete darkness, you guys were twinkling little lights.

CM x

No, I don't know how she does it either

2011-09-07T12:19:00.003+01:00

Miraculously I got to read the Sunday papers this week - and there was an interesting column by Eleanor Mills titled 'the truth we hide from career women.' In it, referencing the new film out this week called 'I don't know how she does it' based on the book by Alison Pearson, Mills concluded that no woman can indeed 'have it all' and that many women are down grading their careers or compromising their ambitions in order to raise a family. That women are forced to choose and in doing so negate their positions in the boardroom - leaving men to hold the powerful jobs while they fumble around not achieving their potential. Such a sorry state of affairs. We fought for equality, we fought to have a voice and when push comes to shove it is us who have to take a back seat once we sprog.

I found it remarkably comforting when Mills described women who wished that someone had spilled the beans earlier - who had guided them when making their career choices - which lets face it start at 14 when we pick our GCSEs. Pick and be damned. From there the path of A levels and then uni choice is set. Not in stone, but pretty solidified. No one told me that TV was an insane career to compliment motherhood - in fact I never even gave it a second thought. I clearly remember telling a friend's parents this in a restaurant in west hampstead in 200 when I was a kids tv presenter: 'I want my own film show - like Johnathan Ross, to be working in telly still, kids - two, and a fab life.' They said that probably wouldn't achieve all of that - they were right. Claudia Winkleman has though and she is brilliant - so there is hope I guess. But for the majority of women it is either work all hours god sends, never really see your kids, or go flexible, take a pay cut and tough it out trying to have the best of both worlds. Or simply stay at home and try not to go out of your mind - insist that you love it, after all, you gave up everything to have it - so you sure as shit better enjoy it.

Why did no-one have word in my shell like? I didn't marry a rich man so I could swan around with vanity projects or mumble something about 'in development with an idea' or the like - I want to work - I really do, but I'd also like to see my kids for more than an hour every day. A friend has recently agreed to go full time, but she will leave every day before 3pm to collect her kids - so she is effectively doing 4 days spread over five. I've got 3 meetings lined up - all potential to get work which is great. But my big fear is that they will say 'yes, we are filming in Scotland for 3 months' in which case my meeting will be in vain. Still, I'm keeping positive - something will turn up. It will work out and all these mantras. I have my health, blah blah.

But, as Mills said - why do I have to compromise on my job to be a mother - isn't there a way of trying at least to keep a foot in both camps - without coming across as SJP does in the movie as a slightly scatterbrained, exhausted, balls in the air falling all the time harassed stressed mother who still wants to work? And don't get me started on the expense and difficulty of finding good childcare. We fought to make choices when in reality we are still so limited.

All to play for

2011-09-03T08:00:00.002+01:00

Husband has been off all week. He has been getting up with the kids, bringing me breakfast in bed, putting on washes, endlessly emptying the dishwasher and generally being MR fabulous. I like him. I keep trying to force affection from him and he pulls away noting that he has 'banked a lot of credit' for his Mr house help activities of late. He personifies 'smug.' And yet I still like him. I wish this stress free, chilled Dad would appear more often.

Thank god, the school holidays FINALLY end on Tuesday. Sweet Jaysus, I have struggled to fill those days. I have no idea why - when in fact all I needed to do was discover Angry Birds. It fills a good 6 hours easily. Maybe more. And before you finger wagging Mums tell me that it aint good for my child to be staring at an i pad screen for 6 hours. I am joking. Maybe. Sproglet is addicted to it. I pretend that I am not and then get hideously, frighteningly excited when I blast those green motherfuckers into next week. It is possibly more addictive that pringles. The Oirish one is amazing - pig leprechauns. Is there anything better?

I am pretty loved up with life at the mo. After everything that has been happening with my best friend and her health - I have realised that life really is too short.

So I called my Dad.

We chatted in nice warm voices and even though things may not entirely resolve - he is my Dad and I want him in my life - no matter what. It felt good. I am sending out CVs with gay abandon and I've a few meetings lined up. Who knows what will happen next - I'm kind of excited to find out. Instead of stressing about it all I'm just savouring this last few moments with Sproglette aka THE DIVA. She finally ate a jar of baby food, instead of only eating home cooked mush - so the gateway to a less stressful non endlessly blending and boiling lifestyle has been opened.

Autumn, my favourite season, is nearly upon us. It is ok to start planning Xmas - which we have - we are gonna go out for Xmas lunch to Husband's swanky hotel, with family and friends. Hurrah - no snipping in the kitchen as the turkey remains frozen, no huffing over who should help with washing up, no stress over the bread sauce curdling, or the forgotten cranberry. In my head it is the end scene from Scrooge, when I doth my hat to all I pass and everyone wishes everyone else a merry Xmas in old London town as snow softly falls and soft jingly bell music floats around. It will be just like that I am sure.

So, I'm cheery. As I passed my favourite dream house in our neighbourhood yesterday, a bird shat on me. A first I thought a fly has landed on my shades and eyebrows, but then the fly did not move and to touch, was overly moist and well, green. Instead of bemoaning my shit smeared self, I was overjoyed. "It is a sign!" I yelled to a laughing Husband. Immediately I bought a lottery ticket. It's all to play for at the moment, it really is.

Back to earth

2011-08-31T22:37:00.003+01:00

Sometimes, when you least expect it, life just throws something in front of you that opens your eyes and makes you reassess where you stand. This week has taught me more than any other this year. I guess because I had gotten so wound up in my own head about the whole work issue, crossing all the bridges before I had even come to them, that I didn't really see the bigger picture.

But having spent all of yesterday in the hospital with a very dear friend, my oldest friend of all, I have a whole new perspective on everything. Simply, you are nothing without your health. It doesn't matter how rich you are (mind you that helps, christ the NHS bureaucracy sucks - and the waiting, the endless waiting - I can totally see why private health care is appealing) or how thin you are, or if you have the best job in the world, without everything working as it should, well, you are stuffed.

Lots of folk around me haven't been having the easiest of times. I feel a bit helpless, only able to lend an ear, or a supportive shoulder when I can. Anyway, I watched my poor friend being so vulnerable, and my heart kind of broke and I would have given anything in the whole world to make her better. My stomach churned with the needles and the sympathetic nods, and the doctor speak and the endless poking and prodding. She was so brave through it all, it was very humbling.

And as the count down to ten years since the horror of 9/11 happened, my TV is filled with tales from that day - and all that has happened as a result of it - it has made me realise how lucky I am to be here, to be healthy, to have my family, to have my friends. How insignificant all the other stuff is. Reminds of the days I used to head home after a shift at Samaritans, so bloody grateful for all that I had. Being there made me grounded, made me appreciative.

So enough of my wingeing - life is short, it is for living. Fuck it, all I need is a job. And if that is all I have to worry about - then how freakin' lucky am I?

Giving myself a break... and a Gazelle.

2011-08-28T21:17:00.004+01:00

There is a cool nip in the air. The sun fades a few minutes earlier every evening and the days begin chilly and only blossom into sunshine in the late morning. Autumn is a knockin' at the door. That back to school feeling is just about to descend. My favourite season will soon be here...

I'm feeling pretty chipper. For manys a reason. I feel like I pulled myself out of the brink in the last week, and all that changed was my mindset. The darkness that enveloped me - dragging me under, threatening to overwhelm me at any given moment, continued through until about Wednesday. Even the news that a dear fiend had a beautiful baby girl couldn't quite lift me from my numbness. I called the Dr, arranged a chat for the following day. In the meantime a man came to build my son's trampoline - it took him almost 3 days. 3 DAYS. How the feck does it take someone 3 days to build a sodding trampoline? It poured, the skies were grey and pretty much everyone I knew was having the worst time. At the back of my mind, the nagging fact that my Dad hadn't responded to my 'I miss you Dad' text last week made me blue. My last ever maternity pay dropped in my account - and I knew that the time was up. A job is required. My spirit sank.

Then, well, I wish I could state a defining moment when my head changed gear. When I began to believe in myself again. I think it came down to papier mache gazelle. I swear. I was flicking through a few blogs I like and one woman blogger showed how she was decorating her nursery - and I fell in love with this here gazelle from Anthropology (a US store):

How can you not love it's happy little face? It made me smile even though I can't afford it. It made me want to get a job so I could decorate my gorgeous daughter's room and put this gazelle head in it. And maybe the matching zebra. Because the gazelle needs a buddy, right? I went to bed smiling. I sound simple don't I? Anyway, a few folk responded to some emails I sent and I have a couple of meetings set up - which makes me feel so much less of a loser. Like I still have something to offer. So when I chatted to the Doc, between sobs, she offered me some anti depressants. But I never even picked up the prescription. I chatted to a friend who pointed out that I was setting some hideous deadlines in my head and all I had to do was give myself a break. Why was I stressing about getting a job and how it would all work with childcare - when I hadn't even started looking for the job yet.

So I've been giving myself a break. Like I had friends over today - meant to BBQ, but I knew it was probably going to rain so I planned a pot of chilli instead. And instead of worrying about 'is my house big enough to fit everyone?' and 'will they think it is shabby?' 'will they see my chipped plates and mis-matched wine glasses?' and all that crap, I gave myself a break. Who cares I thought, they are coming to see me and Husband and my fab kids - and that is all that matters. I don't need for everything to be perfect, I just need to relax a bit more. And I did.

It is a big revelation to me, this giving myself a break malarkey. Now I'm not so worried if things aren't perfect and I'm wearing a top from 3 years ago and the baked dip sticks aren't crunchy and all that jazz. It's like - this is who I am, this is my home and I love it, and that is all that matters. I've made some plans for Xmas, I'm going to send out some more CVs and Husband is off all next week so I get time to see him, catch up with some friends, see the new Almodovar film (Avoid One Day - caught it last week - such a shame, LOVED the book, HATED the film. Why oh why did Anne Hathaway - too beautiful to begin with - get that part? Her accent is woeful. Dexter unlikable. Jumpy rushed storyline desperately trying to squeeze in the whole book. Wasted opportunity - but Rafe Spall is brilliant - sorry, I digress) and hang out as a family.

Something will turn up. I've just got to keep believing. Things always work out ok in the end - they have before and they will again. I just have to stop giving myself such a hard time and putting myself under such stress.

And before I know it, the gazelle will be mine. :)

I had a better day today...

2011-08-20T22:24:00.004+01:00

Spent the morning talking to Husband - finding some solutions, putting some plans in place. Being a team, instead of opposing sides. Spent the afteroon in a soft play area - think a wonka factory on acid with 5 trillion kids racing around and then some (seventh circle of hell replete with a girl on the entrance desk sporting a face that would turn milk sour, or as my Granny would say 'she had a face like a fried egg's lip'- mind you I would feel that fucking murderous if I worked there...) with Sproglet and his mate and a good friend. Then it was all back to mine for some spag bol and chocolate ice cream. Both of which comforted me.

I think everything just spiralled a bit on Friday. Illness ('orrible flu like bug that felt like my muscles had done 7 rounds with Tyson) combined with the worst period of my life (TMI... sorry) and the fear about job hunting and money and all that jazz just sent me reeling. Anyway, I thank my commenters for being so sympathetic and caring. Whoever said that I light up a room, know that you lit up my day. It is possibly one of the nicest things I have ever heard/read about myself. On dark days I will try and hold that thought. I also found a picture a friend posted on facebook - and it makes me feel better. More positive. And if days like Friday keep a comin' then I'll head back for citalopram - as maybe my hormones post babies, don't work as they should. Chemical, indeed. I needed them once, and may well again.

Hope you like it:

Playing to the crowd

2011-08-16T11:08:00.005+01:00

"He showed us his willy."

Two pairs of tanned limbs point in Sproglet's direction as their deep northern voices chorus in unison. I look to Sproglet, waiting for him to deny the charge.
"They told me to!" He shouts indignantly. I look back to his accusers. They shrug their princess shoulders and hide under their eyes under their long fringes, twirling their curls as they cluck the inside of their mouths. I look to their mother and she looks back. I have no idea what to say, to them, to their Mum, to my son the flasher.

I should explain. We are in York, at my Aunt's and Sproglet has buddied up with two girls next door. They are 4 and 5, called Thea and Grace, have long hair tumbling down their backs, big brown eyes, rosy cheeks and shining white smiles. They never stop asking questions: 'do you live in another country?' 'Where is his Daddy?' 'Does Sproglet's Daddy get the train to work, in Australia?' Sproglet met them on Friday about two whole minutes after we arrived as they bounced over and then cajoled him into playing on the their trampoline and then insisted he 'stay for tea.' Every morning he rises and his first question is 'when can I see the girls.' He has called them 'the girls' so often I am unsure he even knows their names. They look like twins, dashing around in a sea of glitter and pink and stripes. One has a Spanish dancers costume in flouncy satin with swirly tassles that she shakes with every step. Sproglet is transfixed - as are they with him. They fight for his attention over dinner and follow him around the garden. He holds court, playing to his adoring audience. So when they asked to see the contents of his pants he felt obliged to do so. Apparently it was only a fleeting show and tell, thank god, but I had to have the 'respecting your body' chat. The girls don't appear to be scarred by the experience - as the younger one asked if Sproglet could stay over 'and sleep in my bed.' Sproglet seemed keen but I pointed out to him it would be a bit of a squish. Unisex sleepovers are at least 12 years away I hope... I note that Sproglet had no interest in seeing their feminine bits - and they didn't offer to show theirs. A raw deal for Sproglet, I feel. However, I am relieved that my son didn't ask as these things wouldn't occur to him. This episode has highlighted to me that girls do indeed mature faster than boys and are definitely interested in bodies (and how they work) first.

Suffice it is to say that when the little one (aged 4) invited Sproglet for a shared bath time, we felt she had learnt enough about the male anatomy for one day and politely declined. Best to leave your audience always wanting more.

Doing a Monica

2011-08-10T20:50:00.007+01:00

So we are in the cheese aisle in Sainsburies. Sproglette is covered - I mean covered - in biscuit gunk and is hollering as she cannot stand how laid back the bloody kid seats are in the trollies. Agree with her actually - can't they just raise the damn things two inches? I mean two inches aint much is it? She strains her neck to nosey at other folk's trollies - as she has to know everything. Must get it from her Father. Sproglet was demanding to go to the car as 'I am tirrrreeeddd.' My god, he has morphed into a tweenager overnight. Sulky - check. Stroppy - check. Zits - not yet. Anyway, there we where in the cheese aisle, having another 'debate' about money - about whether or not we should go Belfast at the end of the month as if we don't I won't get 'home' this year... But as my Dad STILL hasn't spoken to me since I sent him a letter at the start of June - is there any point?

But I want to go, to take the kids to my other families, to see the sea, to relax, to have some help with the bairns. But that isn't really relevant. Because it all came down to cash. Lack of. Air prices are crazy and it just seems a lot of cash for a wee one hour flight. For 4 people now. Husband muttered that he has to shoulder all the financial responsibilities at the mo and shouldn't I really be thinking about heading back to work, even if it was full time?? All of a sudden I felt hot tears prickle at the edge of my eyes. There, he'd said it. It was time to get back to work. All out in the open now.

He doesn't seem to get my industry at all. That my friends who were script eds have had to put in punishing hours in their subsequent jobs - post soap that we all worked on together - as working in TV production is LONG hours and no one gives a stuff about your child care issues at all. They don't have kids, so they can do this. Even though they hated it. So you can either give your life over to telly, and accept it, or dry your eyes and move on to new pastures. One ed moved oop north for 3 months and barely saw her Husband. She had one day off every two weeks and often filmed until 2am. She was exhausted and stressed and hundreds of miles from home. I admire her as I simply couldn't do it. It is impossible for me.

So as Husband picks up a ball of mozzarella and announces that I should go back to work, I want to scream at the top of my lungs 'I fucking want to go back to work but I have no idea how to!!!!!!'

Next day I visited a good buddy and old colleague of mine (from said soap) and ended up crying on her shoulder. Poor woman had only invited me over for lunch and a gossip and there I was asking her to solve my life problems for me. She told me to either A. Get a job - any job. 'The kind where, when folk at parties ask you what you do, and you tell them, their eyes will glaze over...' OR B. Get a nanny at a huge cost and give your life over to the devil. I mean TV. Then hope at the end of it that the TV company will reward you with a cushy little development job part time. She then said 'what about your blog, can't you somehow make that a job for yourself?' It made me think of the wonderful Monica Bielanko, who has realised her dream to write for a living and now writes for Babble amongst others...

Bless my friend, she has no idea that I have a small, but amazingly loyal audience and that not that many folk know I am here. Meanwhile, Mum blogger that I was cyber introduced to sent me links to all kinds of blogging events for Mums and it made me realise there are MILLIONS OF US OUT THERE!! I aint special! I mean half these women tweet nonsense about 'we are all wonderful in god's eyes' and 'great picnic today, now what for tea' which makes me want to open a vein - preferably theirs. I have no clue how to 'publicise' myself - (bloggers as great as Monica don't have to) and it also makes me feel a bit icky. Like, I write this for me, and well you guys, but not for the sole plan of getting more readers. I started it in 2008 - as I was so freakin' lonely I just wanted one other person to say to me 'yeah, I get it, I feel like you.' I felt so guilty for not loving motherhood with all my heart, I jsut wondered if anyone else felt like me. You know, freakish. Anyway, it is a nice idea - but even the thought of having to 'tweet' regularly makes my heart thump with the sheer PRESSURE of it all. Be funny. NOW doggy - jump!!!

So what to do, what to do. I feel like Husband just sent me on some Indiana Jones style holy grail discovery trek. A trek through countless rejection letters, media wankers, endless harping about 'favourite writers' and 'loving your show' (when in reality I watched half an ep on You Tube) futile meeting after futile meeting, sipping badly made tea or crap coffee and endlessly smiling and bolstering egos of tired execs, as people laugh in the face of the girl who wants 'part time work - in telly!!!' Yes, good joke, ha ha. Oh sorry, you were serious??' In truth there isn't even a single British Drama I'd like to work on (some are good of course, but just not my thang). Honestly - nothing excites me on TV at the mo... Except drama from the US - they always do it best. Or maybe the Danes. (Desperate to see The Killing - desperate! The Danish version I mean). So do I want to give up my life and never see my kids for a job on a series that I hate, just for my CV? In the hope it will lead to good things... And how on earth would that work with my kids and Husband working nights?

When I try to explain to any people in my industry what I am after - they all look at me as if I have asked for Brad Pitt's hand in marriage. It aint gonna happen. Not when Angelina is a super mum who looks super hot AND manages to take her brood for a painting session at some cute 'Art For Fun' type place in swanky Richmond. In heels. With no vomit on her shoulder or make-up running down her face. You see what I want, what would work for me and the family - the nightmare gang in the friggin cheese aisle - it just doesn't exist.

So now what? Would I love to 'do a Monica'? You betcha. But it aint likely, as these US bloggers get major traffic to their blogs and that is why folk love 'em. And also - they are damn talented writers to boot. That goes without saying. I don't quite know what to do.

So, back in the aisle. I picked up some red leicester cheese and marched on, my hands shaking, white knuckles holding the crappy list that takes me hours to do - when I do the sodding 'meal planner' every Saturday morning and try and work out meals for Sproglet 'I don't like that', Sproglette *slams mouth shut and refuses to eat any jar or packet - only freshly cooked mush for madame* and myself. In that moment I feel such fear, such terror of what is expected of me, and how the hell I will ever achieve it, I feel sick. Cheese aisle and nausea - not a good combo.

We finish the shop in silence. This feels like my burden to work out. Not his. I stare out the window on the journey home, as Sproglet demands a drink, Sproglette howls with hunger and I howl too, just on the inside.

Makes me smile.

2011-08-08T22:41:00.003+01:00

Sometimes I just wanna blog about things that catch my eye. Now a while ago I was home in Ireland, walking down a quiet little street in a place called Holywood near the sea, when I spied a wonderful painting the window of a gallery. I stopped in my tracks and went inside, leaving Husband muttering about why I always have to 'pockle.' Anyway, turns out this fabulous painting called 'Mother Hen' was by a local artist called Dawn Crothers - and this here is her web page:

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Dawn-Crothers-Artist/112181038831448#!/pages/Dawn-Crothers-Artist/112181038831448

She loves to paint animals in funky colours - a wash of colour and joy. Her work makes me smile and I thought that maybe, it would make you guys smile too.

Twitter ye not

2011-08-08T11:37:00.004+01:00

I just don't get it.

Sorry. As you can see from the little button to the right - I have signed up with Twitter. Why? Because, well, I am trying to attract folk to my scribblings on this here blog and another blogger told me it was the way to go. So, I did. But it is e-x-h-a-u-s-t-i-n-g. Oh the PRESSURE to be FUNNY. All the time. Every few minutes - here ya go - another side splitter/wise and sarky/obtuse and interesting/ debate starting comment from moi. Also - it is PC in Twitter land to follow those that follow you. Which is cool - as some are indeed funny. Some however, are not. At all. Do I want to know you had beans for tea and the kids are still up past 9pm? That you painted a wart with nail varnish or your bikini wax went wrong? No. And these folk - well they don't fart without letting you know about it. I think that mid shag, they'd even have one hand on the keyboard...

Then there are the career Twitter-ers. The ones who are journos and spend their lives at a keyboard, so twitter what they are writing, how they like other folks writing, what we should be writing about and all kinds of entertaining lines in under 160 characters - which I think is an art in itself. These journo types feel like a Twitter 'in' club - one that only Guardian/Times/Grazia writers can join. Then there are the selebs... who have something to plug or just inane crap to spout. I get it, if you do indeed have wares to trade - fair enough, it is just another marketing tool. Then there are apparently the Twitter hiders, who only come out to play to read banter that swings back and forth between the career Twitter-ers when X Factor is on (or the like. Having never watched a single ep of TOWIE I don't have a clue who most selebs these day are). I can't help feeling that it is incredibly smug and narcissistic to think that what you have to say is really that thrilling that it needs updating every day/hour/minute. Which, is rich here with me the pot calling them the kettle... But my blog is really just a venting place - rather than a place to show off *waves madly - look at me*.

It takes a while to get the lingo, understand the 'rules' and to enjoy it. I am still waiting for that to happen. Often Tweets are merely replies to some other tweet which is pretty confusing if you haven't read the thread of the convo - mind you I am sure there is a way to do this - but being such a Twitter virgin I have yet to work out how to get to that base. Sure Stephen Fry is funny, and Catlin Moran is always worth following - but by and large it is full of waffle. Clearly I am missing something as it has millions of Tweeters and most internet savvy folk Tweet like their lives depended on it. Facebook feels like it has more room to communicate - whereas Twitter is 160 or broke. Less 'here are my holiday pics' and more 'this is my hilarious opinion on Piers Morgan' or in seleb land 'I just want to come across as all caring-like, so I'm gutted to hear that XYZ died yesterday...'

Will I stick with it? Doubt I'll ever get to the 'I Twitter therefore I am' stage - but I feel to dip out now would be dropping at the first hurdle. Deep down, I don't think it is for me - the technophobe. Frankly, it feels like hard work. Plus, I don't think I can scroll through a hundred posts of 'Husband did the washing today - Miracles!!!' before I come across a gem worth reading. * Pops over to Twitter in time to see my 24 followers feck off*

A shameless begging post.

2011-08-04T09:16:00.003+01:00

Ok, are you ready for some shameless begging? Good. Here goes: If you like this blog a little, even just a tad. If it has ever moved you, made you laugh out loud, mildly chuckle or weep like a baby - please vote for it. Tell all you know far and wide, about this and maybe, just maybe, something miraculous will happen in my tiny little life. Maybe just maybe, by all this paying it forward malarkey the universe will do some damn fine things. Who knows? But you gotta try eh?

Here it is:

http://www.gurgle.com/gurgles-2011

You just go there and vote for me. CrummyMummywhodrinks. And I will be thanking you telepathically from the bottom of my rusty heart.

Pulling at the jumper threads

2011-08-03T12:28:00.004+01:00

Maybe they are just little ones. Meaningless, harmless slivers to simply go with the flow, not to offend: Yes, we are really enjoying the party even though our shoes are killing us, the food is inedible and the people attending are at best aloof, at worst obnoxious. But we smile and we even bust a move or two on the empty dancefloor, because to admit that this party we've been looking forward to forever, is in fact a damp squib and about as much fun as a visit to the smear test clinic, would somehow be too much to accept. Especially as we've forked out for a new dress, some lippy, six gins and a pricey cab home. Or we'll tell ourselves we aren't really cheating on our diet - how could a small cake-pop really hurt? It is so ickle? A quick run for the bus and we'd have worked it off. Maybe we'll lie to ourselves that it doesn't matter he forgot our anniversary, or that so and so never called back, or that the email we hoped to get from a colleague isn't that important after all.

Day in day out as we spin our webs of white threaded lies to other people: 'you've lost weight, no really you have,'; 'yes, I'd love to come,'; 'I'll call you - we must deffo meet up,' - I wonder what are the lies that we spin to ourselves?

Do you tell yourself you are happy, after all - got the house, the car, the kids, - but to maybe admit it aint all what it is cracked up to b,e would be to pull at the jumper thread, to unwind our entire lives - and then where would you be? Do you look at your other half and sometimes wonder why you are still standing there, facing them, facing a future together? I have one friend who claims she isn't sure she wants kids, stresses this every time we meet - that is why she has held off for so long she will say over and again - then will gladly accept ovulation sticks and spend 30 minutes carefully going through how to use them. She gives herself away in her actions, although her voice may something entirely different.

Actions rarely lie. Note the tight smiles, the vigorous nodding, the glimmers of sadness in the way a person holds themselves. The smile that never reaches the eyes. Do we admit that we are trapped in our jobs, that life didn't work out how we expected? Do we confess that we really don't like a sibling even though we love them, or that if we met our best friend in the street now for the first time that they wouldn't be a friend? Do we tell ourselves we are happy for people when inwardly we are a vivid shade of green? Do we fill our days with work and people so we can never face what really is bothering us deep within - if we stopped for just a second we may actually feel - and we can't have that. We can't open that door. Keep busy, keep busy. Do we plough on refusing to give up, because to do so would be to accept we aren't that talented after all? Do we buy the latest bag not because it 'feels so good', 'will last forever' but because it spells out 'wealth, success, status' and ultimately makes us feel 'better' than our friends? Do we secretly compete with other women - to be thinner, to be better dressed, to be a better mother, to be more successful - because that is all we know? Do we put on a performance, a mask that we have worn for so long we are scared to let it slip?

Do we say we are fine, because that is what you do, don't you? You don't say how you really feel, because no one is really interested. They want the stock 'yeah, I'm great' reply. They don't want let in. Easier on the outside. Do we keep to the friendship rules - the 'I'm always there if you need me' hoping that they will never call? Do we pretend to still love people even when we don't?

Why do we lie? What are we scared of? Our house of cards... will it really come tumbling down? But the sun will rise. It will be a new day. And we can begin the lies all over again.

Confessions

2011-07-29T19:46:00.002+01:00

I need to confess. Christ, I'm not even a Catholic. But I need to tell someone and it has to be you - because I'm alone, as usual, as I am every night almost, and the kids are finally asleep, and my only company is Sky + and a glass of red.

My heart is heavy. The truth of it all is that whilst I may joke that I am CrummyMummy I feel much worse than that. I don't know where to start. Maybe... maybe back a few weeks ago - when I went to York for a few days alone, to work. Or to work out what I am going to do, now I am a mother of two who still needs to earn. I thought I'd find it incredibly hard being away from the kids. Thought I would miss them dreadfully and yearn to return.

But I didn't. I am ashamed to say I found the whole 2.5 days blissful. I woke naturally at 9am. I went for a run without having to bargain with Husband about how long I'd be. I made coffee and read papers. I surfed the net uninterrupted. I wrote. I felt me again. I was selfish. And I loved it. I came home, of course delighted to see the kids, but it was like some spell had been broken. Instead of the daily chores being just the daily chores they squeezed my throat a little tighter - I felt an odd resentment creeping up on my shoulder. I felt an irrational anger at having to wipe and clean and coo and mother. I just wanted to make it stop. I wanted to be ME again.

I think I am a shit mother. My kids are loved and read to and played with and fed a healthy assortment of foods and they get to go all kinds of activities - and you would never know, you would never see, that behind the tight smile and the 'I will find joy in this if it kills me' I feel miserable. Not all the time. Just some of the time. I think I am odd. I don't LOVE motherhood like other mothers do. It doesn't fulfil me on every level. I miss working, I miss office life, I miss reporting, I miss an edit suite when you nail a report. I miss chatting to writers and making a story work. I miss drinking in Soho until 2am and ending up at a dodgy late night drinking den doing shots. I miss going to screenings at Mr Youngs, or any screen in Golden Sq W1 and then reviewing films on TV shows... I miss so much of my old life that sometimes I wonder how I ended up where I am.

And the fact that I am not as in love with motherhood as other mothers makes me feel so fucking guilty, so acutely aware that I am different that I am defensive and frightened and always watching other Mums to see how I should be - am I making the grade? I don't know why there is a part of me - and you will hate me for saying this - that doesn't understand how anyone could want to be just a mother. Isn't that awful? Just a mother - listen to me, I say it like it is some dead end job. I don't mean it badly. I just worked so hard to get my degree, to be a presenter and then become a script editor, that I hate the fact I have had to give it up. I have no idea how I would ever work and juggle two kids, when Husband works such crazy hours - and I doubt I would earn enough to pay a nanny. I find myself insanely jealous of those who can afford nannies, those who can work. I try to make snide remarks about others bringing up their kids, why have kids blah blah - but I am just being a bitch because I am so green with envy, that they get to work, they get to do something for themselves, that I have to hide it behind a mask of smugness that I am a 'stay at home mother' don'tcha know?

The months roll on and in a matter of weeks my statutory maternity measley £125 a week will end and I will have not a penny. Husband says it is crazy for me to think about finding a job - when there are none, and anyway, they would be full time, and dramas are all filmed outside London nowadays and with the kids I couldn't go, and how would I get into and out of London every day in nursery hours blah blah. And he is right. And I chose all this. I wanted my family. I love them more than anything in my life - I swear to god I do. But why I am then crying as I type? Why do I feel like I have disappeared, that the girl that once was so ambitious, that worked so so hard, is now just a memory?

Now that summer is here and Sproglet is off and I have to find ways to fill his days, and mine and the baby's - I just feel so stressed. There are some cool Mums I know - but they have all gone/are going back to work. I am left talking to folk who think I am interested that their daughter crapped on the carpet today - when inside I want to scream - can't we talk about ANYTHING apart from kids????? The phone hacking scandal, The Murdochs, Norway, Winehouse, Obama and US debt - the news has been overflowing recently with tragedy and intrigue and debate. And I'm talking about potty training....

I am sorry - I shouldn't have blogged. I sound like such an ungrateful, spiteful cow. Husband is back at work, I guess I just see my empty diary, the loneliness bites and the dark thoughts that haunt me at night begin to haunt me in the day. I just want something for myself I guess. Something that involves people. I love people. A friend recently told me she had never known anyone who enjoyed meeting people as much as I do. How can you not? Everyone has a story. Everyone has a secret. Everyone has something to give or share. I miss being a Samaritan. The list of things I miss feels so long, and I feel so selfish for having it. I look around all the time and wonder 'are you like me?' But they aren't. They are better Mothers. They seem to just fit with motherhood, like a glove. It just makes me feel like I failed somewhere down the line - in my career, and now in my home life too.

Ok, enough of my pity party. I'm off to drink some red, watch Sopranos and the final of The Apprentice. Even though I know Tom won. It's Friday night, a girl's gotta get her kicks where she can find 'em.

RIP

2011-07-24T18:47:00.005+01:00

Somehow, it was inevitable. A troubled soul, who perhaps only found peace in her untimely death. The news of Amy Winehouse's death is not a surprise, but it is still shocking. So young, so talented, so raw, so real, so fragile, so lost. Gone too soon - as often the best of those rare birds are. We'd watched as her buxom, curvacious healthy body became ravaged and skinny; when the heart she wore on her sleeve was broken time and again; when her ballet pumps were smeared with blood and her eye make-up streaked her pale face, all the while no one could help. It was as if her path of self destruction was so great that there was never going to be another way out.

There was something so honest about her. From her caricature beehive and rouged lips, to her sailor tattoos and husky narf london accent, she was truly original. Unpredictable, edgy and straight talking she clearly knew her own mind - she was no one's plastic pop puppet. And what a voice. It soared and took our hearts with it. It took us back to an era of smokey bars, cigarette girls and jazz bands. She felt every word, poured soul into every line. Such potential, now lost. May she rest in peace, finally.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One of the only english speaking channels in our air conditioned room, is SKY news. Having a 7 month old who can't be outside in the searing sun, means we spend a lot of time in our room - in shifts, between catching some rays and dipping in the ocean. For the past 2 days Husband and I have watched the ever repeating news of the tragic events in Norway, unable to comprehend how such evil exists in this world. How a human being can look another in the eye and kill them, stone dead. An innocent, someone who is pleading for their life.

I am haunted by the images in my head conjured up from reading accounts by some of the young people who managed to survive the massacre on Utoya island. It is the stuff of horror films - terror we can only imagine: How one guy played dead by lying ontop of his dead friends as the gunman walked past - so close he could feel the warmth of the gun and hear his breathing. His ability to act so well saved his life I think of the poor kids running for their lives - their hideous dilemmas - do they stop to help the injured or save themselves? Try and swim to freedom or stay and hide, hoping not to be found. One survivor talked of texting her Mother and then her Mum called her back, sobbing. She was hiding, praying to be safe. Imagine being that parent, not knowing if your child had been found and killed or managed to escape? It doesn't bear thinking about. All those wasted lives - cut so cruelly short. Such a small, gentle country, steeped in uncomprehendable grief. All because of one freak and his twisted beliefs. Apparently Oslo is so quiet. The silence one of deep respect to those affected by this tragedy and one of utter confusion at how such an atrocity occured. I can't get my head around it at all. I guess nobody ever will.

Laying ghosts to rest

2011-07-22T09:24:00.003+01:00

In the shadows of the swaying palm trees, under the roar of the ocean waves, behind the gaudy sweet cocktails and across the jagged coastline lies a secret. My feet have flip-flopped down the narrow zig zag pathways before, many years ago. Back then I wasn't married, in fact I was freshly engaged but with no ring yet as concrete proof of my intended nuptials. It was September 2003 and the last of my many journeys that long hot exhausting summer. I was a presenter of a travel show - a job most folk described as their 'dream.' It had become my nightmare.

Cyprus, Lanzarote, Spain, Florida, Amsterdam, Austria, Majorca, Jersey and Tunisia all lay in my wake and I had this one last trip to make and then, thankfully, I would be done. Contract expired, never to be renewed. I dreaded Crete. By then I was barely eating. Every morning I would wake with a thumping heart, palms sweaty with fear and a stomach in tight knots. I would force myself to eat an apple, drink some water and then begin my ritual of prayers - me, the unreligious soul - my attempt to get through the darkness that lay ahead. Grant me the serenity... Then I'd meet my co-presenter, or rather his ego would greet me first, and then the other crew members who would be with me for hours upon end in the unwilting heat.

It had all started so well - had been my 'dream job' too. But as the trips wore on my director's jokes became less funny, more pointed, more accusatory, not really jokes at all. Thinly veiled attempts to relieve his own stress, his own angst at being away from his young family - and it was I who was to weather this cruelty, time and time again. I was the outsider. Everyone else lived in Northern Ireland, had never left the place. I had. A long time before. I lived in London, had worked in TV there already, had experience, wasn't afraid. Ego boy was afraid, it was his first presenting job, so he masked this raging insecurity with the need to be the best, the funniest, the most important. Eventually you gave up trying to connect or share or relate, because if you'd have had twins, he would have had quads. It was tiring. Silence became my best friend. It was easier to hide away and let him lead, let him be the centre if attention he so wanted to be. On a sad little local tv show. He was easy to play in many respects - which makes me sound cruel, but I used his neediness to my advantage, making him feel he should do the longest travel shoots and biggest pieces to camera - why work harder when he could do it for you?

All the while I was ground down, until there was none of me left. I remember ringing a friend who had been in prison, for drunk driving, (she had suffered some cruel blows in life that led her down this road - she is now a lawyer and a brilliant one at that) to ask her how I could cope in my own prison of sorts. She said play a game. The game 'as if'. Act as if you are a presenter, and you will be. I tried it. It worked. In between cheery bouncy joyful pieces to camera in places like the Magic Kingdom, Florida, (the director was also the cameraman so I had to look into his lens and be professional, no matter that I was dying inside) I would race away and throw up violently behind the bushes reserved for the dirty smokers and myself. Smoking couldn't be seen in sunny Mickey land.

In Crete at a Gorge (the largest in Europe apparently) I was sick so violently with nerves that my button popped off my jeans. I plastered a smile on my face, braved the daily abuse, the questions as to why I didn't have an Irish passport, but a British one, the jokes about my 'posh school' and therefore my posh upbringing. They didn't know about my shared room with my Mother until I was 10, the outdoor toilet, the hand me down clothes, or the house my Mum finally bought in 1988 in the wrong part of town. My upside down childhood, my divorced and re-marrying parents, who never made it up the aisle again. They didn't know, they never asked. They didn't know me.

They put me in a box, labelled it and there I sat. The butt of humour? It wasn't humour - it was bullying. I had never experienced it before, nor have again - to that degree. I'd suffered an evil boss in my early years in TV - a neurotic witch 10 years older than me, with a pursed bitter mouth and cold blue eyes. She'd made my life hell, but at the end of every day I would log off, shut down my computer and tube it home to the sanctuary of my friends. (She apologised many years later - like it mattered by then). On a travel show, there is no sanctuary to run home to. You have to eat breakfast,lunch and dinner with your tormentors. There is no escape. I had signed that fucking contract and had to honour it, no matter what.

Crete was the last stop. It would end after those 7 days. I willed them to end. When they celebrated on the last night I toasted their glasses too, lost in my own private relief. Then I left early, ego boy ever helpful getting me a cab. We flew home and I barely spoke, dropping the smiley act, it was time to get my bags from the carousel and wave goodbye. Bar a few voice overs I was finished. So I thought. The experience haunted me for years. I still dream about it. I lost a stone in 4 weeks. I vomited every day out of fear and worry on the last 4 trips. I cried in the shower and hidden away in toilets. I rang my then boyfriend/fiance for support at all times of day and night. I felt so alone. Every day I counted the hours until it ended. Crete was the end.

I am back. To the same resort, but am staying in the secluded villas. The rest is the same. Memories flood back - oddly I have found joy amongst the hurt and anger. I remember para-sailing and looking down at my pink toenails, trying to forget how high up I was and then miraculously letting go of my fear and marvelling at the vast green ocean frothing below. I remember playing cards on the last day, enjoying the moments when ego boy would forget to be the big star, and remembered to be himself. The day we visited the empty leper colony - Spinalonga, and how it felt creepy and cold, even in the sweltering midday sun.

I am putting it to rest. It was a lifetime ago. I wonder how I oculd have made it easier, handled it better, or maybe had the courage to simply walk away, contract or not. But I survived it - for that is what it was, survival. Bullies are unhappy cowards who take their own issues out on you - they fear you, for you have all they want, or could never have. They resent your joy, your spirit. So they take it from you. Piece by piece. A sad white haired man made my life hell, but he has never been in it since that year.

Now it is time to forget he was ever in it at all.

Holiday - it would be so nice??

2011-07-20T08:45:00.006+01:00

What do you think of when you think of a vacation? Sun, sand, a margarita or two.... a lazy day on the beach, sundowner beers, oceans of sex, cute boys in short shorts? Me too. What I got? Projectile vomit for 48 ours, blood dripping everywhere after a nasty razor accident and hurricanes in nappies, all in 38 degree heat. JOY!

So we packed furiously - I mean furiously - Husband and I rowed so badly that at one point I wasn't going AT ALL, thank you very much. We managed to stuff 10 days worth of baby food and nappies into a suitcase or 3, the steriliser was all set and off we went in the pissing rain. Just a cab, 2 train journies, a 4 hour flight and a 20 min cab journey and we'd be there. The longest hours of my life I tell you. Did Sproglette drink her lovely calpol and zonk out on the flight as I hoped? Did she heck. She just whinned and screamed and kicked up such a fuss I was waiting for us to be ejected out the emergency exit by 176 disgruntled passengers. We arrived - ahhh I thought - this is more like it, as I gazed at the large lobby replete with fountain and orchds. But we were at the wrong hotel. Fabulous - particularly after a hairy car ride with no child seat for a by now, apoplectic Sproglette.

Two trips in a mini car and we were at the correct and not quite as glitzy hotel. To our room - the size of a box and stiflingly warm. Air con on - full - 'that should solve it' said Husband. Cut to 4am Husband putting on a light to find his shoes to march to reception to complain about the unbearable heat in the room (a dodgy hairdryer on cool mode would have provided a colder breeze). By dawn none of us had slept - we were tired, grubby, grumpy and hungry. First at breakfast - and full of woe. Typical Brits abroad - glad we lived up to our tarnished reputation. We rang the holiday company as Husband kept announcing how we should 'just go home' and then a miracle - they said they would move us. Not only moving us, but upgrading us to the private villas area. This kind of thing NEVER happens to me. All those stories of flight upgrades are for me an urban myth. Even on our honeymoon we got nothing in the way of upgrades. I love the word 'upgrade' and am delighted that finally it has entered my life.

We tried to re-pack at speed and whilst searching for the laptop cable, I squealed in joy to think I had found it in husband's case - only to discove the elecric shock feeling was in fact my flesh being torn off - the tip of a finger in fact by Husband's uncovered razor. Blood abounded. Later he found shreds of dried bloodied skin amongst the blades. I behaved like a 5 year old. No, Sproglet is better than me, I behaved like a 2 year old. I think I may have even stamped a foot...

We waited in the heat for the removal man to appear on his jolly cart and eventually he did. We arrived at nirvana. A huge room, walk in shower, private pool and private beach area and utter peace. Blissed out Husband and I remembered to be nice to each other. All went well for oh, 2 hours - that is until Sproglette vommed up her breakfast. And lunch and every bottle that came her way. Blankets covered in sick, bed sheets, floors. Outfits came on for 2 minutes and then hastily left. She was racing through her summer wardrobe in minutes. My fingers still hurt, and bled. What fun we were having! Must buy postcards to tell everyone at home what a great time was being had... That night Sproglette howled through our attempts at dinner, aborted as soon as Sproglet had stuffed pasta down his gullet, and we drank ourselves to sleep on cheap red wine. Just then her bottom exploded. The stench was the most unholy smell to grace my nostrils since the stinkbomb craze of '81. And so the nappy severe weather warning continued. The spectrum of colours of yellow and green. After 2 days of this joy - vomit in restaurant, check. Vomit over buggy, check. Vomit over second round of sheets on Mummy and Daddy's bed, check - Husband and I felt a tad distraught. I had raging PMT and he had raging PUWST (putting up with sick tension). Apart from a joyous sundowner swim with Sproglet and a few stolen kisses with Husband in between his new cigarette habit, I hadn't had the most memorable time. Then in the dark air conditioned night we heard a small voice. 'I sick...' Oh yes, not to outdone, Sproglet had vommited everywhere. (This followed a sudden bottom expulsion when he was swimming earlier on - that had (thank the lord) stayed in his trunks, for me to fish out and dispose of in between the violent nappies). Life is just one long shit-fest over here in sunny Crete. Just as we finished cleaning up his sick, and bedded him in with us, we heard the mighty rumblings in Sproglettte's nappy once more.

Paper scissors stone - who would change the latest horror? Who cares, potato/potata -- your turn would come soon enough. Husband held her legs in the air as I tried not to breathe. We all eventually slumbered. Today Sproglet has vommed 5 times - pre and post breakkie. Sproglette has whinned and whinned but at last produced what could be considered as a normal nappy. She is currently sleeping, as is Husband. I have taken my sore fingers out of the salt pool and have managed an hour of uninterrupted snorkelling. Oh yes. It is a holiday, remember. Sproglet is in love with the kids club, which makes me slightly jealous of it - I want him back, vom and all thanks. Fingers crossed the bug will have passed. Unless of course it is waiting to hit husband and I. Mind you, losing a few pounds is never bad. Not sure I have enough summer clothes to weather the whole shebang or not. So, holidays. Great idea. All those cocktails and sex and late night dancing. In my dreams...

PS Update: Sproglet is all better. Sproglette has cut another tooth and is full diva form again. Husband and I are on tanning rota - 20 mins for you, ok 20 mins for me. We are getting a sitter for Fri night when we plan to sink martinis and try and engage in some non kid/sick related chat. The sun is shining, a cool breeze is blowing, the kids are happy and finally, so are we.

One last thing before I go...

2011-07-15T10:05:00.004+01:00

How is it possible to have two children so different? The only thing Sproglet and Sproglette have in common is they both sleep until past 7am. Hurrah. That is were any similarity ends. Sproglet looks like his Dad (with a smidgen of my eyes thrown in) and is all me in personality: people pleaser, loves social occasions, talks non stop, likes to draw, loves books and climbing (I loved me a spot of climbing at Brimham Rocks when I was a nipper) and generally has a smiley disposition. When folk smile at him in the street - ever since he was a baby, he beamed back. On hols in Sardinia two years ago he announced 'chao' to anyone who crossed his path.

Sproglette however, isn't so, how shall we say - smiley. In fact she NEVER smiles, unless Sproglet is near, then she will giggle and laugh and be ultra cute. But in the street when people coo that she looks just like a doll, so petite with a rosebud mouth and big blue eyes, they coo and coo and nada. She just stares at them, sometimes with a frown as if to say 'that all you got?' She looks serious - always. She hates to be held by strangers, wants constant attention and has a fit if god forbid you leave the room to perhaps go for a wee for 2 minutes. She is grumpy, wants entertaining and can only sit through a movie for 5 seconds. Sproglet meanwhile went to see Ratatouille at 13 months and was transfixed. He doesn't even blink, he loves films so much. But the wee lady - nope. She likes Mickey Mouse god help us, and only his Michael Jackson tones can illicit a smile from her lips. So Micky and Sproglet and bananas. The only things she likes. A fussy eater - no jars or bought baby mush for her, oh no, only fresh blended veggies for the diva.

I cannot believe I have two kids that are so so different. Clearly Sproglette looks like me, but is her father in spirit - mildly grumpy, likes to sleep in, hates most people - but he likes his own company, which she has yet to do.

Feck only knows how I am supposed to get packed with this little menace hollering every time I turn my back to open the wardrobe. Sproglet, ever the helpful child - was counting out his pants today in preparation, and selecting his 'travelling' outfit. In short, I am terrified come Sproglette's teen years. two of her Dad in one house? Recipe for disaster.

Right, where did I put the Calpol?

Happy Hols

2011-07-14T07:54:00.002+01:00

Where is that festering old suncream, the lip salve with fluff on it hiding at the back of the bathroom cupboard, the anti mozzie wipes and the same sun hat I have worn since I presented a travel show in 2003? Yes, it is holiday time again. Except this time, we have Sproglette. Weaning as well. So in go the steriliser, the mini blender and enoygh rusks to sink a ship. Joy. If I ever get through packing, we are going here, to Crete:
http://www.aldemarhotels.com/pages/en/hotels/knossos-royal/welcome.php

Four of us - sharing a room or else the whole shebang would have been double and frankly, we have spent enough. Weirdly, I have been here before, on said travel show - but then I was in uber nice accomodation - with a pool outside my window and a fruit bowl re-stocked every day. But with four of us - it aint quite as grand. But it still is nice. Husband refused to go anywhere where 'I have to clean up after myself as well as the kids' - so we get half board. As long as their vodka tonic supply is doing fine, it'll be ok. Mind you, when the kids go down - what will Husband and I do - stare at the walls through the darkness? Take our chances with the mozzies on the balcony? Sproglet is beyond excited about swimming (arm band free) in the pool, Husband can't wait for the free pouring barmen to top up his little midday tipple as he relaxes reading (no doubt) yesterday's paper. Me? I can't wait for the sea - perhaps some snorkelling, and the wonderful feeling sipping a beer sundowner as your hot skin simmers after a day in the sun. Or watching freckles appear on our faces. Husband goes black. I go... blotchy. The sun waits for a moment until I am sitting with hand on my chin, or fingers on face and then strikes. A ha! Take that CM - now you will go home with weird red stripes across your fizzog and everyone will wonder if you and Husband were even on the same holiday.

So - to pack, to try and lug ourselves to the airport. 10 days and nights of sun (fingers crossed) and family fun. Will we all be speaking upon return? I'll letcha know. See you on the other side!

Having a word with myself

2011-07-08T10:16:00.004+01:00

Ok, so I had a word with myself. I told myself to dry my friggin eyes and get on with it.

Then I put my ancient i pod thing on the speaker holder thing and blasted out Footloose. Yes, of Kenny Loggins. It, may I add, is not the only Kenny Loggins track on my i pod - I am not ashamed to admit this. Sproglet and I danced wildly in the dining room while Sproglette looked at us as if we were mad. She is waaay cooler than both of us and she is only 7 months old. It is as if she knows embarrassing moments already and refuses to take part. Dance over, dinner cooked, I threw on some jeans - actually, I easily got into THE jeans that have haunted me ever since I bought them. They are according to the woman in Gap 'a small size 10 - so really a 9' - a US 5. I used to fight to get into them with my muffin top hanging over the edge - and when I took them off big red welts would have indented into my stomach as if to say 'danger danger - do not wear jeans you don't really fit.' But last night they were comfy. This brought me more joy than Santa circa 1981. I have worked so so hard to get into those blue threads of hell. A natural runner, I am not. But proof is in the not-eating-the-pudding. How long they will fit me for, who knows? I'll enjot it while it lasts.

I then went out for a friend's pre wedding drinks. Too many glasses of red later I held court outside thinking I was hil.ar.i.ous. when in fact I probably looked like a tragic mum who never gets out and had to make up for it and then wants to let the world know she 'used to have an exciting life.' I think I may have even said 'yes, I used to work in television you know.' TRAGIC. But hey, I had fun. I let my hair right down. The woman who is getting hitched is a nanny and she told all that my Husband is a DD. I had no idea what this means - it is in fact 'Dishy Dad.' I can't bring myself to tell him the nannies of the neighbourhood have discussed him and categorised him in the looks department. His smugness would kill me.

So. I am fine. This morning Sproglette woke at 7:30 and we had a massive cuddleathon with Sproglet and I kissed their soft warm necks and smelt their sweet smell and felt utterly content. Hungover and weary, but also content. Things will work out. My truck load of chicken may well arrive when I win the Euromillions 160 million this weekend. Then I can throw chicken out to everyone. The weekend is packed with fun stuff including a trip to flicks to see Bridesmaids, high tea/baby shower and a train journey alone - something I haven't done in 5 years. I've 200 capsules for my Nespresso machine, the sun is trying to shine and it is Friday. Life aint bad at all.

Haven't we been here before??

2011-07-07T08:49:00.002+01:00

I feel like the party is ending. Various Mums that I have been hanging with are all ambling off maternity leave and dipping their toes back into the buzzing world of work. Most are mightily relieved - they can be fab Mums between 7- 8:30am, 6:30 - 8:30pm and at weekends. The rest of the time they can converse with adults, wee in peace, make tea, feel challenged, make some cash and generally have some fun. Sure, they can feel guilty and feel like they have endless lists that never get ticked off and the stress of trying to run a home, make it to nursery on time etc but in general, they are returning to part of them that makes them who they are. No more looking at the clock realising it is only 9:35 AM and it feels like you have been up for half a day already. No more slushing up mashed yuk and endless wiping of tables, bottoms, noses, floors, any available surface. No more idle mind numbing conversation with a 'nice but dull' mother to fill the waking hours...

Do I envy them? What do you think? Husband and I have been a bit snippy of late. He peppers his conversation with the phrase 'I fund your lifestyle' which makes me want to headbutt him. What lifestyle? All my boozy lunches and shopathons? I think not. Problem is - for me to go back to work (having met up with my script ed gals a while back and discussed 2 of their new jobs) would mean somehow getting in to London every day and then working crazy hours (possibly on sets of dramas) which is impossible with Husband's job and childcare where we live. Nannies are insanely expensive and our house isn't big enough for an au pair - so we have no idea who would mind the kids (pre and post school for one) as nurseries shut at 6pm on the dot - and woe betide anyone who shows up after that time. Hello social services, kid on the doorstep...

Our marriage aint in the best of health when I try and work full time and DO IT ALL. I just have to read over this here blog to see the mistakes of the past - the ones that led us to Relate. The sad thing is I seem to be going on the same merry go round - leave my script ed job, have no idea what to do that will work with childcare, go back to script ed job, leave script ed job, have another child just to complicate things more, still worry about what to do to that will work with childcare...

I apologise. I feel a tad depressed today. Sproglet vomited his guts up last night - after a bad stomach episode as well - and thus is off school today. Naturally he was up at 5:50am - starving. It is pouring. Joy. All the Mums I know are pretty much at work, or on hols. Somehow they have managed to get careers that allow them the luxury of part time work OR the funds to fund a nanny. Where did I go wrong? I'm feeling a groundhog day coming on. Feed kids. Wash bottles. Empty dishwasher. Mush food for baby for lunch. Fold washing. Do washing. Tidy. Tidy. Tidy. Good god there has to be more to life than this? Do other Mums not get so bored they want to run out n front of traffic just to feel alive?? I love my daughter - she is the cutest thing alive, but she is also fairly high maintenance - wanting entertained every minute. Not unlike her Mother you might say. True.

I am off now to a boxing class for the first time in my life where I will take out all my confusion, frustration and aggression on some poor partner. On Sunday I go away alone for 3 nights, to have some space, some time to try and work out what the fuck to do. I feel raging guilt and fear already about leaving the kids with their Dad - wonder how I will cope with missing them so madly. The other half of me wonders if in fact I may decide never to come back.

Not really. Of course I will come back. To groundhog day, to occasional bouts of loneliness and to my childrens' amazing smiles.

What gives?

2011-06-28T07:44:00.004+01:00

Sproglette is howling like someone is murdering her, Sproglet is talking at 16 to the dozen, I'm covered in rusk, mushed banana and barely able to think straight and the clock says 7:02. Is your life like this? A groundhog day of stacking/unstacking the dishwasher, reloading and emptying the washing machine machine/dryer, folding mountains of clothes, boiling up veggie mush, wiping arses, jingling toys, cooing, bribing, stressing, tidying, tidying, tidying, stepping on small hard plastic toys that almost remove a toe and folding enough laundry to fill an Oxfam store???

I watch as Husband disappears to work and I envy him. He gets to mix with adults. Chat. Wee in peace. I knew it would be like this - I have been here before - but it doesn't make it any easier at times. Yet the thought of giving Sproglette over to a stranger makes me feel sick. I didn't feel like this with Sproglet - I would have handed him to anyone, I was so overwhelmed by motherhood first time round. Looking back I reckon I had post natal depression from the off - which I hid for fear of looking a failure. It took almost 18 months before I asked for help - as in, anti-depressant help. Now, I'm not depressed - in fact I'm pretty happy - but my god, I am knackered. My life feels like a whirl of getting everyone dressed and ready for the day, followed by getting my house ready for well - something - then getting everyone undressed and bathed and then staging a mini collapse on the sofa. Followed by a brief period of sleep and then it all starts again.

If I didn't have my nespresso machine, thrice weekly runs, my friend K for a gossip and my friend E for a weekly dinner, I think my head would explode. The other day Sproglet announced to me (when I asked him to pick up crayons he had spilled everywhere) 'I do EVERYTHING - why do I have to do it all?' !!!!!! I nearly threw him out a window. I explained calmly that in fact I did it all - and in that moment I realised how I get about 5 mins a day to myself if I am lucky. How little I actually do for myself. Like read. Watch tv. Mooch. I long to mooch. Sproglette has started to sleep longer (bless you solids - mind you the nappies equal out the horror at the other end) which means that although unpredictable - I can get stuff done. By stuff I don't mean a pedicure, a stroll round Covent Garden or anything of note - I mean I get to do more of the groundhog stuff. Phoning the bank, sending an ebay sale, buying endless gifts for some kid's party or other. Reminding myself we need a new chese grater. Exciting, earth shattering stuff like that.

Now if I return to work - in whatever form that is (I actually have my plan all worked out, but I'll keep it to myself for the mo) how will house maintain it's aura of cleanliness, Sproglet attend tennis on a Tues, swimming on a Fri - in the correct kits (which is important I reckon - googles on court won't help him a jot) - and we have a full fridge and enough clean pants? How do women work full time and juggle a house/laundry/husband/fridge etc? Every week I plan out our meals and it is the dullest, hardest quiz I have ever taken. What will Sproglet eat? What is healthy for me? His mate who eats fish fingers and sausages only, comes every Monday - so I guess that is fish fingers for tea - again. I feel like a genius when I have completed it. I was clearly born to be rich. Something went wrong somewhere. I am sure I was meant to have a housekeeper/nanny on tap. Oh my god, the thought of someone else doing my laundry just about gave me an orgasm... I should have married some banker wanker and had affairs with cute embryonic boys on the side... Anyway, what gives? Something has to give surely - we can't all hold down successful jobs, run a perfect house, raise polite snot-free kids and find time to tone our asses and made organic jam??? Maybe we have to sacrifice our asses, or tidy houses, or maybe we just forget people's birthdays and only have a fridge with rotting veggies in it. Who knows, but if anyone has any secrets on how to make this all go more smoothly - do share. Go on, please.

Meanwhile - something terribly exciting has happened. If you look over to the right you will notice I have an advert - for a fab company called Vacuum World. Check it out. My first advertisers. A landmark moment in the life of CM. Internet moguldom here I come! Better dash - got a child to throw an un-ironed school uniform onto. As a woman once said to me at his (then) nursery when I said I would be cutting his hair, 'Oh no - Sproglet wouldn't be Sproglet, if he wasn't a scruffbag.'

Brilliant. With me, ironing is what gives. Obviously.

Fashion feminism and Dr Seuss (of course).

2011-06-24T12:32:00.010+01:00

When Caitlin Moran (award winning journo, mother of two, all round good egg), who has just written a book called 'How to be a Woman' was asked :

'Is there one thing, totemic above all others, that you would regard as an indication that feminism is succeeding? What is it?

She replied :
'When a woman goes up to collect the Oscar for Best Actress in shoes that aren’t killing her. Nicole Kidman in flip-flops. That’s my end-point.'

Pretty interesting that she chose a fashion moment to sum up her entire philosophy on feminism. I haven't as yet read the book, although am dying to. In reviews I have read, Moran removes feminism from it's dusty high brow shelf filled with confusing allegories and analogies and plonks it amongst us pop-culture hoovers. She speaks in our language about subjects that we can relate to: poor beginnings, the pointlessness of brazilian waxes, why women can't just be nice to one another and why there is so much pressure for us all to sprog? She queries the entire system that women's self esteem is built upon, stating in an interview to publicise her book:

"But also if women just turned around and were honest and said I don’t give a shit, I’m not playing – I don’t care what Angelina Jolie was wearing this week, I haven’t got time to pamper myself, I don’t care if I’ve got blackheads, I don’t care if my arse is a bit spongy, I have not got time for you, you ridiculous capitalist construct, then the whole game would be fucked overnight."

Thank the lord. When on earth did we start putting all this pressure upon ourselves to be a size 0, hairless, toned within an inch of lives, hiding our pregnancies (a la Beckham) all the while pining after a pair of Louboutin shoes that frankly wouldn't be out of place on a 6ft trannie?

Before I get Moran's book, I will simply have to use the wisdom of Dr Seuss for my life lessons. Get this - his book ' The Sneetches'.

Now in it - there are Sneetches with stars on the bellies and because of these stars they think they are better than the other star-less sneetches. They have nothing to do with the plain bellied kind and feel superior - leaving the others out in the cold. Then one day a stranger arrives in town and he has a special machine that can give the star-less sneetches the elusive stars on their bellies. Well they are delighted and throw their cash at him so they can be like the superior sneetches and proudly display their star bellies, hollering that they are now the same!

Well, the original star bellied sneetches HATE this. The stranger - Mr McBean, offers them his machine - to take OFF their stars - so they can be cool and superior again and know who is who. He says that stars are no longer in style and helps them in their star removal. They throw their cash at him and then strut around - delighted to be star free - and they declare they are still the best sneetches around. The star bellies are now horrified and are desperate to become the same as the grander sneetches so they too pay Mc Bean - again - and get their stars removed... then, you can guess, it gets very messy.

Stars on, stars off, in, out, in, out. Changing stars every few minutes until no one knows who is who or was ever star/non star. But when every last cent has been spent - McBean loads up and runs off into the sunset laughing all the way to the bank. The sneetches finally realise they are ALL sneetches, no matter what they have on their tums and from that day on they all hang out together.

This tale reminds me of the fashion industry - telling us 'this is cool - no wait, THIS is now not cool. Now cool! In, Out! Get it! Be like Alexa! Wear what Beckham wears! Or Gwyneth!! Be a sheep! Follow! Spend spend spend!' The joke is on us. As we covet more and more to further prove our status and feed our material egos - the fashion houses get richer and we get more desperate. The effect has trickled down to the high street and beyond, to the supermarkets - as I read recently how stores that used to have 2 collections of clothes a year - now have 8. As fashion rages, the demand to keep with trends means we require more clothes/styles more frequently - and to meet this need - a need we are sold - clothes are being mass produced in sweat shops in third world countries not only abusing the workers who have to create them, but the environment that uses masses of water/energy to create these disposable wardrobes.

When did we become star bellied Sneetches? It reminds me slightly of people who think themselves ethically sound, energy saving green freaks and yet they think nothing of sniffing a wrap on a weekend. They cannot equate their drug taking to the trafficking of women or arms. What difference are they making with their little Friday night buzz? They don't stop to think of the consequences their actions are having further down the white line...

But I digress - not unusual for me I know. This isn't about a greener world. This is about feminism and who we are pressurised to be in today's society. I wish I could go and be a feminist with Moran in the pub. I doubt I'd be leaving sober. But maybe I'd have ditched my heels in the loos... My daughter may only be 7 months - but I'll be saving her a copy for her teen years. When I will urge her to think for herself. Ditch her inner Sneetch and tread her own path.

In flats of course. Moran I salute you.

Sleeping like a baby

2011-06-16T09:04:00.005+01:00

Here's the thing - I think parents are responsible for whether or not their children are good sleepers. Maybe on a very rare occasion a child will just be a early riser no matter what a desperate parent tries - but on the whole I think from day 1 you carve out the kind of sleeper your baby is going to be.

Why do I think this? Well, Sproglet slept for Britain. By 12 weeks he slept from 11- roughly 7am and kicked his 11pm feed at 4.5 months when he started to wean. He regularly slept until 9:30am (I remember one particular bitter friend staying at my house declaring that if I ever had another child it would be a 'screamer who never slept' for sure - when she rose at 9:25am and discovered Sproglet was still slumbering) and on one occasion after we had been to a wedding he woke at 11:30am. Bless him. I actually read over this blog and found myself complaining that he woke at 8:30am one morning after I attended a hen do - which makes me want to go back in time and slap myself, as now-a-days he bounds out of bed at 7:30, occasionally 8am. He goes down between 7:45 - 8pm every night after his clockwork like routine of bath/shower time and two stories...

So I figured that I just got lucky with Sproglet and it was with much fear that I sprogged Sproglette - as I am someone who is quite simply insane, if I don't get my 7-8 hours nightly. I am grumpy, irritable, weepy - like PMS on acid, if I don't spend long enough with the sandman. What if she was a bad sleeper as folk predicted?
Sproglette has a bottle now at about 10:45pm (having hit the hay before 7pm) and then sleeps until 7/7:30am every day... As she begins to wean she is sleeping longer and will soon kick her 10:30pm feed I am sure. My dear friend who has had twins threatened to ship me in, so convinced was she of my baby whispering skills in the sleep department.

But I don't think it is any special skill - I think it is down to 3 things:

1. I practised controlled crying - with my son in particular, my daughter didn't really need it. That meant if they were fed, changed, warm enough, cool enough, not in pain and basically just fighting sleep - I let them cry - going in to rub their tummies and soothe them every ten mins - but crucially not picking them up. They fought, they gave in, they slept.

2. I woke both my kids for feeds no matter what. So they got into a routine of eating and dream feeding from day 1. I also didn't breast feed for long, although I did express - and as bad as this sounds, this proved good in that the heavy dense formula made them gain weight and sleep like, well, babies. They didn't wake endlessly feeding, ravenous all through the night. I admire breast feeding women more than anyone - as it is so exhausting and relentless that it takes an amazing woman to do so. I hated it, maybe because my chest was so enormous both babies struggled to latch on and rejected one breast entirely. Expressing was a good alternative until it became too time consuming - but that whole breast debate is for another post - and anyway - my theory is 'what works for you - do it. A happy Mum is a happy baby - end of.'

3. I established a routine with feeding as soon as possible. Even if nap time went a bit haywire depending on the day's activities/car journeys etc, the feeding remained the same time daily. They got in their grooves. A book called 'the baby whisperer' helped when I had Sproglet, but as for Sproglette - I just kinda did what I had done before - and wrote most stuff down for the first 6 weeks (as she had reflux I needed to work out what she had eaten etc.). That made me remember what was what when I couldn't even remember my name.

All those parents who couldn't bear to hear their babies cry and insisted on picking them up - making an already tired and fretful baby even more so - made their own beds. The kids knew which buttons to press and just kept on pressing them. You get the sleeper you deserve in a way. Obviously kids teeth and have wind and all kinds of things can disrupt their sleep - buy by and large I think if parents got a bit tougher, their lives would be much easier. Giving in to a child's every whim teaches them a lesson early that they are in control - when it should be the other way around.

I'm far from smug by the way. I make enough mistakes as a parent on a daily basis to know that I am Crummy Mummy for many reasons. A quick read of Gwynnie's new cookery book about how her kids love brussel sprouts and kale and all things organic and healthy makes me feel like a shit Mum when fish fingers and oven chips feature once a week in our house... But the sleeping thang - I have down. I worked hard at it and it took a lot of biting down on something to keep from picking up a squealing baby. But the results are worth it. And whilst my daughter is uber feisty, a mini diva and the most strong willed bundle I have encountered, she is no screamer who doesn't sleep. And that, I can cope with.

Minus one

2011-06-15T15:00:00.003+01:00

I lost a follower today. What does that mean? Did my last post about internet dating offend? I need another follower. You see then there are 50 of y'all who tune in and that is nice round number. So if you know someone who wants to be a following the musings of a demented, conflicted, excitable mother of two, then please, spread the word. I can't offer any great prize, or words of wisdom - but it'll make my day. It will. In a day that has seen me wander round a supermarket carpark convinced my motor had been stolen when in fact it was there all along - I am just a loon; a day when I bought my Dad a Father's Day card, even though I sent him a letter last week and he hasn't called/responded at all; (Maybe that is it for him and I... who knows? I feel better that I wrote it though - and that is the main thing); a day when I had to step away from my Nespresso machine after too much cawfee and froth; a day when I bought untold amounts of junk for the sin that is 'party bags' (just on that subject - kids, you come to a party, you get entertained, fed all sorts of lovely stuff, run around like crazy, get balloons and cakes and prizes and then at the end you expect a gift - just for coming to get all that fun??? Party bags - there in one item is everything that is wrong with the world, I tell you) and cake and candles - as this weekend is Sproglet's 5th b'day and we are taking 9 kids to see Kung Fu Panda 2 IN 3D. Oh yes. The 3D part cost us an extra few quid per kid. For some paper glasses and a fat panda bouncing out at us...; a day in which I watched an ep of In Treatment (so brilliant - if you haven't seen it - buy that box set and enjoy, what writing... what writing...) while I folded an entire chinese laundry's worth of clothing; a day pretty much like any other.

Apart from losing a follower that is.

Girl seeks boy

2011-06-07T19:21:00.009+01:00

This dating malarkey aint half hard is it? Not that of course I am playing the field again. Sadly not. Or rather, happily not. The other night I spent the evening vicariously living through a good friend of mine, sifting through the oceans of men out there who have bitten the bullet and decided to give on-line dating a whirl.

As we began our trawl I was excited - some of the blokes were surprisingly hot. Hot and funny too. Where were they all hiding when I scoured London in my twenties, having more dates from hell than Brigit Jones in all 3 books? However, after a couple of hours, my enthusiasm began to wane as a pattern emerged: most men mentioned how odd it was to have to list their qualities but then seemed to do so with ease - who describes themselves as 'a nice guy' and 'kind' and 'good looking'?? All made some dodgy joke about having their own teeth, flat and car - still assuming that women want more cash than dash. They had to give themselves a name - no easy task I grant you - but 'Bass playing veg grower,''Anarchy,' 'Man trapped inside a man's body,' 'LookingLuke' and my favourite 'reeranter' (really??? rear entry... you are so going to score with the ladies with that opening gambit) - are these the best you could come up with lads?

Whilst we could all endlessly drone on about ourselves at parties, it isn't so easy in the cold light of the internet but lines like: 'I enjoy mental acrobatics and verbal pyrotechnics' or 'If you want a serious and funny, certainly not to dumb guy (scientist in the end...)' (replete with spelling mistakes) made me realise why they are in fact on a dating site. One guy - trendy type - wrote the below paragraph: 'I am an interesting date. I have performed at Glastonbury, both when open to the public and not. I have been on TOTP. I have been on Radio 1,2, and 6. I have done voice work for television and ...' Did he confuse the website for the jobs page perhaps, so keen was he to spout forth his CV?

As we sank further into our bottle of wine the bad jokes just kept a comin': '6"1 with a great smile and a body like Beckham… it's not surprising my mate is happily married then is it? As you can tell, I don't take myself too seriously and love to share fun, laughter ...' Boom Tish! I'm here all week, try the chicken...

Obviously my mate K and I poured over the photos to begin with - something in his eyes or smile or stubble has to attract you enough to read on - but faced with the below paragraph from Mr 'I'm handy at everything' - it made me want to just want to throw the laptop out the window:
'I'm a bright, active, pretty capable, professional guy. I stay healthy, work hard, love eating and have a magical ability to stay in shape. Some things I do... I run half marathons and I play competitive tennis. I used to row but ditched it for cycling, I got the bug when I rode up Mont Ventoux after a wedding and found that I was quite handy at it. The hills and river around Henley are great places to cycle, run and walk. I started snowboarding a few years ago, got quite good at that, can't wait to go again in January.I think it's really important to keep learning, be open to new ideas and never get too bogged down in what you're doing.
Is there anything he isn't 'handy' at?

By the time the tag lines read 'mega fauna seeks beautiful flora' and (*wretches*) '*Special Offer* - Get one cuddle - get one free' it was time to call it a night. There was me thinking internet dating was a breeze. Time consuming, head screwing and utterly devastating (when you don't get a reply from 'AnotherMatt')- isn't it just easier to go to a dodgy club and flirt like your life depended on it? Even with the barman - which come to think of it, is how I met my Husband... I admire anyone for having a crack at finding love on line, (we even discovered a rock star had signed up and had carefully avoided mentioning the fact he is famous) but since Husband told me he knows two guys that go online simply to find women to shag - rather than looking for ever lasting love - I now subscribe to K's beautifully put view that it is less 'Guardian soulmates' and more like 'Guardian Soul destroyer.'

And the tears came...

2011-06-01T08:39:00.007+01:00

Yesterday I had a big cry. Oh yes, the really self indulgent, nose streaming, soaking cheeks, big sobs, choking whines, hearty healthy weep.

It had only been 4 days since my last crying episode - clearly I was due. What is with me at the moment? I'm just one big tear fest. Anything sets me off. Even now, thinking as I type, the old water ducts are about to brim over. I can't even blame PMT. The older I get the more emotional I seem to become.

So what had sent me scuttling for half a roll of kitchen paper yesterday? Well, lately I feel like I've been in the firing line, when in fact I haven't actually intentionally done anything to warrant it. Everywhere I've turned somehow I'm involved in drama that I want no part of. I'm not dwelling on all this - it is just it takes me time to process things, from my stomach to stop churning about it all, to stop feeling wounded. After I was bullied by a director on a travel show I worked on in 2003 - it took me until around 2008 to stop having nightmares (occasionally) about the whole sorry episode. I'm not one of those people who switches off (christ I wish I was) I don't have a duck's back. Unlike Husband who just feels 'fuck 'em' about everything and doesn't lose an ounce of sleep no matter how enormous his obstacle. He LOVES confrontation, loves to wage a war - but I'm all squiggy and soft and a bit rubbish at all that. I just want to get on with everyone and everyone to like me and us all to be happy smiley campers.

But yesterday's tears were to do with my Father. My arrow had been pointing towards the 'blue' chart to begin with - post Italy. I'm always at my happiest surrounded by my oldest buddies - I feel so comfortable and safe with them all - happiest to laugh at myself, happiest to laugh with them. So the great event I had long awaited was all done and I have no idea when we'll all be in the same room again. There was a time when there were weddings/30ths galore, but that is long gone and now we're all secretly counting down the months until the 40ths - an excuse to party together again.

My Mum had said my Dad had rung, wanting my middle name (yes he doesn't even know that) and to 'just check' my date of birth etc. I called him and as I predicted, he was changing his will and needed some details. Now I should explain - My Father re-married my Step mother in '87. She is 10 years older than him and has two daughters, ten years plus older than me. They are now 48 and 51. The 51 year old has two boys - and they live around the corner from my Dad. He has been more of a Father to those two boys than he ever was to me. It never really bothered me, as my Dad is an immature 65 year old, and it took him until his 50s to sprout any kind of parenting gene. But now I have my own children I cannot help but compare how little attention he gives to my kids - and how much he showers on the others (15 and 11). He argues it is because they live near him and I am an hours flight away. But you see, he has never got on that flight. I have lived in England for 20 years and not once - not ever, has he visited me.

I excused this away for many years 'I live in student flats,' then 'my flat is small' but now, in my 3 bed house in a sunny little leafy village outside London and 20 mins drive from the airport - I can't quite hold this up. Which brings me to yesterday. I had called him and contrary to his plans for his will in the past (2/3 of everything he owns going to me 1/3 to my stepmother) it will now all be divided between me and my step-sisters equally. Fair enough - he can do what he wants with his money, regardless of the fact they have their own father who has never had any other chidren and who will leave his estate to them. No, what hurt the most is that should my Dad get sick - they are his powers of attorney. They will be in charge of all his finances - not me. Not his blood child. The child whose graduation he couldn't be bothered to go to; the child he neglected during teenage years; the child he has never asked to spend Xmas with; the child he has never visited; the child he rang a week before her wedding to say he wouldn't make a speech if she insisted upon invited her Mother's ex (her surrogate Dad) to the wedding... I could go on.

When I first heard his news I was so stunned I muttered I had to go and read Sproglet a bedtime story and hung up. But yesterday, well I couldn't really sleep. I wanted to know what had changed - why had he altered his will so drastically - why am I - once again - shoved to the bottom of his priority pile? So I rang him. Now my dad doesn't do 'conversation' unless it is about football. Ask him any kind of awkward question and it is a match to a flame - he just flares up and a row has begun even though you are talking calmly and trying to reason. Imagine a 65 year old toddler. There you have him. So he rages at me 'is this about money?' It isn't actually. It is about feeling important in his life. Something I have never ever done. My mind harks back to the day my Grandfather (his Father whom he lived with at the time) had a heart attack - and I (13 at the time) was left to call the ambulance etc. Dad - well he was refereeing - and as usual I was maybe 3rd or 4th on his priority list. He arrived home as the ambulance left - having no idea the nightmare that had just occurred.

He hangs up. Something he frequently does as he just can't bear to actually listen to someone else, to understand or relate to what they are going through. I cried. Mainly frustrated that once again I let him upset me. I swore when he didn't see me graduate - that he would never hurt me again. But he has. Over and over and over. He has never been to my son's birthday parties, or watched him play football - but he has had his other step- grandchildren to stay EVERY weekend since they were born. He never shuts up about them bursting with pride at all they do. They are boys, he is a referee. Me being a girl never really cut it.

So now, I don't know where to go from here. Part of me just wants to cut the man from life - no father equals no hurt - yes? The other part of me feels there may be a letter I need to write - to tell him how I feel - to not let him fill the air with his lame excuses and jokey side swipes, avoiding responsibility at all costs. I'm not sure. I cannot ever imagine not visiting Sproglet or Sproglette in 20 years - expecting them to always do the running - a one way relationship. Sure he loves me, in his own twisted way. I am sure he even cares. But has he been there for me, when I have ever needed him? No.

Which is fine for me, but not for my kids. I won't let him do to them what he did to me with his false promises and dashed hopes. So I cried, for the little girl inside me that still wants her Daddy's approval - who still wants to be loved. Who wants to be a priority, but never will be.

And they lived happily ever after....

2011-05-30T18:45:00.012+01:00

It was indeed, the stuff dreams are made of: Once upon a time a dear friend called C, married his beautiful princess S in (the above) fairytale Italian castle and they lived happily ever after... even after the wedding was attended by a group of drunken school buddy Irish mentalists.

Boy I feel blue. I have so so so looked forward to going to Trieste and my dear friend's nuptials. I knew it would be special for many reasons: sunshine - hurrah for a hot sun beating down on my old tired face; no kids - need I say more?; a wonderful celebration in what looked to be a beautiful old majestic castle, right next to the sea; hanging out with people who I have spent my lifetime loving and meeting new folk who undoubtedly would be brilliant; spending quality time with Husband; getting a lie in; drunken dancing and U2 songs for cert. And now I am back to porridge. But for a second, just indulge me if you will, while I remember one of the best times I have ever had.

We flew out on Fri morning with 2 other couples - husband wanted to sleep so I sat with the others and talked their ears off. To my left was a bloke (who looked like Howard from Take That) who was also going to the wedding, with his beautiful pregnant girlfriend. By the end of the flight I felt like I had known them for years. When we arrived at the gorgeous hotel - set into the cliffs, overlooking the sea, we threw our clothes off, our swim gear on and headed to the beach area. There, as the grey sea whipped up a storm, we drank beer, met some others who had arrived earlier and began the banter that would last for 48 hours.

Dinner was a taxi ride away in a pizzeria in town - where we all mixed up the tables and sat with old friends and new ones. Afterwards a terrific storm hit us all as we stood outside a bar drinking in the centre of Trieste. Did it dampen our drinking ability? Oh no - we just hovered in shop doorways and proceeded to get drenched. One drink too many for my emotional self and I beat a hasty exit. The next day was sadly grey and cold. My body refused to let my hangover sleep itself off so I stuffed as many breakfast pastries down my gullet as possible and tries to read while husband snored. The day passed in a haze of eating - mind you being presented by raw fish and octopus tentacles with a hangover didn't do much for the appetite - and lounging. And then it was time to get a frock on, slap on the warpaint, totter on heels (dodgy with my ankle) and get ourselves on the coach.

We arrived to this entrance:

And proceeded to here for actual ceremony:

To say it was stunning is an understatement. Words kind of fail me. The view was spectacular. It was as if the gods of love had finally woken up and given the weather gods a kick in the arse - as suddenly the sun poked out from behind the ominous grey clouds and then it shone. The bride arrived and the groom swooned. When they proclaimed their love for one another and then kissed there wasn't a dry eye in the castle. It was simply magical.

From there we went to a terrace and drank prosecco watching the sun go down. We moved to another sheltered terrace and feasted on tasty canapes washed down with even more prosecco. It is one of the drinks you just can't get enough of. Then to the amazing dining room - filled with circular tables, candles, two splendid chandeliers and enough red wine to sink a ship. There were 5 courses, 4 emotional, poignant, witty and wonderful speeches in both English and Italian, 3 phone calls from Husband to work to find out the score in the Champions League final and much clinking of glasses toasting the 2 happiest folk in the portrait filled room. The atmosphere was relaxed, warm and full of joy. Every person was having a ball. Next to my table were a group of fabulously shoed Italian girls who had attended Uni with the bride - I had admired their shoe candy earlier - shoes which they later discarded when we went down into the tunnels of the castle to a fairylit stone-walled grotto replete with wishing fountain - and there we ate the cream filled cake, sucked on the ripest strawberries and washed it all down with potent mojitos. As you do. I bothered the poor DJ the whole night, basically spelling out his play list - Gaga, Madonna, Born Slippy, Gnarls Barclay - and then forced the man to download Beyonce's Crazy in Love for us all to shake our booties too. The night ended with us all in a circle to Sunday Bloody Sunday with a load of Italians wondering 'what the hell?'

We came, we drank, we danced our shoes off. It was 4am and time to leave. I never wanted it to end. We coached it back to the hotel where a drunken kilted Scotsman tried to get me to hold a wooden sign spelling out 'LOVE' that had done its rounds that evening - but somehow he ended up on top of me, our legs splayed out on the floor. At least one of us had underwear on and by one of us, I mean me. This guy had trekked the Sahara in his kilt and it was his secret weaponfor all occasions. After all that sweating over what to wear, I needn't have bothered as he stole the style crown of the event - as all the Italian fashionistas asked to have their photo taken with him!

I managed 4 hours sleep and then had to pack and fly home. Of course the sun split the skies and there were plans for a wedding post mortem lunch on the terrace at our hotel. I would have sold my Husband to have stayed. But I had to get back and rescue my Mum from our two kids. I hugged the groom and his lovely bride goodbye with a huge lump in my throat. I have known this guy since he was 6 - I have weathered his storms in life with him and now, now he has his happy ending. It was a honour to be there and witness that moment. Life is fleeting - before you know it, it is over. But those days, the ones filled with love and laughter and sunshine - well those are the days that make life worth living - the stuff dreams are made of.

The cult of Nespresso

2011-05-21T19:06:00.004+01:00

It all started with the smell.

Then the taste - rich, deep, almost nutty with a bitter lingering. The frothy milk sticking to the corners of my mouth - a dusty footprint from the delicious coffee that I had just sunk. I was at my friend Holly's house - having a natter, balancing a baby on one knee, watching Sproglet out of the corner of one eye and enjoying the end of day sunshine spilling in through their open patio doors. She made me a cup of coffee but it was unlike any other I have tasted. Forget it Starbucks - this was heaven. I was hooked. She showed me her sexy little Nespresso machine and announced she had another one - some delivery fluke - and offered to sell it to me. Before I knew what I was saying I had agreed to the machine and it's companion - an aeroccino kettle type thing that whisks up your milk into a bubbly cappuccino or a hot long latte.

She dropped it round the next day and I unwrapped my latest toy. It was magnificent. Replete with a folder telling me all about the lovely little capsules containing fine coffee - like a chocolate selection box, but sexier. I can't buy these little beauties in Waitrose or Sainsburies - oh no, to get me hands on some pure caffeine - I need to join the 'Nespresso club' - and order on line. It feels like a secret society - only terribly middle class coffee aficionados can join. I love it. Do I have ten of the Ristrettos or 5 of the Romas? Who knows what they all taste like? Not me - I've only had 3 coffees today - still another 13 to taste from the Grand Cru selection! Yes I am wired - so thank god for the de-cafs. Husband loves it. It is so simple - just fill up the water jug, pop in your capsule, plunk down the lid and press a button. Whhhirrrr. 1 minute to a coffee high. In your PJs - don't have to step anywhere near Costa... It is my favouritest gadget since my best mate gave me a rampant rabbit (back in the days when I had time to use one).

Can't wait to bust it out when the ladies come a callin' for my strawberry tea thingy in 3 weeks. Planning cupcakes, a carrot cake (with more frosting than carrot natch), chocolate fudge cake, strawberry cream cake, bunting, pimms, champers, floating candles, fairy lights and all things pretty and my fab new Nespresso to give us all a jolt when we've sunk too many Pimms. It feels like I have discovered a whole new mysterious world filled with interesting aromas and strong flavours. Who knew coffee could be so, well, sexy?

Talking of sexy - Husband has lost a tonne of weight. He looks great. Gone is his double chin and pot belly. Granted he isn't at 6 pack status yet - but the guns are out. We are actually going shopping tomorrow so he doesn't look like a homeless man next week when we go to Italy. Did I mention this? If not, I have no idea why not as it is all that has been on my tiny mind since - ohhh, last autumn. My dear mate C is marrying lovely S in Trieste in Italy - in a castle. Next Saturday. And all my fab school buddies are going (well there will be some sorely missed folk who have all had babies recently and cannot make it - we shall toast them in their absence). Most importantly of all we are going alone. As in, sans kids. SANS KIDS!!! My Mum, gawd bless her, is taking the reins and Husband and I are running for the hills - well Stanstead airport - and two nights of pure sleep, adult conversation without interruptions, lie-ins and late night drinking! A lie in, oh my god - I cannot tell you how much that excites me. Of course all we'll do is phone home and talk about the bairns, but we will fit in some obligatory tears at the bride lookin' lovely, some fine prosecco and a few Italian espressos to keep us awake through all the partying.

Wonder if the coffee will be as good as my Nespresso stash? I'll letcha know...

Ouch! Help!

2011-05-18T20:13:00.008+01:00

And punch! Kiora! Oh yes - and push - and kick! And to the left and to the right!

And - in the middle of body combat at 8:40am on Monday - I moved too fast to the right and whoosh! Thump! Crash! I was down. Like a sack of spuds - lying on the floor like a complete moron. First thought - get up, maybe no one will have noticed... Second thought - Ow. Ow. Ow. Ankle in agony - no chance of movement. I shuffled on my arse to the side of the class like a wounded animal.

So on Monday when I had planned combat, then trainer, Tues - run, Wed - run, Thurs - boxing and Fri - trainer (all in a bid to get bikini ready next week, as I go to Italy for a wedding, with old schoolmates - and post baby it aint purdey - and the small fact I am running a 5K run in 5 weeks...) I fell over and did this to my ankle:

It still hurts.

I went to hospital - no break - just 'nasty' according to the Docs. I can't run for 2 weeks - which is a bitch when I'm running this 5K...

Now 5K may mean nothing to you - it aint that far, true. But I am not a 'natural runner' according to my mates. That is a gross understatement - I am an asthmatic wheezing foolish heap. I began running for 3 mins (Paula Radcliffe explained how to train for a 5K the other week in the Times) at the end of which I collapsed/had an asthma attack/practically wet myself.

See below - a photo after my first ever run: (I look like the child catcher - maybe redder, I promise you in day to day life I am not so deformed)

As Peter has commented - this is perhaps the worst ever photo of me. Normally I look more like this:

See what running does to me?

Then I got up to 5 mins and now am at 15, then a minute walking and then a 10 min run. Then I want throw up. 5K is a full half hour run - which for me is like walking around the world - twice.

It is all in aid of Cancer Research - as show me someone who hasn't been affected by the big C and I'll show you an empty space. So readers, I have only asked once before (when that nice man last year let me off paying for the damage I did to his car, when he was jumping out of an aeroplane) but I am asking again. If you like this blog, please dig your hands in your pockets - a pound would do. Anything is great. I am running and sweating and going to finish, even with an ankle like a golfball. I promise more hideous pics if you do.

The link to follow:

http://www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/suzannejanneseandalisonkeachie

As the Cancer Research folk say - together we can beat cancer. Be a part of it. Sponsor a tired old mother of two to raise her sweaty butt round a 5K race. If I can do it - anyone can.

Love CM xx

Jailbait

2011-05-11T21:29:00.000+01:00

Ok I get it. This running malarkey. Today I huffed and puffed and did 10 mins straight(big achievement for asthma kid here - normally a sprint for the bus has me reaching for the old inhaler) and then a one min walk. Followed by another ten mins. It killed me - but all the stress of the day (been waking with knots in my tummy - the old work and what to do as time ticks on is getting to me; but that is another blog post...) just disappeared. Lungs felt open, skin felt tingly, I felt alive - invigorated and almost high. Plus I've worked out how to use my shuffle (turns out it aint that hard) and now have a kick ass soundtrack to pound along to. I just need a bit of Bittersweet Symphony, a smidgen of Beyonce and maybe a Prodigy track and I'm all set. Oh I quite fancy a Gaga 'Born this way' too... Trainer is still cute but vicious - and I ache all over. However, I am starting to see some signs of life in my arms and my legs are stronger. Get this - my right arm is stronger than my left - but my left leg is waaay stronger than my right. What the hell have I been up to? Gutted this week to have lost zero weight. Zero! All I have eaten is eggs, salad, meat and... that is it. Trainer tells me this is because I have lost fat, but put on all important muscle - which weighs more. Still, although my clothes now fit (size UK ten jeans again - hurrah) I wish the scales were kinder.

Anyway, my confidence boost of the week came on Saturday night when I went out with my good buddy K - a fab friend: up for fun, full of good chat and witty stories. We started off in a cute bar by the canal and chucked down a few vodkas - I said I wasn't drinking but it was a balmy evening and hell, I rarely get out so what harm would a few vodka lime and sodas do - couldn't hurt eh? Then we hit the Rising Sun - a sweet little pub that K likes - the kind with wobbly bar stools and a floor that your feet stick to. I clocked a cute boy stumbling up the stairs sporting a tuft of wayward hair and a peaked cap. This in itself is a miracle - I normally can't see the tv in front of me without glasses these days, plus I'd had a few - so he could easily have been a minger.

After putting the world to rights - and boy did we have lots to catch up on - K has just returned from 3 weeks in China no less - we ventured homeward - deciding to 'have one for the road' in a dodgy looking bar I have never set foot in. I perched at the bar and lo and behold but peaked cap boy suddenly was there beside me - now wearing a fluffy cardigan, over his shorts and vest top combo. I felt it my duty to tell him that his outfit (part summer stud, part winter granny) was a paradox. Why on earth I thought I was Gok Wan is beyond me - but I imparted my fashion wisdom while he explained that he had gone out at midday, dressed for summer and ended up staying out - but now it was rainy and cold, so he had borrowed a mate's cardi. This burst of chat brought forth his mate who decided that K and I were perfect fodder to try out his chat up lines on. They were dreadful but if a 20 year old is going to try and sweet talk you - what's the harm in listening?

Before I knew it a flock of cute boys had surrounded us and worst of all - I was involved in a drinking game. Now it looked complicated but in fact was mind numbingly simple: you all shake your clenched fists and then on the count of 3 show if you have a clenched fist (0 points) or a hand held outright (5 points). If 5 people play you have to guess how many points there will be - always a denomination of 5 and no more than 25. If you guess correctly you are out - free from drinking a horrible short or another. K guessed a number more than the folk present but just laughed and carried on downing her wine. I guessed wildly and lost. Before I knew it I was skulling Lambs Navy Rum (rum should be banned. No question - it is foul) and getting cheers all round - for losing.

Then I insisted on buying jagermeister and holding another round - because inside my head you see, I was 17 again. It was glorious - being surrounded by cute boy flesh - all desperate to impress the 'MILFs' they called us. I told them I was honoured to be a MILF and hoped to hold that status for a long time. One boy who wanted to be an actor (of course he did) had a look for Rob Lowe about him. I told him this and he said 'Who is Rob Lowe?'

Give me strength.

They all were too young to remember Fatal Attraction, any 80s music whatsoever and the last Royal Wedding. I felt sooo old and yet strangely young all at once. Peaked cap boy was flirting outrageously and declared that he had a large penis. As if that was a deal breaker for K and I. He was so cute, with such a toned, on display body that I felt like some old perv even taking a peak at his pecs. So once I had them all lapping up my stories and hanging on my every word - what did I do? Oh yes, I showed them pictures of my Husband. That's always a real turn on CM! K was embracing her inner youth with an unbridled passion and produced a round of sambucas for us all to swig. I kept saying how sober I was which was a clear indication of how sober I was not. As sweet peaked cap boy told me he wanted to kiss me - K dragged me off - not that I may add was I going to let the jailbait 19 year old anywhere near my haggard old lips - but just because we were old enough to be their Mothers and it was time to make a sharp exit with our dignities intact and our egos brimming over.

It was lashing with rain and we ran back, droplets dripping from our noses. I awoke the next day with a hangover to end all hangovers. Husband laughed at me and Sproglet jumped on me in bed to remind me I am a 38 year old Mother of 2, with many responsibilities. I dragged my sorry ass to Body Combat and tried not to vomit through it as I necked a litre of water to re-hydrate my alcohol ravaged body.

But boy did I have fun. It was worth it. Oh to be a MILF again...

Express yourself don't repress yourself...

2011-05-08T20:16:00.003+01:00

...So sang Madge years back on an artful tune 'Human Nature.'

This song has been looping round my head this week. It's been a bit of a strange week - one I thought I wouldn't write about. But I'm waking with anxiety dreams and have a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach so I need to get it off my chest. Here. On my blog - my little corner of the world where you don't have to click on in - you don't have to stop by, its just me doing my thang and hoping that someone somewhere relates, and is maybe even comforted in reading, by feeling not so alone.

I think I'm a good person - not in just that I make chat with anyone that glances my way, that I help old ladies with shopping bags and smile at the world that passes me by - but I genuinely don't like confrontation (unless in a complaints way - where I am kick ass at writing those steaming letters/telling a restaurant manager that the service is poor and there's a fly in my soup and all that jazz) and I try in all areas of my life not to offend folk, or hurt any one in any way. This blog has never meant to hurt anyone or upset anyone - except maybe Gwyneth with her oh so perfectly smug life. A fan of the Paltrow I aint - although I am sure she is a lovely woman with fabulous abs. So I was kind of stunned to find out this week that one of the many reasons a good friend of old decided to drop me from her life was because I had dared to blog about my own life being a bit tough when in fact she was going through a personal tragedy. Like she should have a monopoly on sadness - and that me blogging about losing my job last year was clearly a sign I wasn't a good enough friend!! Eh? Are you confused? Makes two of us.

This all gnawed away at me. Mainly because I really try to be good friend. I'm not perfect - who is? But I value my friendships - they are my surrogate family - and some I have watered for 32 years. They've had their ups and downs but they matter to me - being a good friend matters to me - and I would always beat myself up if I thought I had let someone down, or failed them in any way. I was a Samaritan for two years and think that this helped my empathy skills, my keenness to be a shoulder to all my friends at crucial times of their lives. I know for a fact that a problem shared is a problem halved - and although I am the biggest mouth in the world, I have kept and still keep many confidences. In fact I pride myself on these enduring relationships and I strive to maintain them - even when life is busy and responsibilities weigh us down. It disturbed me that someone who had once been a dear friend (I was this woman's bridesmaid!) had simply cut me off - closed the whole thing down without even bothering to tell me why. Clearly I valued the friendship more than her - I don't think I'd ever ditch a friend without telling them why. Even now I don't quite know what I did - but I have to draw a line and actually, I no longer care. Because my blog is MY BLOG, my little oasis. And everything in life is relative - so some readers may be going through illness, or loss, or bereavement as I blog about fluff like Tim Riggins or bitching about a diet or such nonsense - but that is my right, and they don't have to tune on in.

I think I felt frustrated - unfairly targeted, because I feel I haven't in any way deliberately done something wrong, something wounding. Sure, I'm a gossip, I can sometimes force my over inflated opinions down someones throat - hey, I know my faults well, but I am not hurtful, I am not cruel. I can't control how someone else feels, I just have to live my life by my values and do my best. I think its a bit crazy to expect the world to stop because of something that happens to you - we all have our struggles - some bigger than others, but everything is relative. I thought long and hard about my blog and the ramifications of writing it. I know friends read it - I know folk who don't like me read it - lots of people I've never met know me damn well through it - what responsibility do I have in writing this? Should I continue?

The answer is yes I will. Because I write for me most of all, to try and alleviate the incessant chatter in my head; to reach out to like minded folk and basically to express myself. And as Madge herself sings in the song above, I'm not sorry.

Clear eyes, Full Hearts, Can't lose.

2011-05-05T23:03:00.005+01:00

My buddy Pete is coming over for lunch tomorrow - in fact he is rustling up lunch and even bringing it with him. Now I should be excited about this event - he hasn't met Sproglette yet, I haven't seen him in almost 6 months and we used to be day in and day out mutual cheerleaders in the group of swell folk I worked with on a soap. But in fact I am dreading it.

Why? Because he is also coming to reclaim his Friday Night Lights series 2, 3 and 4. Another buddy has season 5 - the last *sobs* series all lined up for me. I remember when a small group of FNL worshippers at work persuaded me to buy the first series box set when I hadn't even heard of the damn show. It barely aired here - after all, it centres around American football - and I still have no idea how it all works.

But I fell in love with Riggins, wanted to be Tami Taylor's best mate - or at least get her to counsel my life, yearned to hang out with Landry's band, or double date with Julie 'n' Matt. As Andy at work said - when he finished series one (in a weekend) he felt bereft. Like he'd been at a party and then the lights suddenly went up and all his buds were gone. I feel like that now; this week I finished series 4 -had an obligatory cry - (there is always a good every in every series; the one where Matt buried his Dad I couldn't see the screen I was doing such awesome weepage) and then felt hollow. Like, what now eh? Don't get me wrong, In Treatment series 2 is on and I've just finished series 1 of The Sopranos (I know, I know, where have I been, The Sopranos is like 10 years old... well, may I join on the bandwagon of Soprano lovers? Better late than never eh?)and Mad Men series 2 is in my basement to be watched as a treat when I work out on the bike - but nothing quite compares to all things Panther.

Why this show wasn't more successful is beyond me. The relationship between the Coach and his wife is the best ever portrayed on screen. Oh to be at a Taylor family Thanksgiving... Great writing, fab acting, engaging storylines, beautiful cast (did I mention Riggins?) - beyond addictive.

Maybe I'll hide the DVDs and talk so much that Pete will forget all about them. But Peter Berg I thank and salute you for turning the movie into the series (and for your cameo in series 2 - genius) - not that I think Peter berg reads this blog much or anything - but I thank him nonetheless. Andy my old mucker from work gave me a fridge magnet he bought in NY as a 'well done on having a baby' gift - and it is my favourite of them all - inscribed with the Panther's motto: Clear Eyes, Full Hearts. Can't Lose.

Sigh.

A photo that makes me happy...

2011-05-03T20:25:00.003+01:00

...because in it I see the joy on my Mother's face, her pride in her grandkids: little Roo and Sproglet. And I'm glad she came to visit, and that we got on well and that the sun shone. That the bitter, sad, frustrated nugget in my heart that I have carried for all these years has all but gone. I have forgiven and now it is time to forget. The older we get I realise just how fleeting life is - how many years I have left with my Mother, I do not know. So I'll take the time that I have and I'll enjoy and embrace it - more than I ever have done. I've moved on. Finally. I feel lighter and happier. And possibly a tad more grown up.

Madness!

2011-05-02T13:39:00.004+01:00

The week before last a little bit of paper fell through my letterbox and I picked it up, disinterested.
'Queen of Cakes we need you!' it declared and I thought that for junk mail it was fairly on the money - me, lover of all things cake. I opened it and inside was a letter from Breast Cancer Care suggesting I throw a strawberry tea party, (bake a load of cakes, invite mates round and charge them to stuff their faces with your treats) raise some cash and give it to them. What a fab idea I thought. Within minutes I'd roped in my cousin's girlfriend to do the (hard work) baking (I can manage a few cup cakes but am no pastry genius like my grandmother was), popped a date in the diary and invited all the fab women I know round my neck of the woods to such a soiree and even planned where I'll put me bunting. Now, I've invited about 16 women and told them all to bring a mate - if it rains I am buggered. It'll be like a sweaty club circa 1997; but hopefully as it is in June - the sun will shine. I've never done anything like this before - but with my friend's sad news a few weeks back and a few other things that have happened, I wanted to do something for breast cancer - even if I just raise a few hundred quid. Husband is getting me some fine champagne to sell by the glass and I've persuaded my best mate to mix up some pimms and offer it at a steep price - the key is to raise as much cash as I can...

One lovely lady I've invited then came up with the idea 'why don't we do a 5K run for Breast Cancer as well?' I said 'Yes' thinking - what a lovely idea, we can walk in the sunshine, yabber about nothing and have a laugh. Maybe stop for tea on route.

Except she actually means 'run' it. As in, trainers on - run, run, sweat, gasp, cramp... all that jazz. And I have said yes. I am still not sure why I uttered that word, but I have and I have to do this thing called 'training.' Dear god it is hideous. I feel for all the poor souls that have glimpsed my sweaty red pulsating self dribbling along by the canal where we live - staring at my stopwatch - willing the 3 min run to be up so I can walk again for 1 min. I have no idea how I am going to actually do this - it isn't until the end of June - but by then on my diet and with trainer boy, who knows, I may well be bionic woman (lost 7 pounds. 7 to go). Maybe the cake-athon that I'm hosting three weeks before will put a dampner on my training efforts - who knows. Now where did I put my apron?

Lick me now!

2011-04-26T21:19:00.005+01:00

So I'm really glad I started this diet malarkey the week before Easter. Oh yes, it has been a breeze to turn down chocolate daily as Sproglet collects egg after egg after big fat shiny sweet coco smelling, glinting in the sunlight screaming LICK ME! LICK ME NOW! egg... The worst being the bastard sons of the original hollow egg: the mini eggs - with their 'hold me in your mouth until my crisp sugary shell breaks and I ooze milk chocolate onto your tongue.... I dare you to try without gobbling me up whole.' Sproglet has a tonne of those buggers. Even as I type I have the urge to run into the fridge and dive amongst the colourful foils and end up like Alfred Molinari at the end of Chocolat, when he has a chocolate orgy frenzy in the window of Juliette Binoche's pretty little sweet shoppe. Old Juliette certainly liked the gooey brown stuff and yet she still snared gypsy Johnny Depp in that film - so why give it up eh?

Because I want my old wardrobe back even if it is old and out dated. I miss my faded grey jeans and my skinny dark blue size 27s. I have spent most of my 20s and 30s wishing I was thinner - always by that elusive half stone - and for once, I am going to get there. I want to approach *whispers* 40 (ok, tis 2 years away, but Husband bought me a 40th card for a laugh and it hit home...) feeling in the best shape of my life.

Plus, I went for a run for the first time in... well, since I was about 10 on Saturday night. IT WAS HELL. I followed some Paula Radcliffe article I'd read last week: run for 3 mins, walk for 1. Repeat 7 times. Sounded easy - how long is 3 mins after all? FUCKING FOREVER that is what it is. Here is how it went:

Reset stopwatch and Go!

This is easy, why didn't I run before? Good speed I'd say. Breathe, yes breathe. So must be nearly up by now. Starting to get out of breath, and feel a bit tight in the leg. Quick glance at stopwatch - 45 seconds? Eh?

Oh my god, do I really have to run for 3 minutes... ok I will. Just three then I can walk. Thank god for the walking. Ohhhh nice house. I want to win the lottery. Must buy ticket. Keep running, grab some muffin top to feel inspired. This will go if I keep on going. Good. Nearly there 2 mins 45 secs, come on, come on, oh must be 3 mins now.

Stop. Thank god. Can't believe I have to do this again. This walking is lovely. Why not just walk? Walking rocks? Best thing. No, must do it, do what Paula says - she of lots of medals and thin frame. Here we go again... This stopwatch must be slow, must be nearly half way... ok it is 1 min 5 secs. Oh god, I cant do this. My lungs are burning my legs are jelly and I am sweaty mess. 7 times. No way. Maybe 6. I like 6. Even number and all that. Oh thank god, is 2 mins 50. That'll do. Walking again. Bliss.

And on.. until I arrived home looking like a pulsating tomato, dripping in sweat. It took an hour for my face to be normal again. Sproglet asked was I ill. Yes. I fucking was. How on earth do folk run marathons? I am going to scrape my mate Peter's skin when he visits as I am sure he isn't human. Marathon people must be robots sent from another world to make us all feel bad...

So 6x3 min jogs and 6x1 min walks and I was a MESS. And my reward - Green tea! I would rather eat my own snot thanks a lot. Green tea is vile. Don't tell me you like the taste. I'd say if you do, you don't like yourself too much. Then came body pump on Sunday where my weak as a kitten triceps made an appearance - just to embarrass myself in front of all the other ladies - including a 60 year old - who could pump more than me and for longer. I should be on our bike downstairs as I type but I can't face it. Today is a rest day... My calendar has been marked - I have under 5 weeks. 11 pounds more to lose. It is so so hard to lose weight.

Today I jumped on the scales, convinced I must now be a waif - after all that no to chocolate and eating only green stuff and protein - come on - only 3 pounds? I have 5 more weeks of this. 5 weeks of no to cake - my best friend in life - no to bread. Just thinking about a crusty loaf gives me a wide on... No to alcohol (but I will neck a pimms on Friday - not that I give a damn about the Royal Wedding, but it is an excuse to be all British and smug for a day) and no to HAVING A LIFE. As of next tues cute trainer is back and he wants to make me pay for the sins of the cake that has gone before. My core strength is rubbish so we have to tone and firm up and basically this translates as - I will HURT. A lot. And sweat. And go very red. Maybe even puke. And at the end of it all those grey jeans will be mine again.

The closest I have come to chocolate this Easter is a wet kiss from Sproglet when he was sporting a chocolate moustache. Husband is on an even more radical health kick and looks 10 years younger overnight. I hate him. He lost 7 pounds in the first week and told me off for eating corn on my salad one night - as that is carbohydrate! The evil carbs! Christ I am boring myself now. Life is super dull without treats and lemon drizzle cake and a muffin for breakfast and a large red and a wee apple martini before bedtime and oh oh oh... I must stop before I get myself all excited.

Perhaps I will post some before and after shots. Please let me get to the after and let it come quickly... Right, I'm off to bed before the contents of the upper fridge starts to talking to me again.

Transsexuals, 38 and lard.

2011-04-16T19:21:00.006+01:00

Last week was manic. One of those weeks, you know, when you turn 38, catch a burlesque show, have a million kiddy play dates, eat cake for breakfast, cope with an exploding freezer, get hassled in the ladies toilets at BAFTA by a transsexual,are asked for kiss by a cab driver when you have a mouth filled with tuna sandwich (does that mean I've still got it? Not that I ever even had it, but... you know what I mean...)and have to read a book a day for some tv work you said you'd do in a moment of complete madness.

Husband was off work, Sproglet was off school, Sproglette was teething, had a raging cold and got 3 nasty big jabs in her chunky thighs - all of which conspired to make me CRAZZZZEEE. But I managed to escape 3 times - Tues night was a screening/discussion about the diversity film I worked on for the BBC last year - when I was a waddling - 2 weeks shy of Sproglette's birth. I went along with the writer who wrote the script and had a ball - charged at the free bar, gossiped with the director, caught up with some folk I haven't seen in ages. Oh and got told by a transsexual woman in the loos that the film was rubbish because the characters in it (from the soap I used to work on) didn't feature a transgender person. 'Which is because we don't have a transsexual character on the show' I politely replied. 'Well you should do' was her retort. How am I having this conversation I thought as I dashed to the safety of a cubicle. Afterwards I staggered to my train and then chatted the ear off some squillionaire who sat opposite me. I know he be rich as he lives in one of the footballer-esque mansions alongside the golf course - the kind of house you go 'ooohhh lottery win' when you drive past and try to get a better view through their enormous iron gates.

Thurs - I was thirty fucking eight. How is that even possible? Sproglet gave me a cake and Husband presented me with envelopes containing the printed out receipts to the gifts he had bought me that very morning on line. Then I had to dash out to complete a report - as I mentioned, I agreed to read chick lit novels with a view to 'would this make a good drama series?' and write up a report on my conclusions. Sounds fun - is fun - but takes f....o...r...e...v...e...r. The amount of work it took I reckon I made 10p an hour or so... Had a facial which was soooooo average - a 23 year old girl with a sing song voice talking about her Jane Austen inspired wedding and giving me a facial which I later found out she likes best for her skin. Yes her youthful skin... Really? Is this what I need as I race towards 40?? That night I went to the Hurly Burly show - fun frisky and fucking depressing glittery extravaganza, watching women with a-ma-zing bods strip over and over again. Mind you, if I could swing my nipple tassles in both directions whilst there are aflame, I wouldn't be sitting here now... One of the 'gals' was most certainly a man - with a fab tit job. I spent most of the evening trying to work out if she was really a he. What is it with me and transsexuals? Post strip show, I sunk a few old fashioned cocktails at a member's bar and a flirty cute waiter kissed me to wish me a happy birthday. A nice but mehhhh kind of birthday.

Friday we went to the park and tried to teach Sproglet how to ride his bike and then dashed off to see Scream 4. Why? Nostalgia. It sucked. So post modernly smugly clever aren't we super smart and down with the kids with our online streaming murders - what a load of cobblers.

Then - books read, reports done, Sproglet now on return playdates so is out of my hair, Husband back to work and .... *tumble weed goes past*. From manic to mundane. Summer has raised a sleepy eyebrow in our direction and a sinking fear knaws at my stomach - should I be thinking about work again... oh god, how am I ever going to marry work with my life? At the moment trying to remember nappies, my name and to eat is enough to be getting on with. Just to add to my 'things to do that never get done ever' list - I have joined the gym and got myself a trainer. Shoot me - I have become a suburban desperate housewife type who talks more to her trainer than her husband. Just kidding. He (trainer) is 24 (bless) and cute. Almost a third of me is body fat. True. I am a walking lump of lard. So - I have 6 weeks until the Italian wedding. 6 weeks of protein and veg and water and NO CAKE. NO FUN. NO LIFE. I have 10 sessions with cute trainer and after 1 I can't really feel my legs. He laughed at my attempts at press ups - and I explained that yes, I am as weak as a kitten. How long can I use the 'I've just had a baby' excuse? I have 14 pounds to lose. 7-8 kgs. How dull is all this dieting malarkey? But I have to - as I cannot get in my old clothes and I have no income for new ones... Needs must when your reflection in the bathroom mirror horrifies you - as the shower mist clears you realise you own all those tumbling rolls of fat - and boy did you have fun creating them. But they have to go...

If only I had a good surgeon's number from my transsexual buddies - a nip and a tuck here and there and I wouldn't have to bother with all this work out stuff.

So wish me and my lard luck.

Time to think...

2011-04-09T21:11:00.003+01:00

Today the sun split the skies - it is official - spring has sp-rung. The daffs are out, the snowdrops have vanished and its all chocolate eggs bursting out of the shops and flip flops dug out from the dusty back of the closet. No time to hose down the decking or give the grass a once over - the great British summer has arrived... and will no doubt vanish again by Tuesday. But hey ho - let's not complain.

Husband headed off to a fancy stag do - no strippers or cheap beer and comedy breasts - instead all french dining vintage reds and expensive cheeses - and I was left holding the children. My best mate popped round to do her DIY magic and another friend came to meet Sproglette for the first time. One of those busy days when I'm always making a cuppa, wiping a bottom, holding up a curtain pole, racing to the park, kicking a ball, tidying something.

If Sproglet asked once, he asked a million times - 'Can we go to the park now?' from about oh... 7am. So we did. Once there he bumped into some mates and whoosh - he was off. DIY best mate went hunting for screws and I chatted my other friend. As the sun danced shadows behind her shades, she turned and I caught a glimpse of something sad in her eyes, no matter how bright she smiled. She had sad news. The kind you don't have any words for. The kind that involves the C word. Her sister, at 40. And I stood bouncing my baby off my hip, feeling like a spare part - wishing with all my might that I could offer comfort or solutions or any of the usual things we try to grab when we want to help someone we care about. She was so stoic and calm as she shook herself - not wanting to get upset. As if shaking would rid her of such awful, awful news. I felt so devastated for her. It is all so unjust. 40. Selfishly I couldn't help but think I am 2 years off that number. Cancer just doesn't happen to people my age...

All around us kids clambered onto frames and squealed with laughter and I felt rooted to the spot - what can you say that hasn't been said? How many times will folk tell her that at least her Sister can now live for the moment - really live for it - as when your days are numbered you've got to, right? How hollow that is. Nothing in the world could prepare you for such news - or how to even begin processing it. We all know people who know people who go through this and we shudder and mutter words 'there for the grace of god....' And it resonates with us and we sympathise because we can't even start to empathise - and for that moment we try and imagine being in those horrendous shoes, and we can't no matter how hard we try - and relief floods us as we don't have to.

I watched Sproglet run like lightning for the ice cream van and my heart kind of lurched because more than anything else in the whole wide world I want to watch that darling little boy grow up. It made me realise how silly my petty fights and worries are. That when I look back on my life I won't care about the jobs I've done and the wild career highs - but I will care that I made it to Sproglet's first ever nativity play the day after I got out of hospital post daughter's birth. That I'll care that I hung out with my dear friends and was good friend (I hope) to them, and that laughed with my family (and forgave them their mistakes) and experienced great adventures with my Husband, who I love so much. Lately I have been really celebrating every day - just enjoying being the best Mother I can be and no more. Relishing time with my kids. And I am happier and more grateful than I have ever been.

Tonight I got in the bath again with Sproglet and he was so freakin' pleased about it. Frankly most folk would recoil from my flabby post baby body - but not him, bless him. We looked at my C section scar and talked all about him and Sproglette being born. He stared at my star tattoo (just on my hip - a permanent memento from my travelling days) and mentioned that he liked such 'stickers that wash off.' I told him that my sticker doesn't ever come off and he looked perplexed. Then we jumped into our jammies and I read him stories (one about the boy who caught a star and we remembered how we caught 5 star fish last week on a rock pool marathon - and threw them all back in the sea I may add) and then we lay in his bed and looked through every photo in my phone. They start with him at 3 days old and now are filled with him and his Sister (and a random shot of a rug - yes, the nesting continues). God that time has flown. He'll be five in June - but it feels like 5 minutes ago he was born.

I can't believe I'm going to say this - but I'm in no hurry back to work any more. All I want is this precious time with my children before they disappear off to have their own lives... It really is so fleeting. I want to grab every day and squeeze every last bit of goodness from it. Feeling blessed with my lot. I don't want some TV executive to at a whim dictate the time I get to be with my family - I don't want to slave my guts out for the status of some telly job that is badly paid and means feck all in the grand scheme of things. I don't want to feel my job is my life. I have a life - one that I love and cherish and means more than any paycheck.

A girl whose blog I love (The Girl Who - google her - she is fab - or check her out at Babble - an American Mummy blog site) just posted that she has quit her tv job and is going to write for blog sites for a living - so as she gets more time with her kids. She so deserves this and will be brilliant at it - it made me think of how much I want do something that lets me be with my little people much more - and lets me put my family first. If only I knew what that great job was...

Anyway, tomorrow promises to be another glorious day. The kind where us Brits reach for our BBQ gloves and a six pack of sausages, a bottle of Pimms and our factor 50. Who knows, this freak weather may even last past Tuesday after all...

Torn

2011-04-06T22:33:00.002+01:00

The yellow football swoops low - another kick and it sails up into the sky, accompanied by Sproglet's billowing laughter. Behind him my Father, his Grandpa, rushes up and scoops him into his arms, throwing him upside down, causing the Sproglet's giggles to bubble up - until he can hardly catch a breath.

I watch at the window, my heart in my stomach - moved more than I know how to say by watching these two play together. My son idolising his Grandpa - my Father, finally able to parent in a way he never could with me. Then my step Mother will offer to feed Sproglette and I'll barely get near my baby again that day as she tenderly bathes her and dries her and coos in wonder at my daughter. She can't get enough of her gummy smiles and delicious smell.

I am home. Back in the bosom of my family - a family that unites and divides me, that makes me feel whole and yet sends me running for the hills. The politics of the past seem buried - tired old stories that no one wants to revisit - and yet they are there - a scratch of the surface and they bleed.

And yet... Sproglet ran around with his cousins today (my Mum's ex common law husband's daughter's kids... follow if you can) - only popping in my would-be sister's home to ask for biscuits. And we sat - my would be sister and I - and talked as we watched our children bond, remembering how we were thrust together at the ages of 11 and 14. How through the messy murky years of her Father and my Mother's relationships, we fashioned our own sibling-esque bond that still is alive today. She threw a pizza in the oven and I supped tea and it all felt so easy - I had a small vision of how life could be - all the support and joy of my many families all together pitching in, helping me raise my brood.

Then I drove to the most glorious house I know - built out over the rocks and sea, to my Step Mother's daughter's house - where Sproglet is in awe of his step-cousins and they tear around the house rugby tacking each other and laughing until I think he'll be sick. The sun shines over the sea and the wind whips through our hair as we stand on the deck ad the view - the amazing view - calms me, until I feel I am utterly still. Then we have to go - rush on, rush on, more people to see, more tea to be drunk. No time...

And there is my Mum's ex - and he holds my daughter for the first time and Sproglet uses his Daddy's i-phone to take the most gorgeous picture of them both - and then we are out the door again - cramming more people in, trying to touch base with everyone before we fly home. A week in Ireland is never enough. I feel we've only just arrived, they have only just met my new addition. I wish for somehow my life to involve these folk all the more - that they were around all the time to care for my family in my childhood stomping grounds. Every time I drive past my old school my heart swells and I'm back there - art folder dragging in my wake, woollen tights itching my thighs, tie pulled loosely around my neck.

Home is so bitter sweet. The grey days and piercing sunshine across the coast. The rock pools and the freezing rain. The hearty meals with the cheap price tags. The never ending Irish good humour no matter what comes in our way. My dysfunctional, emotional, splintered family - laying their ghosts to rest as they embrace my children. Could I live here again I ask myself? My heart yearns but my head says no. I don't know. All I know is I hugged my Father goodbye tonight and hid from him my tears. Sproglet asked why I was crying and for once I had no answers.

People are strange....

2011-04-04T21:28:00.003+01:00

Still here, just not been feeling in a very blogtastic mood of late. All this parenting malarkey has turned my brain to mush and I spend most days feeling like I've rediscovered skunk, or am suffering from a permanent hangover or something. Normally I could vent, sorry, blog, at least twice a day on some nonsense or other - but lately I've just been amblin' along - taking in the view, more of an observer than participator - not that inclined to talk about anything much. There's no major angst, no earth shattering highs, just day in day out life ticking along...

But I'll tell you something I have recently noticed - people are odd. Fucking odd. The day to day politics of friendships, acquaintances, even folk at your local supermarket - is mind boggling.

What happened to people smiling at each other in the street eh? Now a days it is all eyes down, must not make eye contact, clenched smiles, hastily passing by careful not to brush shoulders. Not just on London tubes either - where at least there it always makes sense to avoid catching any one's eye as more often than not they be a nutter - a nutter who needs a new best friend - EXACTLY LIKE YOU. No, tubes aside - people these days just want to get on with their day - avoiding people.

Then there are your acquaintances - folk maybe you worked with. Now last week I popped into my old place of work - I was there was the guts of 3 years - and my god it was odd. One woman utterly blanked me as I waved at her as I drove into the carpark. Walked past her desk every day for 3 years - morning and night - and yet she looked through me. She arrived back from her lunch just as I was leaving and carefully avoided meeting my baby. Another looked at me, smiled stiffly and then dashed on - desperate not to stop and speak - as if I had some infectious disease. One guy - who may I add sobbed so much he couldn't actually speak, on the day left my job (for the first time) - barely gave me two mins because he had to hurry out for lunch with folk - folk he sees every day. At one point I checked that I was in fact still holding little Sproglette and not a rabid dog - as I seemed to have some sort of plague.

Meanwhile I told a really good friend of years recently how happy I was - how life for once felt good in the here and now - something I have struggled with all my life (as I constantly move those goal posts the minute I get to them) and she said..... nothing. Nothing. She ignored it and moved on. Because, I have realised - that it is ok to be miserable - folk know what to say to you when you have been dumped, or lost your job, or have zit, or had a bad date, or got crabs or whatever - but if you are *whispers* happy - then no soul wants to know. Take your goddamn smiley chirpy face and hide it until the mundanity of life grinds you down again - then they'll be all ears. People don't want to hear about your new home/fab job/ pregnancy/ hot sex with your new man/ successful weight loss/ lottery win etc unless they are in a good place themselves. As Gore Vidal said 'Whenever a friend succeeds, a little something in me dies.'

Admit it - how do you feel when a work chum gets a promotion - the one you went for but never told anyone? Or your once 'cuddly but she has a great personality' best friend climbs into her size 8 jeans for the first time in a decade? Or your neighbours get an extension you'd fantasised about for years? Or your old uni buddy is taking a sabbatical to whizz the family round the world for 4 months on the vacation of a lifetime? People don't want others to win, do they? Because that makes them feel that little bit uneasy, that bit less satisfied with their lot, that bit more inferior. Even though whatever happens to Sammy, Dicky or Joe - has no baring on your life whatsoever - won't change a little thing - it still bothers you even though you would never in your life admit it.

No, we smile that tad too widely, we make blustering noises and offer up our congratulations, our 'joy' at our friend/colleague/neighbour/relative's good news/fortune and then go home and sink a bottle of red and bitch to anyone who will listen that 'it will never work out,' 'she'll put the weight on again in no time,' 'I wouldn't work for that company in a million years - bastards the lot of them.' 'Its not good to take the kids out of school for so long - that's just selfish - and they're bound to get sick or kidnapped or what not,' or 'money never makes anyone happy anyway,' - then we'll feel better.

Because we are delighted for people when they are in a good place, we are honestly. They deserve it.

Never lasts anyway. Bah!

Adele

2011-03-19T18:07:00.003Z

If there is a more heartfelt live performance this year I will eat my hat and yours. Watch right to the end to see. It was the Brit awards and the O2 was packed full and yet you could have heard a pin drop... Respect for such a truly incredible voice.

Every time I hear this I get goosebumps. Enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qemWRToNYJY

(I would upload but can't somehow - yes I am technically rubbish).

On St Pats an ode to my school buddies. And I haven't even been drinking.

2011-03-17T18:14:00.007Z

Instead of writing this here blog while Spoglette slumbers and Sproglet giggles with a playdate buddy over Horton hears a Who , I should be in Mulligans in Mayfair with a load of insane Oirish folk (or more likely folk who pretend to be Oirish for a day) drinking copious amounts of vodka, wearing a hideous novelty Guinness hat and fitting in a mercy puke at around 7pm so I can drink some more; joined by my equally bladdered school buddies. A years old ritual that I have had to forsake as no one has yet put Sproglette to bed bar me - and I couldn't get a sitter until 7ish. By the time I would have rolled up at said bar I'd have had to down a bottle of tequila to catch up with the others who began the celebrations at oh... 3pm. Maybe later I'll make a wee home martini and raise a toast to them all by myself - what a fucking saddo, I know. But at the weekend I read an article about a woman and her bestest buds from school - and it made me stop and think about my bunch.

My school buddies. I realise I haven't talked that much about them on here and yet, well they're my other family. In the last few years I haven't seen as much of them as I used to when we were all single-ish and debt ridden and struggling our way through life in London. Or wherever. There was always a party, or a wedding or an excuse to get together, sink some shots, talk rubbish and dance badly to a tuneless pub band. Now our meetings tend to be less group, more couples - lazy Sunday lunches and the odd Xmas gathering. Lives are busy, folk are spread out across the land, people have kids to bed and jobs that actually require thought - so turning up in yesterday's clothes stinking of booze with your pants inside out shovelling Nurofen down your gullet using a can of red bull doesn't quite cut it.

I miss them all. Some of the best times of my life have been with this bunch. My oldest buddy I met at nursery - at 3, when he crapped his pants and I laughed at him. As you do. He has since been potty trained and decamped to Oz, married a Sheila and produced 3 sons. He practically had his own filthy language (when he campaigned to get on the sixth form committee I wore a badge saying 'vote for B, suck my plums' for 2 weeks) and made me laugh more than anyone else. Last time I saw him was Feb 2008... Oz's gain was our gang's loss. At his leaving do in Sep 2001 I got hammered and cried all night, because I knew we were losing him - and we did.

The next oldest chum I met when I was all of 6. At my new school my tendency to talk a glass eye to sleep meant I was quickly removed from the girls' table and forced to sit next to a boy. Yuk. At 6 life couldn't get any worse when you were forced to sit next to a knock kneed member of the opposite sex who looked terrified every time you glanced in his direction. Hell, I thought, I'm gonna have to talk to somebody - the poor kid didn't stand a chance. The teacher's plan backfired - C and I became great mates and a mere 32 years later I'm off to his wedding in Italy in May. Cannot fecking wait. After a few bottles of red he is fond of saying 'we made each other who we are today' in that slurred, blurred emotional way that you can only get third bottle in. But he's right. Somehow we all shaped each other - in ways we aren't even aware of.

These are the boys who called me a dog, (I was a particularly ugly teen it has to be said - before the veneers and braces) and eroded my minuscule esteem and yet now enrich my life and support me like brothers. Then I met G and C - at 7 they joined our primary school. G - was particularly cruel in his teen years - but went on to marry a great woman, find happiness and did a massive 360 degree turn and is now a George Clooney-esque, yoga loving gentleman who is possibly one of the nicest people I know. Who'd have thunk it? C and I used to play on our bikes, build dens, smoke behind the swings at our local park during our GCSEs and he saved my bacon when I held a party at my Dad's house aged 15 (one that clearly my Dad had no idea I was having of course) and the place was an utter shambles - broken glass, fag butts galore, raided fridge, rubbish and bottles everywhere... I have a clear memory of him raiding a beer mug filled with 1p coins in order for us to replace milk that my mates had stolen from our neighbours. The neighbours who held a grudge and squealed on me to my Dad when he returned. I'm seeing him and his fab family for lunch on Sunday.

Another - D - used to be my bestest drinking buddy in London. He took me to the Ivy for lunch and then made me return the gesture by taking him to dinner and spending £25 on a burger from a cow that had only eaten water and chocolate or something... We'd bonded at school over a love of all things Prince and the fact we both had our hearts stamped on at the tender age of 17. Luckily he married a woman who is now a close friend; I've been blessed that the boys all chose well and have only added great women to the group - one that keeps growing with all our off spring.

One of them (I also met when I was 6)swore he'd go to Cambridge and become a cardiologist - and he only bloody did. He's also the one I kissed when my best friend was seeing him when we were 13. Now that was drama! She forgave me - but only because I spilled the beans. He got dumped. Mates before dates - an important rule ladies. He's probably one of the most determined people I know - and whilst he isn't the most expressive of souls - I know that if the chips are down, he and his wife would be completely there for me. Like the time my Grandmother died two days before Xmas. Her funeral was at 9am on Boxing Day - a wintry, grey rainy day. They came through their evil hangovers - just to be there for me. That night they had everyone over to drink and play the cereal box game (where you pick it up with your teeth using nothing else and then it gets smaller and smaller until one friend E wore A's scrubs to limber on down to win it)and put a smile back on my face. Times like that, friendship is priceless.

Then there are the girls. Or as H's Mum calls us all 'the Ya Yas.' (She loved the book). My tribe. They know me best - and thank god they still love me in spite of this fact! They've seen every side of me and know all there is to know. They're still here. E (met her at 11) lives in Glasgow and is the most fiercely protective buddy I have known. This woman played rugby at Uni - I wouldn't cross her! I can still call her at all times of night with child related questions and as ever, she is there for. There is C (met her at 11 - she had a skirt with a huge split in it and was devastatingly pretty so we spitefully called her the slut) - who lived with me in London and has the driest wit in the world. She takes the piss out of me at every available opportunity and clearly I give her much material to work with. She has the best hair and the best heart. She weeps at adverts and on the stairs at parties and also at this blog.

Poor H (met her at 15 - she had train track braces and a cool NOO Yawk accent on account of her living there - she was obviously deeply cool and I wasn't) gets my hormonally imbalanced calls during the X factor when she is trying to relax on a Saturday night. When we were teens we chicks used to compare breast sizes (clothed that is) in the mirror and I always won. (I woke one day with curves. I was called 'skateboard' on a Wednesday and became Jessica Rabbit on the Thurs - honestly). Now she mocks my shopping trolley sized maternity bras and I send her bags of my maternity clothes as next month she will sprog twins. The joy of being able to be 100% honest with her about myself is such a support through all the rocky roads I have. I hope I never take her for granted - the way that with all great buddies we inevitably do.

There is V (met at 16) who still comes out of her hermiting to trade chat and banter with me - and who has the best laugh I know. She helped me when my first love and boy who I gave my virginity treated me like dirt (BTW he didn't accept my request to be my friend on facebook - what is that about? Maybe because he hooked up years after we left school with the scrawny elf like creature who fancied him the whole time I was with him at school... Like Murphy's I am not bitter). We propped each other up in our lonely skint Uni London days and even though I can go months and months without talking to her - the minute I see her it is like we only just spoke.

There is E - Godmother to my son, bridesmaid at my wedding, my travelling round the world buddy, the one who sank a bottle of red with me last night and who has been my most constant friend since we met at 9. I remember when she joined the police they asked her to write a short biography - but she got me to do it instead - she reckoned I knew her better than she knew herself. She still can be mysterious and there is always more going on than she ever lets you know - but she has been my most loyal and supportive friend in life.

It's hard to find the words about them all - everything feels too schmaltzy or cliched or trite. There are others unmentioned too - B, W, G, E... who I love just as much. We aren't in each other's day to day lives like we used to be - fighting in the playground, snogging in bars, breaking up at parties and borrowing each other's make up in the days when getting ready was often more fun than the actual night out... Some of the gang have lost touch with other folk in it. Lives move on, we grow up, we have more responsibilities, less time - geography stops us from getting together as often as we maybe even could. But every time we do hang out, we always think - we should do this more often. Every time we do, I find myself sitting there, missing them though they are still with me.

One of my favourite lines in a movie is where Lester Bangs tells the kid in Almost Famous that 'the only currency you have in this world is what you share with someone when you are uncool.'

All I can say is that with all these people I am deeply uncool.

Happy St Pats muckers x

The Bunnies

2011-03-12T22:00:00.003Z

Happy as a clam :)

2011-03-09T21:16:00.006Z

The other day I winced as I pulled my hands out of the soapy murky water after yet another round of bottle washing. Just beneath my wrist three small red dry patches itched as I re-filled the steriliser again. I took a moment to study my hands and realised they have never looked like this before. They are worn, tired, raw and patchy - a Mother's hands. Gone are the days of zany nail colours or pain stainkingly applied french manicures - just bitten nails framing a rough terrain - proof of hard work - the day in day out grind.

Yet I've never been happier. I can't remember a time in my life when I have ever taken the pressure off myself and... well, allowed myself to just be. Normally I'm stressin' about what job I should be getting, or the job I'm doing (Will I get fired? I'm sure my boss hates me.... should I still be doing this? How can I change it?) or am I striving hard enough, am I on a pathway or whatever. But at the moment I just take each day as it comes. They usually begin around 7:10 am with soft gurgles from my daughter's room cooing down the hall. I bounce out of bed eager to see her chubby rosy face beam the minute she focuses on me. It is such a kick to have someone that stoked to see you as soon as they open their eyes. Then Sproglet will pipe up that he is awake and we'll all shuffle into his room for a group cuddle. Sproglet LOVES his Sis - he calls her Roo Roo and insists on talking the poor baby's ears off in a bid to illicit a smile from her. She always obliges and I'd be lying if I said this wasn't the damn cutest moment of my day.

Then its a merry-go-round of feeding and dressing and bundling everyone out the door to school. Spring has sprung and the glorious sunshine of the past two days has made the steep walk there a complete pleasure. I like the small talk with a few of the crummier Mummies (I've weeded out a few) and watching Sproglet leap into class with an enthusiasm I pray he holds onto for years.

Then it's home for another bottle with Sproglette - and as she falls into a milky drunk sleep in my arms, I stroke the fuzzy tuft of hair beneath her little monk-like bald spot and nuzzle into her neck. It is like an addiction! I am smitten. It's like I finally get it. I understand the intoxication of Motherhood - the sheer bliss of caring for such a delicate and vulnerable little being. I never really understood it before - perhaps because first time around was so hard and stressful and such a goddamn shock. But now - everything feels rosy. (Never again will I go to a restaurant and look at the empty fouth chair and wonder if we'll ever fill it). I feel at peace. Like some missing jigsaw puzzle popped into place and I can't really put it into words - but I feel like I've arrived at a place I was always meant to be. File this blog post under 'lameness' - I am sure I sound either mad or worse - smug. I'm not, I promise you.

I am however, nesting my fucking head off. Must be all the time I spend in the house or something - but the carpenter has been, the painter is in next week, a trip to Habitat is in the bag and one planned to Ikea. Today I forced Husband to come with me all the way into Primrose Hill to buy lampshades. Yep - lampshades. Bless Graham and Green and all their ridiculously expensive desirable items. And what is it with my cushion obsession? Christ I'll need to go back to work at some stage before Husband is lost in a sea of soft furnishings...

Last Saturday I visited my acupuncturist as my hormones are still a bit zonked post baby. She remarked that she'd never seen me so content and happy. I've been going to her for almost 13 years. It sure has been a rocky old road to get here. And obviously, life isn't always going to be this charmed. But for the minute, I'm drinking it all up and tomorrow I'm going to invest in some industrial strength hand cream.

Nobody puts baby in the corner...

2011-03-03T21:09:00.006Z

Some nice folk in TV land got in touch with me about this here blog. How flattering, I know. Turns out that the very talented comedienne Sharon Horgan is doing a show about Mothers and they wanted to check me out so to speak. A lovely enthusiastic bubbly blonde researcher was dispatched pronto to shove a camera in front of me and ask me lots of questions. I know this method well. This is done to save time and money. The big wig producer types can then see how 'camera friendly' you are, and whether or not you give good story. Sadly my story wasn't deemed extreme enough - unlike the uber super mum who is 26 with 5 kids who she home schools while baking organic cookies and also flexing her Tracy Anderson sized bod. I'm just a regular crummymummy, a bit of a lush, with a perhaps unhealthy crush or two on embryonic boys - such as Riggins and Puck. (If you don't know who they are, then that is because you are not a saddo like me or a teenage girl). Nothing too exciting here they thought.

They'd be wrong.

I am fairly extreme - I swear. So extreme in fact that I partake in a casual spot of Latino Bambino to keep my buttocks pert. Haven't you heard of this latest craze? Oh that's right - you have a life. A friend let me in on the latest yummymummy hangout in North London - a plush glossy baby shop with eye wateringly bright objects for sale at eye watering prices, a cafe and an exercise room all under one roof - called Huggle. Yes, Huggle. Sounds like something Gwynnie would Goop about if she wasn't so damn busy with Glee and Oscar frocks and all that 'madness.' (Her words, not mine).

Every time I say the name a little bit of sick rises in my mouth. Anyway, I have a dear friend who was my 'paint the town red' buddy, as well as my 'ring for advice on anything and she will give it - no sugar coating required' buddy too. At 40, having always declared she never wanted kids, she has just popped out her first baby. (he really did pop out as well - she hired a Doula birthing partner who she projected managed her birth with). She is only person who, when she rang me to tell me she was preggers I replied 'fuck off!' instead of the usual 'wonderful, brilliant, blah blah...' Anyway to keep ourselves sane we meet up every two weeks to do something child friendly - but more importantly Mummy friendly - and we try to vary these activities to make each one a new experience - all in a similar anti military yummy mummy fashion. Other mothers tend to bring us out in hives - the kind who only talk about babies and poo and teething and seem to have pushed out their personalities along with the placenta.

So today I took her deep into the jungle of posh uber Mums at *swallows hard* Huggle for a Latino Bamabino class. For a mere £10 (then you have to book a course of 6) you strap on your child and shake your booty. Lots of mambo and shaking your maracas and hip wiggling. Cue smug looks of Mothers with swishy ponytails and big sparklers dripping off their hands as they congratulated themselves in finding something so clever that Mummy and baby can both enjoy. The only Mother who spoke to me said 'who have we here?' and nodded at Sproglette - which was nice of her, granted, but why not ask my name first? After all - I can speak. The teacher - a scrawny heavily made up dancer who looked like the west end had spat her out years ago, clapped along but looked slightly tired of the whole thing. A tin pot ghetto blaster pumped out the sounds and several Mothers filmed themselves boogying. Filmed themselves - why?? Thank god my mate had done her pelvic floor exercises or she might have peed herself from laughing. It was hideous. Sproglette looked bemused at best, mainly disgruntled. My breasts struggled to contain themselves and my feet went in opposite directions to the rest of the mancengo mammmas.

The other Mums took it very seriously - this was proper exercise before their long lunches and browsing in the shop that featured Jessica Alba favoured nappy bags. Good god, when did Mothering become a status symbol? This shop even sold designer dummy holding bags! I've seen it all... So we shook our thang for about 45 mins in a sauna hot room with a bright orange rubber floor. Then there was a mad scramble for the door (seeing as I'd nearly had buggy parking rage with a Japanese woman on the way in, I was taking no prisoners on my way out) as the women charged out to see who could drop out a nipple first. Post breast feeding they packed up their Harrods bags (who needs so much stuff?) and designer handbags and dashed off talking about nannies, and poo and how hil-ar-i-ous it was that their baby slept through the class because clearly that means it is a genius, while my mate and I just stood back mouths agape. There sure is money in those social climbing Mummy hills. Now if the TV cameras had grabbed a few seconds of baby lambada for the bored-desperate-to prove-themselves-more-money-than-sense-Mothers-of-North-West-London they'd have had tv gold for sure.

So, how you doin?

2011-02-11T19:45:00.004Z

I was lookin' back over my blog and all the various comments you guys have so kindly left on it and I thought to myself - this has been a very one-sided friendship - with me doin' all the talking. Which I know, is the point of a blog. But it got me thinking - who reads this blog? Why bother to check in with my dreary non glam existence? Do you check in weekly, monthly, every blue moon? Some folk have really helped me through difficult times with their kind words and cheery well meant suggestions - for example, the fabulous 8 who commented when I was at an all time low...

I'm genuinely curious about the folk that read this - as I honestly started this blog way back in 2008 - purely for myself, as a way to vent and in the hope that someone out there might identify with it and somehow feel less alone. I wanted to dispel the myths of motherhood and to lay some honest opinions on the line - possibly because becoming a mother was the loneliest thing I ever did (at the time) and I wanted to scream from the rooftops 'no one ever told me it would be like this!!!'

Some of my friends read the blog rather than calling (Caroline... *wags stern finger at her*); The Girl Who has championed it on various sites (Gawd bless Monica - she inspired me to blog to begin with as her own is just so brilliant) and apart from that some names keep reappearing on the commenters - Keenie Beenie, Chaos, Liz (Can I be invited to read your blog by the way?) Daycare Lady... But in general I have no idea who is clicking on here, or what they get from it. Noe maybe you'd rather be a silent viewer - and that's cool - but I fancy a bit of chat. Or what we in Ireland call banter, so here goes:

So - do you live in somewhere much more exciting than Hertfordshire, England? I bet you do.

Do you ever give your kids cough medicine just to get them to sleep?

Have you got a crush on anyone young enough to be your kid? Or secretly your hot new neighbour?

If you had to read only one book for the rest of your life - what would it be?

Why do you read this here blog?

And finally... Salted or sweet?

Go on - come out to play? Pleeeaaassse..... It isn't even a school night.

Object of desire...

2011-02-06T20:16:00.009Z

I shouldn't have done it. I know, it was wrong. Why enter a domain that you have no business going into?

It was a busy Saturday - yesterday - when I trained it into London to change lots of my daughter's baby gifts. Not, I hasten to add because they aren't lovely (I am grateful for every pretty one of them) - but because some of them she will never get her increasingly chunky frame into in the next month, or we got duplicates of the same thing etc. So, waste not, want not and all - I braved Oxford Circus and dashed here and there picking various outfits etc in replacement. The shops were packed, I was hot and sweaty inside them and freezing my ass off outside - and wishing that I was spending the time cooing over clothes that I no longer fit these days.

A really dear mate was meeting me, to then come back and stay over. I texted to find out where she was as she'd arrived in London a bit earlier and she replied 'In Selfridges - the shoe dept - HELP!'

Now Selfridges is amazing - a luxurious store in the centre of London for all those USA readers. Think Macy's... Recently they devoted half a floor to an all new shoe department called simply 'The shoe collection.' Heaven on a stick. Rows and rows and concession after concession of exquisite teetering shiny polished shoes screaming 'buy me even though you can't actually shove your trotter into me and will never be able to walk more than a metre in me without calling a taxi.'

When I huffed my way there I called her to find out where she was - it is a BIG department. She sounded apologetic: 'I'm in Christian Louboutins.' Oh dear. The king of shoes. The man clever enough to put a red sole on all his shoes - a trademark that ensures everyone who wears them can show off their status - as only Louboutins flash that deep red wink with every step you take. I've met the man and he is terribly nice in a sexy french doe-eyed camp but humble way. He wouldn't know me from a bar of soap - but my god I love his babies.

Now this buddy of mine is someone I lived with in my gay old days gadding about London dating the wrong sort of guys, losing my wallet on a weekly basis and frequently falling out of a taxi after a shot too many. Heady expensive live-for-the-moment times. Long gone days. Trying on shoes with her felt like - well, stepping into a comfy old slipper - we'd done this routine many times and many moons before.

The minute I entered the shop area, I saw them.

They cried out to me with their delicate features and strong silhouette.

"Ohhh helllooooo." I oozed, sounding like a dodgy Italian waiter trying his luck with a blousy drunken girl on her fourth cocktail.
"Try them on," Claire urged.
No. Inside my head was screaming: "No - don't do it. Step away from the sexy shoes Step AWAY."
My heart was falling in love with an object - something I haven't done since Adam and the Ants released their 'Prince Charming' album in 1983...

Seriously. It has been so so long since I coveted something that wasn't 'we need it for the house' or 'wouldn't Sproglet love it.' I cannot remember a time when I desired something - just for me.
The twenty five year old buried inside me skipped to the fore and as I held those peep toed wonders in my hand, I felt, well, like ME again. Gone was the dreary Mother covered in vomit and baked beans, with a lardy post baby middle and a permanently tired expression. With one quick flick of a discarded sweaty sock and a twist of ankle and hey presto! I was a giddy foot loose and fancy free TV presenter of old. It conjured up memories of years ago - buying things that we know we shouldn't and wondering how we'll pay the rent that month (not that I ever actually did that - I was far too worried about bills and money to ever throw caution to the wind and make the leap to silly debt for a fabulous wardrobe).

If they looked amazing in my hand (well, once I had summoned the courage to ask for a size 6, convinced the shop assistant would be wondering why on earth this dowdy woman was daring to covet a Louboutin) and popped on my foot they burst into life. I could even walk in them! I was smitten. They were a work of art - timeless, stylish, dainty, sexy and a statement in themselves. I wanted them. I wanted them more than a date with Brad Pitt with a bottle of baby oil. I wanted them more than anything - just to be that girl once more. To dance in heels and feel no responsibility; to swish round town in heels that made me feel a million dollars.

But of course I didn't buy them.

I don't have that kind of money - who am I trying to kid? No amount of justification: 'what if I saved for like six months? What if I sold, I dunno, my TV? What if I begged Husband as he owes me for birthing a daughter for him?' would allow me to part with the extortionate amount of money required to own these beauties. Because I don't have it and because deep down it would be wrong. I am not working at the mo, gawd knows how I will ever work in TV again with 2 kids, the bills keep a comin' and my life does not require fancy pants shoes in it - school run in these spike heels? I think not.

But yet, I wanted them. So much. For a wedding I have to go to. For the one night a year that I will go somewhere with Husband for a meal and we'll pretend to talk about something other than the kids. For myself. For the girl I used to be - in my dim and distant past. I can't stop thinking about them - like a stupid teenage crush. They are simply perfection. Ahhh.

Oh well, a girl can dream.

Speaking the truth

2011-01-26T20:46:00.005Z

So I managed to get 5 minutes today to myself - not much time to do anything of note - even an eyebrow pluck takes a good ten mins (there is always another hair or two if you twist your face to the light) - so I used it to flick through Grazia magazine. Mostly purdey pictures of stuff I can never afford (£400 for a clutch bag? I think not) but also a few articles that take only 20 secs to read. Perfect. One was about a girl who didn't like her best mate's boyf. At all. Worst of all - she told her. Yep she sat her best mate down and broke the news to her that she and several other mates didn't like him one jot - and then reeled off all the reasons why... Amazingly she and her best mate are still bezzie friends, although they 'do see less of each other' and never mention the bloke when they do. Funny that.

Now I've been in this predicament myself a few times. But unlike this brave (or mad?) woman - I've never told my friend, 'Oi, see that bloke you're in love with, or indeed married to, well, he aint my cup of tea.' I've always reckoned that it is the quickest way to lose a mate. You are telling them that the person that they hold in the highest regard, you frankly don't. Well, what has it got to do with you in the first place? It isn't like you're in a relationship with the twat - your mate is... And that is her (or his) choice. But down in the pit of your stomach, there is the niggle - if I am a good friend, surely I should tell them that they are making a massive mistake dating such a tool? Then you think: maybe I'm a better friend by keeping a dignified silence, letting my mate live their life as they see fit (after all they are a grown up). What to do? Well - opening one's mouth can only lead to one result - tears. Your own. As your mate tells you to sling your hook and spends the next few years bitching about you to all your other mates - the clever ones who kept quiet. For sure when mate with dodgy partner/husband/wife/lover/girlfriend/boyf isn't around they'll all cheerfully moan and relish picking apart the relationship - but the minute your mate arrives - hey presto it's all fake smiles and chumminess.

I've done those fake smiles and super chumminess myself. Kept it up for 8 whole years once. That is a LOT of fake smiling I tell you. Especially when they went up the aisle. The tears my mate's Dad shed that day were not ones of joy... My friend who saw sense eventually and kicked the loser into touch now wonders why no one piped up - most of all me, her bridesmaid. But my theory is that you simply can't. Because it isn't your relationship - and only the two people in the relationship really know what is going down. You aren't gonna like everyone all of the time - and that includes friends' partners. Most of all - who are we to judge? As long as our friends are happy - then why should we rain on their parade? Different situation entirely if your friend is miserable, but even then - you can't be the one to tell them to leave, they have to work that one out for themselves.

This article got me a thinkin' - what would you do? Avoid the couple in question as much as poss and hope that it all blows over eventually? Cross your fingers that the love that appears to be blind will suddenly sprout a pair of specs and see the true colours before them? Not so easy if they are wed or worse, have kids. Then you just have to bite your tongue and try and find the best in the person who doesn't exactly rock your world. Maybe there are folks out there that dislike my Husband. Or - hard to believe I know - friends of his who don't like old CrummyMummy too much? Husband reckons if he didn't like a mate's Mrs he would say. But I didn't hear him piping up too loudly when his best buddy dated a dumb, fake breasted, insecure personality-less bimbette for almost a year....

There is of course the fact that just cos you don't click with the other half, doesn't mean others won't. But there is something to be said when a group of you all share similar feelings - what then, will someone raise their hand and spill the beans? Who would risk it? You might read this and say - I would always be honest, hand on heart. But would you, really? Even if your mate wasn't asking for your opinion, would you throw it out there just for the hell of getting it off your chest? Isn't that what the moment in all romantic comedy weddings is for? 'Does anyone here present have any reasons why these two may not be joined in holy matrimony? Speak now or forever hold your peace?'

My money - hold that peace in for all you are worth. And no drinking at the reception - just in case.

Second time around...

2011-01-20T20:12:00.006Z

...is very different. Day from night, black from white blah blah. First time around with Sproglet circumstances were very different: for a kick off I hadn't done the whole motherhood thang before. Then there was the heatwave (hottest day ever recorded in London, being stuck in a boxy top floor flat and the fact the council were building flats behind me and unloading concrete outside my window four times a day for an hour each time. Then there was the small fact I only had 3 months worth of money, so the clock was tick tick ticking - to lose weight (I was on screen presenting in those days), find a job, (when tv channels were shutting down left right and centre and competition for work was at an all time high) find childcare and get back and earn. Looking back, the pressure was immense and I felt every day I was struggling to tread water. I went from gal about town to trapped in a sweat box with a screaming child. To say it was a shock to the system is an understatement. I was also crushingly lonely and terrified of other Mothers and happy clappy sing-alongs - I can't hold a single note let alone a tune. 'Row row row your boat' brings me out in hives... It was hideous.

This time round is a whole new world. I have a rough idea what to do. I don't have much cash, but I don't need it either. I don't want to change careers, or am worried about finding a job - not yet anyway - there is no building work near me and I live in a comfy warm house - no mansion, but compared to the flat it is a palace. Also I know lots of folk - so every day I manage to see someone, have a coffee, or take Sproglet swimming or whatever. And the biggest shock of all is that I'm actually enjoying my baby, motherhood, and all the challenges it brings. I remember when I had Sproglet when a midwife told me to 'enjoy your baby' I looked at her as if she was mad. This red howling bundle had just nuked my life as far as I was concerned. I didn't know how to tame the beast either. But this time - well, without ten tonnes of pressure on my back, I can just kick and back and think 'all I need to achieve today is that the kids are alive, fed and clean by the end of it.' If I get that, then I'm happy. Believe me, getting through bath time warrants all kinds of awards (am doing it alone remember) so keeping it all together for a whole day feels like I have climbed mountains.

And boy am I in love. My daughter is just delicious. Even when she cries and her little face scrunches into that of an old red puffing man and she makes that grating wah wah wah wah cry - it makes me smile. I could rub her fluffy head against my cheek all day and drink in her milky sweet scent until the sun no longer shines. When her chubby cheek curls up on one side and her gummy smile reaches her twinkly blue eyes I have scored gold. When Sproglet drips water on her belly and then kisses it in their shared bath time, my heart kind of slips into my stomach. My life isn't filled with exciting stories and crazy nights - but it feels slightly magical at the moment. I get to wrap this precious bundle into my arms and rock her to sleep, listening to her contented snores. I get to watch her begin to focus on the world around her and glimpse the beginning of her relationship with Sproglet. There is a contentment that I have never known. I have a family - and all the silly moments: Sproglet imitating Mr Bean, telling me at school they asked about Daddies and he piped up 'my Daddy has smart hair'; Sproglette gazing at her Bro; eating enchiladas for dinner and talking Ben 10; bath time bubbles floating in the air like snowflakes; story time with 'the snail and the whale' for the 50 millionth time; when Sproglet first sees me outside the window at school and his face cracks into a huge grin - well, they are insignificant, mundane and utterly priceless.

Gwyneth Paltrow and I - one and the same - no?

2011-01-14T19:36:00.001Z

Good old Gwynnie Paltrow. When the chips are down at least we can rely on Gwynnie to tell us working Mothers how to manage our days, and to share with us how she 'copes.' Brilliant. Now I know where I have been going wrong all these years. For those of you who aren't familiar with Gwyneth's life guru website - it is called 'Goop.' In it she shares her tips on oh, where to stay when one holidays in Spain, or what fancy restaurants to eat at in London - we'd have to re-mortgage our houses to eat there, but hey, that's just a little stop off cafe for our Gwynnie. She shares such delights as to what movies we should watch - suggested by her buddy Steven(as in Spielberg) and what music to play at our soirees courtesy of Sam (Ronson). In between advising on 'bowel elimination' and how to de-tox (using an uber expensive brand she loves) she has time to model her key wardrobe looks per season (Stella McCartney always features - such a snip Stella's gear - a mere £400 for a blouse) and how to rustle up great meals - such as home made sushi for our kid's organic, gluten free, toxin free, flavour free meals. Hurrah!

Her latest mail out nearly made me wet my pants. She and Stella talk about their manic days as working Moms - Gwynnie's included fitting in a workout, baking cupcakes, lots of busy phonecalls about the gyms she runs and exhausting herself into a sweat by trying on lots of clothes for various swanky dos she had coming up. Phew! Not forgetting the crisis as the coffee maker was on the blink! The horror!! How does she manage it - with someone else collecting her kids and babysitting them that night (whilst they played on their i-pads - what else would they play on for christ's sakes?)and no doubt personal assistants/housekeepers to go along with her team of stylists etc?

Have a look: http://goop.com/?page=newsletter_vn&id=most_recent

So in the spirit of things I thought I would compare mine:

5am Baby wakes. I feel like a zombie as I only laid her down 5 mins ago. Ok, at midnight the night before, but it feels like 5 mins ago. Feed her, burp her. Will that burp outta her so I can lie back down in a sweaty heap for another ten mins. She burps.

Then vomits all down my shoulder, back, the bed, sheets, pillows and herself. She smiles. By 5:30am she is tucked up in her Moses basket and I am stripped naked, changing into another obligatory set of crap clothes. Jeans that are held together at the top with a hair bobble - the old 10 pounds plus refusing to move post baby.

6am She cried - I jump up like I am on fire - but she is still sleeping. Good trick. She plays this one on and off until 7am when Sproglet rushes in asking me an important question about a film we saw a year ago. Morning has indeed broken.

7:30 Sproglet is watching TV refusing his cereal and demanding pancakes. Not home made I add. We have one left in a pack, past it's sell by date - I give it to him anyway. Sproglette is howling. She has a dirty nappy. I change her. Mid change she grunts and low and behold she has crapped in my hand. Nice. I dash to get a clean nappy only to return to discover she has weed on my bed. And herself. 3rd outfit change for her and it aint even 9am. (Very Gwyneth).

8am I am in the shower washing baby sick from my hair. Sproglette is watching me from her chair, squished into the bathroom as it is my only way to get washed. Sproglet then comes in needing a poo. Fab. He mentions that my tummy is still big. I feel great.

8:15 Sproglette decides to kick off wanting a feed. I have 15 min to get on a maternity pad, some knickers, grim clothes and dress my son too, not forgetting a quick spray of the nit repellent as his school has them again. I shove baby in the pushchair, my wet hair gets a quick blast with the dryer and I drop some conjunctivitis drops in my eyes. I look hot. Not. Sproglet has crazy hair, his school clothes look like they were never ironed and he drops in that he needs something urgent for school - like a costume or other.... We get our winter coats etc on and discover it is pissing down.

We race up the hill to school and I drop Sproglet off. He looks like a drowned rat. I possess no coats with hoods so my hair is stuck to my head. Glad I dried it earlier. Get home and house is a state.

9 - 12. Do laundry. Do laundry. Fold laundry. Do some more laundry. Oh and just for a change - do laundry. Discover shower is leaking, put away breakfast dishes and then try and eat some of my own. Too late - Sproglette has awoken - needing feeding, changing, cuddled etc.

12 - 1 Try to email folk, wonder where on earth I will ever get a job again, look at bank balance and feel faint. Worry about the bills that just arrived, the fact I have 10lbs to lose until I can wear more than 2 pairs of jeans in my wardrobe ever again, notice I have two new spots and a whole fleet of new bags under my eyes.

1-3 Pray Sproglette will sleep so I can sort PE kit/swimming kit/ unload dishwasher/plan meals/food shop/make meals/clear out fridge/reply to letters/emails etc. She doesn't sleep.

3:15 Marching up the hill again. What fun. Still raining. Collect Sproglet, get told off by the teacher for not remembering to bring a donation for some event or other. Slink off home after making 'chat' with the other mothers who look at with something somewhere between pity and disdain. Sproglet dumps everything when he gets home and demands TV. I suggest we bake cookies. He makes a face. Sproglette cries. I turn on the TV. After an hour I insist he plays - so I end up being 'the baddie' in some Ben 10 drama he concocts. I am blasted with guns and lazers. Holding a baby.

Somewhere between 4-7 I try and make dinner. usually with Sproglette in a sling thing. She sleep, I chop, cook garnish and shovel in my gullet as quickly as humanly possible - delighted with my stir/fry or chicken in parma ham with a side of veggies etc. Sproglet makes a face and wishes he had pasta. He takes an hour to eat 4 bits of chicken and 3 noodles and two bits of cucumber. Just as I am bout to eat said dinner, Sproglette wakes and howls. A neighbour calls to ask why the bins haven't been collected, something in the oven burns and Sproglet bites his tongue by accident and has a meltdown. I eat one piece of chicken (diet diet diet joy!) before I need to feed Sproglette.

I decide to do bath time. I run a bath - as the baby sleeps. Get my son it in. Just as he is splashing around - she wakes. I dry and dress him with one hand. I feed her a bottle and read him 2 stories and the same time. I realise I have needed to wee for 4 hours and not had the chance. Sproglet finally slumbers whilst I try and prepare everything for the next day - hunting for a matching sock for at least 30 mins and clearing up ben ten toys - after almost losing a toe standing on one. Feed the baby. Lay her down. She again refuses to sleep. I try and drink a cup of cold tea.

Around midnight. After walking up and down my street like a lunatic with a buggy - baby slumbers. I peel off skanky clothes and throw myself into bed, my head racing with the things I didn't do, the shampoo I forgot, the person I was meant to call (two weeks ago). The thank you letters I still have to write for all my daughter's newborn gifts.

5am Baby wakes - and repeat the above.

See, my and Gwyneth - identical lives eh? Oh yes, I used to have a full time job as a script editor on the biggest drama on British TV - regularly pulling in 9 million viewers. It wasn't stressful or nothing. I ran the house, was 9 months preggers, looked after my son and have a husband who works crazy hours opposite to mine. So I totally get how stressful it is trying on frocks and going for dinner with the girls Gwyneth. I simply am in awe how you manage it.

The whole epic shebang...

2011-01-04T13:44:00.003Z

THE BIRTH:

The day my daughter was born was both one of the best and worst of my life.

So we'd arrived at the hospital at 9:30 - a tad late and I had phoned to apologise (oh the irony) - that traffic was insane - and then I proceeded to wait. And wait. And wait. In a fetching gown, no pants and surgical stockings. Bottle green stockings. Nice. Who decides on such colour? "Forget the sexy pink - let's go with... ah yes, the bottle green. That'll cheer up anyone waiting for an op for sure." Grim.

All I could think about were the needles about to be rammed into me, the pain post op and the fact my son hadn't really been himself when we'd dropped him at a neighbour's house and explained that his Granny would collect him from school that day. In my head I pictured a momentous movie moment replete with tears and hugs and all that jazz when later that day Sproglet would meet his little sis for the first time. I pictured how they'd exchange gifts and he would be over-joyed and no longer would he wear the fearful look on his face he had been sporting all weekend. Having had a section before I should have been more relaxed - but I wasn't. I was dreading the moment they'd jab those tubes in my hand - even with a local administered I knew how those fecking tubes hurt - and then the monster epidural needle in my back. I'd been nil by mouth since the previous night and was tired, nervous, hungry and thirsty as I lay on a hospital bed and tried to amuse myself in the arduous wait. I even watched 'Loose Women' on the free tv thing - yes, I was that bored.

At 11am they told me they'd had an emergency section in theatre, but I would be next. Then they took another planned section instead of me. I was meant to be next but another emergency took precedence. Then another. Then another. When the head of the ward walked in with a cup of water at half past four I knew she wasn't bringing good news. She was bringing a glass of water as a peace offering - but I wasn't feeling so damn peaceful. No, I was an anxious ball of rage. I burst into tears, worried that I wouldn't have my baby that day at all. All my little movie monet fantasies went right out the window and for a moment I wished I could grab a bread knife and slice myself open.

I didn't think I could go through another day like this one. There was only one theatre on the ward, which they kept free in case any woman mid birth suddenly needed an emergency section. The selfish byatch. Only joking - I understood, I really did. But oh my god - could these women not shut their legs for two minutes? Maybe an hour, just so I could get my sprog cut out and then they could go back to their difficult labours? Sorry, but my patience had run out. And my sense of humour.

Head of ward woman took pity on my tears and told me she had a plan to open the second theatre. (Could this not have happened earlier? Or did it take a mad Irish woman with an unhinged glint in her eye - that's me obviously - for this ward women to suddenly find her second theatre keys??) An angry anesthetist came under my curtain - I thought to start the whole drip thing to keep fluids in me - but thankfully she brandished a bit of paper - with a name to write a complaint letter to - full of apologies that I had had to wait so long - saying that folk having hip operations didn't get bumped if someone came into hospital having fallen, so why are planned sections made to wait (often until the early hours of the morning) when they should have an allotted time? Hurrsh for this woman. She speaks the truth. I could have hugged her. The mental torture of knowing you are about to be drugged up and sliced open is really exhausting. That's before I even mention waiting behind a bland blue curtain - staring at it for 8 hours, wearing no pants and without the aid of a cuppa or gin to keep you mellow. I wanted to scream - just get me in there! I mean, I'm the kind of woman who schedules my smear tests for 9am - my thinking being I don't want to spend the whole day worrying about someone jack knifing open my v-jay-jay - kind of how you lift a car to change a tyre - so I get up, get on with it. It is the thought of something that gives me the heebeejeebies - not the actual event itself.

Anyway, I got into theatre about half five. In went the grim needles, the epidural, the cold water sprayed on my back. My floppy breasts hanging outside my gown as if they had given up on life. I promptly threw up. Oh yes, I was in full attractive mode - spit hanging from my mouth - legs marked with spider veins, hair stuck to my head, listening to folk shear my pubes away. It felt very like a conveyor belt - one in, one out. The team were tired, over worked. Knew they had another section to do that evening and just wanted to get on with it. At that moment, lying on the slab, I really wished I could do natural birth because I am sure the whole experience is infinitely better than a section. You can do it at home or in a hot pool for a start. With nice white candles dotted around and maybe a joss stick. A midwife squatting between your legs - all very hand holding and snuggly. My sections were a world apart - it felt so cold and not just the epidural. It felt like a means to an end, rather than a euphoric moment. When a guy walked in wearing a helmet covered in a plastic guard that said 'splash cover' on it and announced he was assisting - I told him how comforting that was. Husband was incredible. He held my hand (although earlier failed to hold his temper with all the goddamn waiting and him on a rickety chair for 8 hours) and kept telling me how brave he was. For some reason I was obsessed with the question - is she healthy? That somehow having 2 perfectly well kids was asking for too much... I said so many silent prayers I couldn't think straight. I kept trying to bond with the team - asking what they wanted Santa to bring them etc and they all pretty much ignored me - celarly thinking the drugs were working - all too well.

Then I heard her. A magnificent cry. I asked 'Is it a girl, they said it was a girl?' But they couldn't tell me. She wasn't even out of me yet and she was hollering. Clearly a child of Irish descent. They held her up at 6:14pm - my beautiful bunny - and wrapped her and brought her over to my husband. I couldn't help it - the tears of relief started to flow. I kept asking if she was ok and the midwife told me she was beautiful. I'm sure they say that to every new Mum - but I bought it, she was indeed beautiful. No cone head, a button nose and plump pink skin. I was much more emotional than the birth of my son - maybe because I was so fecking relieved, the op was almost over, she was here, I was no longer pregnant. Hurrah. Goodbye heartbrun and piles, hello sleepless nights... Maybe because I knew all along I was having a girl - so I was much more prepared this time - I wasn't expecting a girl and ended up with boy, or vice versa - I was able to just enjoy her. Well, if you can enjoy anything drugged to the eyeballs while folk stitch you up and you can't move three quarters of your body.

Funny thing is she looked exactly like Sproglet when he was born. A clone. His nose, his full lips, soft fluffy hair and big eyes. She smelled that delicious baby sweet smell that is utterly intoxicating. It isn't hard to fall in love with such a helpless, cute bundle. But I had to wait until they were wheeling me to recovery to get my first hold of the newest member of my family.

I was stitched up and finally taken out of theatre to recovery. However, I was wheeled back to... the room I had just rolled around in for 8 sodding hours. I never wanted to see the fecking blue curtain again. The wee one wasn't getting warm enough so they put her tiny 7lbs 1 oz body under a grill thing to heat her up. They fed me morphine which failed to abate the searing pain tearing through my abdomen. By midnight I was hooked up with triple strength morphine - and still I was so sore. Something about them cutting through scar tissue meant that second section was far from a walk in the park. My legs were still numb, the tubes still dragging on my hand, my belly still 8 months pregnant and swollen. Eventually I was wheeled to the Knutsford suite (i.e. heaven in a room. A £400 a night room but heaven no less) at 10:30pm and placed in the hands of a midwife who was fittingly an angel. Husband left just before 11pm and I tried to process how I was feeling: I was shattered, elated, relieved and in dire need of a good cup of tea. The tea and toast angel Tracy brought were the best I have ever tasted. I lay and marvelled at my daughter and counted my blessings that she was safe and well. Had I not been so emotionally wrung out I am sure I would have stared at her all night - but instead, sleep was calling.

The private room I know cost a fortune but was simply the best money I have ever spent. That first night my midwife Tracey helped feed my newborn, swaddled her and provided the care that post section, I couldn't physically or mentally give. She answered my questions, she understood why I wanted to give my daughter formula to stop her hunger, and supported this without the usual midwifery judgement that makes us all feel like shit mothers within an hour of giving birth. For 2 hours she stayed with me. I didn't feel overwhelmed or alone. I felt pampered. It was a million times better than when I was left post section after my son. I say to anyone - get a private room!! Sell your tv, your sticker collection - your Husband, but get thee a private room. It makes all the difference to your recovery I swear.

Sproglet:

The next day another midwife helped me shower - in my own bathroom - and dress. Having someone help you put on your pants is an underrated privilege when you have just had an operation. I relaxed in front of my plasma tv, in soft low level lighting, eating a hearty breakfast. I could have been in a fancy schmancy hotel were it not for the hospital bed and sanitary towels the size of bricks laid out in the bathroom... It was so damn comfy I never wanted to leave. Sproglet arrived that day after school - and we introduced him to Riley, his new sister. I had Husband primed with the video camera and I'd taken a deep breath - hoping that my tears of complete joy wouldn't make him afraid. I'm a single child, and I've always dreamt having 2 kids - so that they'd never have the childhood that I had. Introducing them was a moment I'll never find the words to express - even thinking about it now makes my throat itch and the tears start to form in the corners of my eyes.

He stroked her head and was overjoyed when she gave him a Woody toy that he had long coveted. I told him she had great taste in toys and a telepathic powers and he didn't question this. My Mum told me how the day before he had slept for an hour at nursery, needed cuddled for half an hour and hadn't been his usual sunny wee self at all. This broke my heart - and for the first time in my life I was torn between wanting to tend to the baby and wanting to smother Sproglet in affection 24/7. He was wearing badge that school had given him saying 'Finn's Fantastic news.' Bless his school, they gave him Mr Snuggly (the new Kipper) home for the night (ha! Husband had to write the 'I went home with Finn today and we did blah blah...' story) and had made an almighty fuss of him. As he left he looked at me so mournfully I bit my lip not to cry. My Mother later told me he kept asking when I would be home. If someone had carved out my heart with a knife it would explain how I felt when she said this.

We eventually got out of hospital on Wed evening and when I walked in and saw Sproglet I burst into tears. (There are lots of tears in this post. Oh yes, the hormones were RAGING through my body. If I looked at Sproglet, my husband, the baby, or most of all when I looked in the mirror - I cried.) He hugged and hugged me and then asked me to move out of the way, Ben 10 was on telly. And so we 3 became 4. The next week was a blur of midwives, trying - and failing to successfully breast feed, visitors, cards - a sea of pink, no sleep and celebratory glasses of wine. Maybe a gin or two. Or three. I made sure that the morning after I got of hospital I was at Sproglet's school, watching him as an innkeeper (he looked more like a transvestite al qaeda terrorist in the costume I had fashioned for him) in his first ever nativity play. His wee face lit up when he saw me and he barely took his eyes off me the whole time - waving like a madman. That week he was needy and irritating and attention seeking and all the things you wish to god your child wasn't when your energies are so sapped by a new born. I have never felt so torn in my whole life. On one hand I wanted to comfort him and reassure him, on the other I had a mewing newborn who needed wiped, changed, fed, burped every minute of the day. So I bathed with Sproglet, read him stories, hugged him tightly, gave him chocolate treats, (one for you, one for Mummy, one for you, two for Mummy - Mummy needs comfort food...) so determined was I to make sure he felt secure, that we loved him just as much as we always had done. After we bathed the kids together (get me - kids!!) - which was just too cute - he turned a corner and since then has embraced 'my baby' as he calls her - and has been a doting, over enthusiastic brother - back to his usual cheery self.

Xmas:

Somewhere long the line, christmas came and went. I feel like I have spent my life on the sofa watching some goddawful kid's movie eating toblerone. Friends have taken Sproglet for playdates and I've been ridiculously, pathetically grateful. Trying to entertain a 4 year old whilst looking after a 2 week old, in minus five temperatures, with thick snow everywhere, unable to drive post section, has not been easy. Husband has been nothing short of amazing. Miraculous. He has a love affair going on with the dish washer he has spent so much time loading and unloading it. He has shopped, cooked, done washes, all tedious chores and has fallen hopelessly in love with his little girl. We've shared the feeds - taking it in shifts. Thank god or I would be even more of a basket case than I am now. And boy am I basket... It has taken me two attempts at writing this post to think it was worth posting. Normally I can write with ease - now, I can't even remember my name...

Boobs or bottle?

The breast feeding? Well I came, I tried, I pumped, and pumped and pumped - and then it got to Xmas eve and I just could not find 2 hours plus in every day to sit with that horrific contraption and suck the life out of my already lifeless boobs. My wee one copied her older Bro and just refused my right breast from the off. The left one she took to - but she hated the unsatisfying colostrum and so we topped her up with formula. Then my milk came in and I looked like a porn star - my G cups overflowing - but each boob was as hard as rock. My midwife was wide eyed when she copped a feel and told me to get expressing - as my daughter wasn't interested - only grazing for ten minutes, while I panicked that my chest would somehow smother her. The first time I expressed I filled two full bottles in under an hour...

But it isn't for me. For so many reasons - expressing is time consuming and when you have a house and a baby and a 4 year old and sodding Xmas and visitors etc - you just can't do it all. My baby has gone from 7lbs one oz, to 7lb 4 oz at 5 days old, 7lbs 11 oz at ten days old to - at 3 weeks and 3 days old - 8lbs, 11oz. So she aint starving. And I tried, I really did. And I expressed for almost 3 weeks - which felt like an achievement. So I'm here, bottle feeding and trying not to feel guilty - but I'd be lying if I said I was guilt free. Hell, we mothers have to beat ourselves up over something don't we?

And now...

Life has been turned on it's head with my daughter's arrival. Everywhere I look there is a muslin cloth. My washing machine has permanently been on with a white wash since she came home. I spend my life winding and wishing for wind. Seriously, I will a burp to pop out in the wee small hours of the morning to the point were I make deals with god, begging for that burp - for it's appearance means I can finally lay her down and embrace sleep. Oh god, I miss sleep. I yearn for it. Plus, Sproglette has reflux - nightmare - so she has been on gaviscon to ease the pain and then on boxing day we had to wait in a skanky out of hours hospital to get her a prescription of ranitidine. Until then she grazed on her bottles, taking only a small amount and then throwing it up moments later - unable to sleep as her wee tummy rumbled. Now it seems the ranitidine makes her throw up - the exact thing we have got it for in the first place - so she is off it, back on Gaviscon and we are garteful that we haven't been chundered over in over 24 hours... and counting.

But she is worth it. My beautiful girl. With her long fingers and dainty legs, her wobbling head and her searching eyes, her soft cheeks and warm delicious neck - I drink her in and remember that this period will pass soon... I will sleep again some day. And she will grow and become her own person. So I'm cherishing it while I can - this little scrunchy person that has turned my world around... that makes my night day and my day night. I still would sell my soul for 8 hours straight sleep, I cannot lie. But I'm coping. I was anyway until I got on the scales today - have over a stone to lose - a stone and a half to be my dream weight. Joy! I have given away all my maternity clothes to a friend expecting twins, so I have to diet if I want to have anything at all to wear. The pressure - to routine the baby, to keep a house tidy, to feed Sproglet, the lose the weight - it threatens to overwhelm me some days and other days - good sleeping days - I think somehow I can get through it. I'll keep you posted.

But the one thing that delights me every day, no matter what time of day or night, is the fact that my wonderful family is now complete.

Cliches galore

2010-12-21T16:47:00.004Z

I am ALIVE!! Yes I am - but oh my god, my life has descended into a nose/bottom/vomit wipe/white laundry wash/ burpathon cliche that is indeed parenthood to a newborn. I had forgotten how hard it all is - which is good, because if I had remembered, Sproglette wouldn't be here. Oh to sleep. To curl up in a warm bed and wake of my own accord feels like the best xmas gift anyone could ever give me.... And just when I think Sproglette is asleep and I may have moment to fold all the white washes/unstack dishwasher and all the other glamorous jobs that my life has become - Sproglet needs something or other - feeding or bathing or dressing or entertaining - and getting dressed before midday is the most successful part of my day.

I am every cliche and more. I want to tell you about the fact that the day my daughter was born was one of the worst and best of my life - I was bumped 5 times from my section for emergencies and I didn't have her until 6:14pm - after being nil by mouth all day. I want to talk about Sproglet's reaction to his Sis and how his wee insecure face reduced me to tears every day. Or how brilliant my Husband has been and how this 2 week cocoon we have been in has been some of the best weeks of our married life. but no, as I type, Sproglette has woken from a short slumber on a sheepskin blanket on the floor. Sproglet is stroking her tiny perfect head and is calling her 'my baby.' I feel like my life has been turned on it's head. I am not sure of my name, but I know I like drinking port.

Must dash - more to follow. When? Anyone's guess. Merry Xmas y'all xxx

Sproglette has arrived!!

2010-12-09T14:47:00.002Z

My beautiful daughter Riley is here!

7lbs 1oz at 6:14 pm on Mon 6th Dec. Spent the whole day waiting to go into theatre... Got home last night. Lots to share, if only I had the mental capacity. At the moment it is hard to remember my name. Or think of Riley's middlle name. I am smitten, sore, excited, emotional and beyond tired. Will blog soon. Just wanted to share my good news.

Me and Sproglet

2010-12-03T10:12:00.011Z

Sproglet and I have been sharing bath time of late. Bless him, he loves it - even though I am a beached whale, taking up three quarters or more of the tub and somehow trapping his bath toys underneath my girth. We chat about school and Santa and 'Alan' calendars - with gems about 'At school we heard about Mary and Joseph and baby Jesus, but at nursery the other day I found out about the bad kings who want to kill baby Jesus. Why would a king want to kill a baby?' Fair comment... Anyway, the other night he piped up with 'I was a baby in your tummy and I came out and Daddy cried, and now you have another baby in your tummy.' I felt a big lump in my throat rise up and I explained that no matter about the new baby - he would always be my special boy. He nodded sagely then threw his arms around my bump.

For so long it has been me and him: when I used to fly to Ireland for my show every weekend when he was 4 months old; trips to Belfast and York to see relatives; the whole time I was out of work trying to become a script ed; our movies afternoons and playdates - it has been just the two of us. Suddenly as I lifted a mound of ever growing bubbles from his wee head - it hit me, that it would never be the same again. I felt this ridiculous sadness. Don't get me wrong, I'm over the moon to give him a sibling - something I never had - but I just felt this inexplicable loss. I pulled him close to me and kissed his wet cheek. He has been the biggest joy and surprise of my life - filled some lost void inside me that churned for years until his arrival. He makes me laugh more than anyone else and fills me with a pride that only parents can appreciate. I thought I'd upload some pics of my time so far with my beautiful son.

Finn, I love you.

Climbing mountains

2010-11-29T19:07:00.005Z

Husband and I climbed many mountains on Saturday - all from the comfort of our own home.

The day hadn't started well. You see Husband hasn't got a UK driving license. Yes, he can drive - better than me, thought that aint saying much - but his Aussie license expired many moons ago and so in order to drive in this country he needs to sit a theory test and then a practical one. Months ago I highlighted the fact that come next Monday - 6th Dec - I will be unable to drive for 6 weeks post section. I suggested he get his cute butt in gear and had some lessons and did his tests. No - I didn't actually suggest it. I demanded it. I gave him ONE THING to do during my 9 month pregnancy - while I did blood tests and scans, and midwives and dressing a fucking bump and all that jazz - he had one thing to sort: to get his license here. He eventually had a couple of lessons in October and finally enrolled for the theory test (which you have to do first). That was 3 weeks ago. I drove him there - he had been practising apps on his i-phone for 3 days solid, on the questions he would be asked. He was buoyant, confident - his average score 48 out of 50. A cert to pass and then the practical test to do. He'd have that in the bag - as he is a more than capable driver.

But he only brought the plastic part of his UK provisional license with him. It is the only piece they carry in Australia. But not here. Nope, in the UK, they need the green bit of paper too. They wouldn't let him sit the test - he blamed UK bureaucracy and I blamed him for being an idiot.

Cue test no 2. Arranged for Sat at 4pm. Now on Fri I had emailed him - an 'end of my tether - I would rather be a single fucking parent than be in this relationship anymore' email that had provoked all sorts of discussions: him accusing me of being 9 months preggers, irrational and hormonal - and unfair to boot, seeing as he has had no assistant in his busiest period of the year. Me: agreeing that I may be hormonal, but also stressing that a week or two of single parenthood and no work has given me clarity of thought.

So, I pick up Sproglet's best mate - we are off to see 'Megamind.' Sproglet's best mate calls it 'Nevermind.' I think on reflection, he may be a genius child film critic and he doesn't even know it. Anyway, I make lunch and Husband and I are cordial at best. He opens the letter of confirmation re: his test. The test I have begged and cajoled him into. His face goes white, then red. And I know. Something is amiss.

I ask him - but he just brushes it off. I ask again - what is wrong? He says nothing. Then he realises that he can't get out of it - so he admits, the test was on the 25th. He got the day wrong - he'd missed it. 8 days until we have a baby and he STILL hasn't done his fecking theory let alone the major practical test. The ONE THING I asked of him. I was so angry, so disappointed, words failed me. I sat down on shaky legs as the tears came and I said two words: 'I'm done.'

He knew he'd fucked up - he tried to say sorry, tried to appeal to me, but I wasn't having any of it. How can I keep relying on a man who cannot be replied upon? It felt like the last blow - the last straw. Words were exchanged but I wasn't listening, I just kept telling him I was done and off I went to stuff my face with ice cream and watch a blue alien try and take over the planet with 2 small giddy children.

When I came home the kids ran off to play and I staggered upstairs feeling more weary than I have done in years. I lay on my bed and cried. Husband gingerly approached, watery eyed and full of sadness - for everything. It all came out - my story on repeat detailed in my last blog post, my inability to be so lonely again - my fears for my sanity post baby, how I can't do it any more. We talked and talked and... we turned a big corner. He heard me. He listened. He finally got it.

Things are going to change he said. I wanted to believe him - and I have to take that chance. Since Saturday they have. Small changes but significant ones. He took today off to accompany me to my pre op meeting. He got up and took Sproglet to school, made his packed lunch. Tonight I lit a fire, made a huge pasta dish and we ate as a family. Tomorrow Sproglet and I are off to his hotel (where he works, not owns!) for dinner. We're getting the tree on Sat. Decorating it with camp glitzy balls that a gay man would be proud of. We huddled together in bed last night, wrapped in many blankets against these freezing temperatures. He is excited about the baby. It feels like a marriage. A partnership. He's going to make changes at work so we get breakfasts together and 2 more meals a week. He's going to make more effort to get up and do family stuff. He doesn't want to lose us and he knows that I have never been more serious than I was on Saturday.

We climbed mountains on Saturday, we really did.

The view from the top is pretty damn good.

What's your story?

2010-11-25T16:02:00.002Z

So here's mine:

Once upon a time there was a girl who had been single for many years. She kissed lots of frogs but never managed to find a prince. They were all handsome and dull or great craic but deeply unattractive. She looked for love in all the wrong places: with with boys who couldn't or wouldn't commit or boys who lived in far away lands and married supermodels. If a boy liked her she immediately didn't like them. Long before she discovered what self esteem was all about.

Anyway one day the girl opened a door to what she thought were toilets, but turned out to be the hotel kitchens and she sent a handsome (bar)man flying. They talked, he gave her free drinks, she gave him her number. He called and after much deliberation she called him back. They met for coffee on the hottest day of the year and talked movies. He called again. They kissed for the first time in a dirty grimy bar at about 1am and she smelled smoke - he had set his T shirt on fire on the table candle. On their second date a friend of hers tragically died and the man was very sweet. On the day of the friend's funeral he rang the girl to see how she was doing and when she asked how he was he replied 'I didn't call to talk about my day, I called to ask about yours.' She knew then he was the one. He was always working nights but she didn't mind - she did too - presenting on a stupid games channel. They had days for movies and lunches and falling in love. It was blissful.

They married a year to the day of the first coffee date in secret, then he proposed a year later and a year after that they wed - near Halloween. A year later she was pregnant and 9 months later Sproglet was born on June 21st 2006. So far, so good. They'd weathered all sorts of job loss storms, illnesses, stress, money worries, the whole shebang. Now when the girl met the man, he was more of a boy. Of 24 - to her 28. She'd been a gal about town, just bought her own flat in London. He'd lived in a youth hostel as he was a grubby traveller, earning a crust as a jobbing barman. But he was ambitious and he got an assistant bar manager job at a fancy city bar on a roof top and then became manager and then went to a 5 star swanky hotel and managed the bar there. The girl didn't mind - she had a packed diary and a tonne of mates. Free cocktails - bonus. They often met for late suppers and hung out when she wasn't presenting - they had time. But as the years worn on and the girl got pregnant she began to taste loneliness. She felt it most acutely after the baby was born. She was left to care for the bairn and fearful of other Mothers, she hid away, chained to a baby's routine, bouncing off walls. She ended up on anti - depressants a year later. She tried to tell him - but he didn't listen. Or didn't want to. 'You knew what you were getting when you married me' he would reply.

She eventually changed careers when the presenting work dried up (as it tends to do for women of 35 and over)- but this career was full time - no more lazy lunches or hanging out - and they moved house. Her working full time and the man with his crazy hours, a baby and no family help was a recipe for disaster and the marriage began to crumble. I love him she sighed, but I hate his job. But the man started to have weekends off and it got a bit better. She lost her job, then got it back briefly and somewhere along the line got pregnant again.

Now she is about to have baby no 2 and the same lonely story is back on repeat. They sleep in separate rooms as she is so enormous with child - and he gets to bed at 3am. They don't ever eat breakfast together. They only eat dinner together on weekends. She is lonely. Again. Like a single parent without the status. She does every breakfast alone with her son - and dinner every week night. She bathes with her son at bath time and tries to cheer herself up with books and inane television. But somewhere deep inside it isn't the life she expected. This single parent type life. When the man comes home he is very tired and has had to be so social with his work he doesn't want to talk to her. She is lonely even when he is home.

How did I end up here she wonders? Love has led her down a solitary path. She dreams of it being different but the man doesn't know how to change his job and still retain his salary - especially in these lean times. She foresees a life of bringing up two kids alone. She despairs and on hormonal days the tears fall. She wonders how to change it but feels like her story is on repeat: I hate his job she sighs. I love him but I hate his job.

She remembers having this conversation two years ago with a dear friend who was moving to LA. A year even before that. Since the baby was born. The baby is now 4 and a half. Still the story is the same. She wonders if it will ever change - and if so, will she be the one to say 'enough.'

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I saw an old friend today. A girl I used to paint the town red with and who has shared my triumphs and traumas. She has just had her first baby - having never wanted kids - at 40. We went to her local nail bar - while she had a manicure and I had a blissful pedicure. Oh my god, feet in hot water - so comforting! Especially as my ankles are cankles with a deep red ridge where my socks cut off the blood supply. Anyway - we were talking about life, our men, the usual issues. She talked about her partner always being beholden to his ex wife and the child from his previous relationship. It is a well worn story that has been going on for 9 years or more. She said, 'that is my story.' It doesn't change - it will possibly never change.

She explained to me that no matter who we are with - it will never be perfect. We will never have our happy ever afters like the fairy tales. Because life is messy and hard and complicated. So we need to accept what we have and work with it. She has a point. Maybe because I have been so alone since last Thursday when I finished work - maybe because my work helps me define myself, and yet I will be jobless for the next 4-5 months at least, maybe because I am exhausted and hormonal, maybe because I am scared about becoming a parent again, maybe because I remember the deep dark lonely days of before, I just felt like - I can't do this any more. It would be easier surely to be a single parent? To get every other weekend off - to myself - and maybe find someone who can eat dinner with me, have a life with me, who is there in mind and spirit and isn't shattered from their vampire like existence?

Maybe we all have a story - one that keeps repeating - like a track that refuses to leave the charts for an age. Bryan Adam's Everything I do - 16 weeks at no 1 in fecking 1990. Hideous track that wouldn't go away. Maybe we have to accept it - or can we change it? Does it take more balls to face this fucking repeat cycle or more balls to walk away from it? I don't know, I don't have any answers. I wish I knew other peoples' stories - maybe then I wouldn't feel so alone in mine.

Life, nay, soft furnishings envy

2010-11-23T18:36:00.003Z

I admit it.

I have life envy. Often. Husband teases me about it constantly - usually when I bemoaning my lack of 6 bedroomed Victorian detached mansion replete with office above garage and room for a housekeeper/nanny having read some article in some Sunday supplement or other.

Actually it tends to happen when I hunker down with the latest LIVING ETC. magazine (http://www.livingetc.com/gallery/main.php) and ooh and ahh over a rug/sofa/kitchen opening out onto decking/cool mirror/fancy accessories. I never stop to think that A. the house featured NEVER looks like this - only for 10 mins while the damn photo was being taken and it was emptied of all normal living items and replaced with a stylist's fairy lights/ token books/ throw/ white things that would never last in a house with kids for more than two seconds or B. The women who lives there hasn't been shagged by her husband in 2 years and spends her life decorating and running up debt because she is so depressed or C. She spends all her life doing up her house and hasn't relaxed in said house since 1985 - she checks the cooker is off 25 times a day and sends the kids to boarding school lest they scratch the white varnished floors...

But life envy - it's all over the place. Rife where I grew up - everyone looking over everyone else's fence to check out who was driving what/wallpapering what/drinking what/doing whom... I can distinctly remember our family sharing a phoneline (in the days when you did) with the street gossip - and her breathing quietly as she listened in to my inane phonecalls to schoolmates... People get all insecure when their friends start to have more than them, afford better holidays, schools and shoes... Actually I don't - as I'm pretty happy with my lot - and I genuinely aint materialistic - but I do hanker for a few home improvements it has to be said.

And yes, reading about model Laura Bailey (don't think she works much mind) having a housekeeper to do all her laundry and food shopping/cooking/cleaning - and a nanny too - did invoke stirrings of a 'oh the lucky bitch' in me. Instead of folding a small country's worth of socks etc while watching 'I'm a celebrity GMOOH' wearing sweatpants and maternity bras, if I was in Laura's high heeled designer shoes I'd be tripping the light fantastic at fashiony events in London and coming home to a fridge stocked with home made leftovers and a closet filled with folded ironed clothes. Bet Laura really misses mopping the floors and trying to find a car parking space in Waitrose on a Saturday avo; doing the nit check and stressing that her kids haven't got their swim kit ready in time for this week's lesson. It must be hell cooped up in a mansion in Notting Hill with a bathroom the size of my house and a knicker drawer filled with Agent Provocateur's finest. Not that I am yellow and round and bitter shaped... nope, not me.

Sometimes it creeps up on us... Friends disappear because they can't handle our joy (I've been de-friended on Facebook by someone since I announced my pregnancy) just as quickly as friends vanish when they don't know how to react if something bad happens... Admit it - when a colleague got a promotion over you and you wished them well, deep down you didn't mean it - you were thinking 'Bastard! That job was mine dammit!' Or when a buddy shows off her size 8 trousers who was always the 'frumpy mate' you feel a sense of unease that your size 10/12s are starting to dig in ever since last Xmas? It's easier to commiserate that celebrate sometimes - but one thing I have learned, is that if you are happy in general, it's pretty hard to be miserable at other folk's joy. Or to have life envy.

On reflection, I don't have life envy - just home furnishings envy. Must be all this fucking nesting I am doing as I count down the days. A week on Monday and I won't have time for any kind of envy - except perhaps for those who sleep. Or Laura and her live in Nanny...

Bah humbug

2010-11-16T19:07:00.004Z

God I am a misery.

Blame it on my hormones. Or maybe I am just a miserable bastard at heart. I shouldn't read women's magazines - fashiony ones - as we all know the statistics - that reading them makes you feel worse about yourself by about a million per cent or whatever.

But I needed a smidgen of glamour in my life. My life that today started at 3am when Sproglet came in to say he was scared - of what? Who knows - but he duly went back to bed. I curled up and.... stayed awake. Joy. Add in a few bathroom trips and when I awoke this morning from a bizarre dream I looked like someone had punched me in the eyes. I felt shattered. Husband had stayed at work so I had to sort out the laundry, take out the re-cycling (and slip on the icy decking, bashing my knee and causing tears before 8:15am). Then I couldn't get the fucking re-cycling tubs past the bins what with my bump and all. The TV stopped working. The dish washer packed up - and cos Husband hadn't paid BT on time - no calls allowed from the home phone either. Happy days.

So I popped out of the office today for a decaf and bought myself some mags - all festive and full of what to wear! How to decorate your home! Xmas gifts for everyone! Evening make-up! Tis the season to discover your inner fox! Etc etc. God it made me depressed. I so want to buy a foxy dress and A. fit into it. B. Have a fucking reason to wear it in the first place. C. Afford said foxy dress. But I have none of the above. All those towering Louboutins - I'm thinking, I interviewed Christian - twice! Including at his offices in Paris before Stella McCartney's first ever show for Chloe - and now, now the closest I get to a killer heel is stroking a glossy magazine with misty eyes.

At the moment my wardrobe is - one pair of maternity jeans that fit and a pair of grim leggings. A few tops that try and hold in my chest and bras that are like swaddling a newborn. I have no idea on earth on how any woman feels at her best at this time - all glowing and sexy. I couldn't feel less myself if I tried.

I'm biting the bullet - or anything I can get my teeth upon - and having a bikini wax on Fri. Gawd help the woman who has to do it - she'll probably charge me double. I have a feeling she may weep with the stress of it all. Meanwhile a friend who has just become a Mum at 40 has booked us in for pedicures next Thurs. I have only had 2 in my life. It is a big treat. My roots are being blonded on Monday. I need some pampering goddammit.

I keep thinking of Xmas past - when I kissed boys in unisex toilets and made booty calls to unsuitables; fell down private member's club's stairs into the tree after one too many; of TV parties filled with vodka luges - my tongue getting stuck to one in the shape of a naked Adonis; of mistletoe in my hair and a spring in my step - as I gatecrashed one Xmas bash in Soho after another.

Now - now the highlight of my week is fucking X factor and a mince pie. Where did it all go wrong? The mags telling me what sparkly dress or leather trousers to don with my smokey eyes and glossy lips - ha! If only... imagine trying to shove my dimply thighs post birth into leather strides... oh the horror.

Sorry - I am Scrooge I know....

Nervous

2010-11-13T09:43:00.003Z

Gee I'm nervous.

About all sorts. For starters I'm not exactly jazzed at the thought of the pre-op meeting at hospital, where those helpful Docs explain to me how my organs may all fail and how I may die and all on the operating table, having my section. Plus I have to give MORE blood. And wee. And be prodded etc. No vajayjay exam though - hurrah!

Then helpful folk keep telling me about babies coming early - when my wee bundle of joy is meant to appear on Dec 6th - 3 weeks on Monday. I'm nervous about the whole section business as well - even though I've had one before - and I know what to expect. I remember how I hated the tubes going in my arms - worst bit - and then the whole messy recovery: Husband heading to the pub as I quietly vomited into what looked like an egg box, a sanitary blanket underneath me which slid off the bed during the night to greet the 'breast is best' pushers as they appeared under my curtain at 9am - a gory welcome mat to deter visitors. Sadly it didn't work. Catheters, suppositories, the pain of breast feeding... and feeling like you have to try even when you never want to look at your nipples ever again, let alone try and stuff them into the mouth of a small squealing baby - who by the way, has gums made of steel.

Then the whole newborn bit - the terror of a baby that won't settle, the exhaustion, the disappointment when you realise than maternity jeans are here to stay for about 4-5 weeks more... God I'm scared. How to cope with a baby when I have Sproglet too. Plus Xmas...

Yesterday I was at work (working on a different thing - a small 10 min film, not the usual soap) and a long serving member of staff left. She was giddy with joy at the thought of her new job as a script ed at a fab independent tv company on a big 6 part drama. It was definitely her time to go - and it brought back me leaving - way back at the end of March... The tears and the sadness, the relief, the angst, the whole shebang.

Another long timer script ed handed in her notice - she is leaving drama and is off to work for a charity in a cushy 9-5 job ten mins from her home. As a single parent this kind of job is the holy grail. I'm delighted for both these women - and it got me thinking - what am I moving on to? I'm having a baby - which feels like an easy route to take after losing one's job (albeit that I have been back since Aug - someone likened me to a cockroach - they just can't get rid of me). But come this Thurs, when I wrap filming - that is it. The brief time back at my old work will end. I don't want my old job back - I really have done my time on soap operas - there are only so many mad pregnant women having affairs with their sister's husband's dad's hamster's gay lover stories one can cope with - but what next for me?

For the woman who refused to be defined simply as a Mother - that will be my only job. I'm silly I know - but I'm scared. Not so much of the immediate life changes - there will be visitors and crappy Xmas movies on TV and all that festive malarkey... But come long dark depressing January...

I keep worrying that the baby will be ok - will be healthy and everything working correctly. These thoughts haunt me daily. I'm so nearly there - will it all be ok? I feel like the last couple of weeks sanity has left the building and I'm one mess of nerves and fears and contrary emotions all wrapped up in one big hormonal pair of maternity jeans.

Why can't I ever just enjoy the fucking moment? Step back and think - let's enjoy the 'now.' A friend at work mentioned how I should be enjoying my baby a few months back and not worrying about how to make ends meet/find a job/sort childcare etc post baby. I was struck - it hadn't even occurred to me to 'enjoy' - all I could think about was all the obstacles and how to overcome them. Christ I wish I could relax. I like a full diary, seeing people, being busy. Come Thurs it all stops. The diary is fairly empty save for a last minute baby shop and a couple of visitors - the vague notion of getting a tree for Sproglet on Dec 4th, 2 days before D - or rather 'C' day.

Then - a whole new world. One I really wanted, really want. But why is it all so daunting? Even for someone who has done it all before?

Who I became yesterday:

2010-11-07T12:19:00.000Z

Boredom

2010-11-06T09:36:00.003Z

I realised something about myself this week. I was bored. It was Thursday. Sproglet had skipped off to school, I'd done my chores and watched all my Sky+ programmes (is it me or is there feck all worth watching on TV at the mo?? I feel my life could soon become a box set - with Mad Men at the top. A must watch apparently). This was before I went to meet Sproglet's teacher and before I had just got home from that and finally got a park miles from our house - and then got a call from school that I had to return immediately as Sproglet had had a violent attack of the squits. It was also before I had to take the poor wee man for 2 big needle jabs for MMR2 and a booster. He howled. I felt like the devil for lying to him that we were going to the docs for the Dr to check on the baby. Yes, before all those joyous moments of my day - I was lying on the sofa - mind numbingly bored.

I don't do 'relaxing' very well unless I'm on a beach or in a movie theatre. Takes a helluva lot to quieten my mind. Anyway - the thought occurred to me that in 2 weeks I will finish my job and have 2 more weeks, then baby will be here. I've been so excited about NOT being pregnant any more I have kind of forgotten that in not being preggers I will also then have a baby to deal with. I've made a list of stuff I need and am starting to think about it - a bit. I'm also starting to remember how lonely I was when Sproglet was small. How mind numbing I found the happy clappy groups, how inferior I felt to other Mothers, how desperate I felt when the only person I talked to in a day was the woman at the Sainsburies check out counter. I can't go through that again.

I like working. No, strike that. I love working. When it is good that is. Like yesterday - I was in a small office with 3 people I admire and like and respect - and it was nothing short of fun. I get a lot out of teamwork and challenges and people and projects and good scripts - and even bad ones. I don't want to stay at home with a baby all day, bouncing off the walls and trying to entertain 2 kids. My brain shuts down. I'm not judging those who do - my god, it is the hardest job of all. But even if my Husband won the lottery tomorrow - I think I'd still work. It feeds me mentally.

Which begs the question - why have kids? I don't know. I love my son above all. I really enjoy time with him. Just not 24/7. The thing that I have struggled with most is retaining my sense of self and not just being a Mother.

When I'm around some other Mums I feel like a different breed: I don't want to give birth, I don't want to breast feed - for the sake of everyone and my breasts eclipsing the sun - I don't want to talk about kids all day. I've banged on about this enough. But lying on my couch on Thurs, bored, I realised - it is time to stop beating myself up - feeling like a poor second best Mum to all those stay at home, organic baking, breast feeding, craft worshipping mega Mums. I am me. I know what I want and I'm gonna make it happen next year.

I'm a happier person for it and that makes a happier and better Mother. I don't care what anyone else thinks. Well I do. But I'm going to try not to. Roll on baby and hopefully another job. It'll be tough - but at least I'll never be bored.

Heaven and Hell....

2010-10-30T21:45:00.003+01:00

Today feels like I've just had great sex. Except I haven't. Had great sex I mean. I'm 8 months pregnant and feel about as hot as 3 day old cuppa - but you get my drift.

Why? Because Husband took the reins and let me disappear to a double movie bonanza - alone. I drove to the place where I used to live (as I had worked out I could do both movies I wanted to see - one straight after the other). Skipped inside, got my old usual - a hazelnut (decaf) latte, 3 straws to chew (my guilty cinema habit) and settled in to my comfy chair with masses of legroom. I wanted to shout out 'Honey, I'm home,' I was so freakin' happy.

First up was 'The Kids Are Alright' with Julianne Moore and Annette Benning. I'd high old hopes from this one - I'd read many triumphant reviews and interviews with the director. It wasn't bad - a really clever premise and top notch acting - but it just didn't move me. There were lovely subtle moments, but it didn't blow me away. I left feeling a bit 'meh' about it - but pleased I'd got to see it. Mark Ruffalo can do no wrong in my eyes...

Then I dashed over to screen 2 for 'The Social Network.' Aaron Sorkin penned it, directed by Fincher - what's not to like? It was all about the founding of Facebook and the legal wranglings that ensued. One fifty plus blonde two seats along from me, nattering to her friend throughout, finally announced she had had enough and it was 'so boring' and left. Idiot. It was great. Pacey, well acted (Justin Timberlake - you do a complete cock so well - a great performance) and full of smart dialogue and razor sharp editing. Dark, humorous and engaging - the script bouncing off the screen as if Sorkin had thoroughly enjoyed the banter such genius minds can realistically spout. It made me never want to reactivate my facebook account again - and showed how money really doesn't bring happiness or any of the worthwhile rewards life can offer: close relationships, friendships, loyalty, teamwork, love, etc.

I came out feeling quite high. For 4 hours I'd been 'me' again. Doing something I love best - catching a flick. Then I pockled in Habitat for twenty minutes without being hurried by Husband complaining that all I do is 'nest' these days. I drove home to Husband cooking, Sproglet in great form (all excited about his two back to back parties tomorrow followed by a trick or treat fest) and felt like a new woman.

After a week's full child care duties, as it was half term, (where I discovered the 8th circle of hell - Gambados - a huge soft play area, that cost me £8:25 for each kid, £5 registration fee (???) and £2.50 for me to sit on my ass while children screeched all round me. In short - hell. Sproglet came back to me an hour and a half later the colour of an over ripe tomato, with his wee mate hyperventilating and coughing up a lung. Said mate pissed his pants on route home. Oh yes, it was the day that just kept giving) I deserved a break.

I don't want huge nights on the town, a wardrobe of glam clothes and fancy trinkets... nope, I just want to get to the movies. Gimme my straws, a latte and a half decent script and I'm as happy a jaybird. If you get a chance - check out 'The Social Network' and avoid 'Gambados' as all costs....

It'll all be over soon.... not soon enough

2010-10-28T09:02:00.002+01:00

Things I am looking forward to in 5 weeks + :

1. Having more than one pair of jeans to wear (the rest all fall down when I walk or cut off the blood supply to my groin when I sit down) and more than 4 tops....
2. My old bras!! Hello - come to Mama. I will feel practically flat chested in my DD cups. Hurrah!!!
3. Not weeing 4 times a night.
4. Not having to straddle a V shaped pillow like I am humping it to death in a bid to get within the vicinity of the word 'comfy' in bed at night.
5. Not waddling like a duck/ walking like Liam Gallagher circa 1995
6. Not having something do the rumba inside me just as I settle down to sleep, using my bladder as it's dancing partner
7. Drinking!! Oh my god - that lychee martini has my name on it... that and it's five siblings - the watermelon, the straight up, the cosmo, the apple and the vanilla....
8. Not having to have needles stuck into me seemingly every week to hoke blood out of me and having midwives prod me to tell me that baby is in breech....
9. Sleeping on my stomach. Not that I'll be getting much sleep, but still.
10. My bouncing new baby of course.

Things I am not looking forward to in 5 weeks + :

1. Maternity pads entering my life.
2. Having to care about my bikini wax again - when at present I am amazon woman - expecting to find a pube in my belly button any day now. (Matt Evans - TMI? Sorry).
3. Not being able to eat mince pies in October in a day when I have eaten apple pie and cream and ice cream and felt no guilt.
4. Having no excuse for my bulging stomach and looking at my old wardrobe knowing it is out of my grasp, until I step away from the cream.
5. Being up all night, not just to wee.
6. Things leaking at inappropriate times.
7. Midwives making me feel like the devil incarnate when I admit I do not want to breast feed because it makes me uncomfortable; my chest is like a foreign land that I want to reclaim and I honestly recoil at the thought of lopping out a G cup in public. Oh the horror.
8. The meltdowns when the wee one won't stop crying and I've done everything possible to stop the howling and it is 4am and freezing cold and I have forgotten what year it is let alone what day.
9. The thought of having to socialise with other new Mothers for some sanity and the terror they bring me with their 'I am earth Mother hear me roar' words of wisdom as they sing lullabies to Hugo/Arabella/Oscar and talk of orgasms during breast feeding.
10. Oh the mere responsibility of two children.... ho hum.

These are the thoughts that rage around my head when I lie awake at 3am wishing for sleep. Coupled with the mundane - why is my new dryer not working? Will I ever work again next year - how can I with two kids? Why am I having another baby? Will I ever wear heels again? Did I remember to record The Apprentice? Where can I get those tiny red veins lazered away? What would I do if I won the lottery? Please can I win the lottery? Who is shagging who on the show I have (only just) finished working on? (but am going back to - so will work until two weeks before I pop.) What will happen to Riggins in FNL 4? Will he EVER grow out those bad hair layers? Did I switch the heating off? What are we going to call the sprog?

Maybe you thought - where is CrummyMummy - is she missing in action? After this dull post, now you are wishing I was...

What to do?

2010-10-10T10:52:00.005+01:00

It always comes down to money. Always. Husband will work out what he has left for the rest of the month and then get all frustrated that it is never 'enough' - whatever 'enough' is... Then I feel all guilty that I've only got 2 more weeks work and then 6 weeks later another mouth to feed, body to clothe. Then - who knows what I will do, how I will do it. As the bastard Tory government penalise the middle classes for having children and take away our child benefit and cut back on the child care voucher system, once again it is only the uber rich that come away unscathed.

I feel so angry at my foolish 20 something self - imagining a lucrative career in tv. Then again, at that age I imagined I'd marry a rock star and never have to worry about the green stuff ever again. I look around and wonder how some folks do it - how one guy I know said he liked to have twenty grand in savings tucked away... Oh I know so many get help from their folks - 'gifted' money to buy their houses, pay their mortgages, etc. We don't get any financial help at all from our families. Not that we would expect it. In saying that my Dad helped me buy my first flat as my Grandfather left him a generous amount - but he lost a lot of that in a recent stock market crash. Does everyone worry about money? I guess they never talk about it.

Anyway - I'm angry at myself for being so fucking whimsical. Yes I have had some truly amazing experiences - I really loved being a kid's tv presenter, and doing my live debate show every Friday night in Ireland; I've had some brilliant moments as a reporter and I've made some great friends through all my jobs. But can I really keep going in an industry that sucks the blood from you and then pays poorly simply because it can - because if you don't want the job - then step aside (what was your name again?) as 300 others do - for half the price you were charging. People think TV is glamorous - ha! As Giles Coren the food critic said this weekend - every job becomes what it is - a job. No matter how exciting to begin with. Maybe I should have gone to work in a bank - been some fancy schmancy account manager by now, in my big 4 storey mansion complaining that my diamond shoes are too tight and my wallet is too small for my fifties...

But I went with my heart and always tried to work at something that made my heart sing. Made me inspired. Excited to go to work - and by and large all my jobs have done. A long stint at a quiz channel wasn't exactly the highlight of my presenting career - but it was well paid for a mere 3 hours work a day. And the crew made every shift a joy. Money has never motivated me before. I never wanted to be a slave to the pound - working away in a daily grind, in a sea of grey just to buy myself pretty things. I was watching Russell Brand (of all people) the other night - interviewed by Paxman - and he had a point - we live in such a consumerist society where status and money are the ultimate goal - and yet we are more unhappy and less satisfied than ever - perhaps because we have neglected the spiritual element in order to attain these material goals. The irony being that the more we get, the more we want. Great house? 'Yes, but it only has 3 bedrooms, and we'd love patio doors that fold back, and a better car.' Etc. Who isn't guilty of such talk?

It goes against the core of my being to simply be motivated by money. And yet... we need it. To send Sproglet to his Little Kickers football, to cook healthy meals, to pay for swimming lessons and movie visits and to clothe him. To pay our bills that keep a comin' - a mortgage, etc etc.

I feel so torn. On one hand I've always tried to be true to myself - but now with a family in tow, perhaps I can't continue like this. Maybe I need to do career change no 3 - and think about working in something that pays well even if it makes me want to open a vein. And what can a 37 year old mother of two ex-presenter, ex-script editor, ex-associate producer, actually do for a living? Did all this hopping around and varied experiences only serve to make me a jack of trades and master of none?

If I'd started in the public sector, or banking, where would I be now? Not living in fear about the fact that once again - I have no maternity pay bar statutory. That once again I will have a baby and have about 3 months in which to lose the weight, find childcare and get another job. Find a job. With two kids. Oh I know I could have chosen not to have them - but is it not the reason for being here? I feel punished for the choices I have made and annoyed that somehow here I am - an educated broadcaster/editor who spends more of her time looking for work than finding it.

Mad thoughts run through my brain - should I walk around with a sign on me until someone employs me (like one desperate graduate did in Oxford st last year) or pay for an advert to shove my CV in Broadcast magazine - post it online and see who responds, ditch Husband and marry a 92 year old billionaire with a heart condition in Texas because 'I love him' or sell a kidney? Could I come up with a fabulous new invention, (like a comfy bra in pregnancy) or set up a website for women like me (that does what? - who knows), should I even try to finish the book that my agent just pulverised - when ironically I have discovered that writing alone day in and day out made me miserable? Perhaps high class prostitution is an answer - maybe someone has a fetish for G cups, skin tags and 7 months pregnant women who haven't had a good waxing in months as after all - they can't see down there anyway?

I wish I had a mentor to turn to. Someone to say - ok, CM, lemme see your CV. Ok - this is what you should do... Blah Blah... Oh and this well paid job, it comes with childcare on site and part time flexible hours. Fabulous. Sometimes I swim in my head for hours, this stuff watered from a small acorn into becoming a fucking huge tree.

And then, at the end of it all I think of my dear best friend coming round here on Friday for dinner and telling me about her work friend who is 40, single and childless, who next week will have double mastectomy followed later by a hysterectomy, all in order to stop the inevitable cancer that killed her Mother and is ravaging her sister. Then I think to myself - shut the fuck up. It's only money and I remember what my Dad says - which is 'you are nothing without your health.'

Wish it could always be like this...

2010-10-07T08:48:00.003+01:00

As I write Husband is doing the school run. This NEVER happens - but as he is still on hols until Monday we are dividing more of the parental labour and he is currently marching 3 wee ones up a hill to school. I too am not back at work until Monday (for only 2 more weeks) so this is a luxury - blogging before 9am...

We've just returned for 10 days in Ireland - catching up with family and friends. It's been blissful to spend so much time with each other and hang out with Sproglet. As life rushes past in a blur of work and school and bills and chores it was lovely to just stop and mooch around having cafe lunches, strolls by the sea, rock pooling with Sproglet (got a bit competitive mind you - Husband got 3 crabs - small fry to my 2 mini fish, 7 shrimp things and a starfish; Sproglet's job was to tip them all back into the sea and for the record, he liked my starfish best) catch a movie (The Town - worth a look) and gorge on a high tea at the beautiful Merchant Hotel in Belfast. Cream being my new vice - this was as close to heaven as I can get at the mo.

We spent Saturday night with some old friends and Sproglet ran off with their son to play from the minute we arrived and then they refused to go to sleep that evening - they were too busy playing and 'reading' books. It was too cute how happily they hung out together. As for us adults, we watched the X factor, indulged in some hearty stew and for the pregnant ladies half a glass of a meaty red followed by some glorious chocolate puddings with equal amounts of cream (of course). We are just so rock n roll these days eh? But it was all so relaxed and cosy and great.

Seeing family made me all squishy and happy - as I haven't been home since Xmas. Most of them live by the sea and I found myself every evening at my Mum's house, watching the waves crash on the rocks and realising the pull of the ocean is indeed strong. No wonder so many return to their homeland. Oh, I don't want to go back - but it was a welcome escape from the norm. I find myself missing folk, wishing we lived nearer so Sproglet could know his cousins better and spend more time with his Grandparents.

Now we are home it I'm just enjoying the last few days with Husband before his work engulfs him once more. We get on so much better when we actually get to spend some time together. Plus, I've stopped worrying about next year and what I'm going to do for money and with 2 kids and childcare etc. It'll all work out - it always does. See, holidays give you some head peace - which for me is usually nigh on impossible. If only it could always be like this...

Boobs or bust

2010-10-04T19:29:00.004+01:00

It's got beyond a joke. My boobs officially require their own passport, ID and own island to live on. I mean - how big can pregnant breasts get? Don't answer that. My G cups runneth over and I refuse to go higher because I simply can't fathom that my chest is almost bigger than my bump. It isn't pretty. I look like me with a cartoon drawn upon my frame. My mammeries have nowhere to go in their 'no underwire' rule bras - they are just sandwiched together, jostling for space and rubbing each other up the wrong way.

Oh yes, between the mountainous breasts runs an itchy irritated river of discontent - that no amount of talc or sudocream or moisturiser or anything can help. It is like they hate one another - the sweaty space they try to fit won't let them breathe so they are staging their own silent protest. I can't bear to look at myself naked in a mirror. Don't even get me started on my ever changing nipples. Too much info? Sorry - but try living with them. I feel utterly removed from myself - some overblown porno queen whose surgeon didn't know when to say 'no.'

Then there is the butt pain. Who knew that waddling would hurt so much in the muscles in your ass? Throw in some piles for good measure and basically my pregnancy is just one royal pain in the arse. I am of course grateful to be pregnant - I just fecking hate the last trimester with all my heart. Inability to sleep, peeing all through the night, raging heartburn/indigestion, and not even a wee drinky to make everything that little bit out of focus. Skin tags creeping up in the weirdest places and catching on bra straps etc. Will I ever be me again? Some women feel sexy pregnant - which astounds me. I am so far from feeling even remotely attractive that I can't remember what it was like to feel good about myself let along enter the box of 'hot.' Sweaty and out of breath, swinging and waddling and unable to bend - aint hot. My chest is so out there that I cease to look normal - if a freak show circus rolled into town I'd lay money on them paying me top dollar for a flash.

Sometimes I look at my old bras and feel nostalgic. Will I ever use them again? Or will I sell a kidney in order to fund a breast reduction/tummy tuck? I jest of course - who wants more surgery after a C section (Dec 6th - booked, hurrah) but I wake from dreams of my old self and remember with a thud that I am no longer that shape - then try to somehow hurl myself out of bed, all too aware of an imminent black eye if I move too quickly. Please forgive me for this pity fest but 3 months ago a colleague came for lunch and came back to work declaring to all 'CM is sooooo pregnant - it's all tits and bump everywhere!' That was 3 months ago. I am a world away from the tiny bump and blossoming breasts of those days. Right now people cross the street to try and squeeze past me.

Oh well. 9 weeks and counting. Who knew that the best part of your day could be the one when you took off your bra and let it all hang out? Excuse me, I've gotta run and let a saucer sized nipple escape.

The day I fought and won - or did I?

2010-09-18T16:18:00.007+01:00

I dunno what it is lately - I just haven't had the inclination to blog... Maybe seeing people tragically over-sharing on Facebook in bids for sympathy/jealousy/gratuity/acceptance has just about put me off the whole over-sharing malarkey - even if I am doing so under a pseudonym (and have ditched facebook for so many reasons). I guess like everything you fall in and out of love with things - but the other day when I thought of writing, it felt like a chore, when all I wanted to do was lie down, stuff myself with pancakes and indulge in yet another Tim Riggins bonanza.

Maybe I just haven't had anything to say... But that all changed on Tuesday when I had my 28 wks preggers appointment with a consultant at the hospital - where we'd talk about my 'birth plan' Now those who are no stranger to my blog will know I don't do birth - I should, I know, it is the ultimate experience in womanhood - but I watched a video in biology class in about 1985/6 and ever since I saw hairy Mary almost splayed in half squeezing out pure horror - I have had one hell of a phobia. To the point I saw my doc before I even got pregnant back in 2005 and said 'how can you help me?'

Anyway Sproglet came out through a blissful C section and I'm due another this time around. However, lucky me, at the appointment I'd just got a Dr straight from an NHS directive meeting encouraging women to have normal births - even after sections - so he had his little band wagon to jump on. Even though he seemed lovely - wide smile, caring voice, calm manner - the minute we got onto chatting about how this one would come out - he had an agenda. I explained in great detail - the video, my phobia, my long crusade during my last fretful pregnancy to secure a section - baby in breach, all that jazz. He nodded. He cared. I let out a long sigh. I knew the score - it was my choice and one I had already made.

Then he began - with his offers of therapy, chats with community midwife, to try the natural birth thang etc etc - and you know what, I just couldn't face the thought of having to justify myself - AGAIN. My body shook - an involuntary response to such chats - and all I could say as the tears poured down my face was 'don't do this to me, please don't do this to me.'

Clearly the Dr thought I was a basket case. He stopped all attempts to co-erce me into birth, gave me a tissue and then tried to suggest that my phobia would be something that I passed onto my own kids - what if I had a daughter and I passed it onto her? Shouldn't I get help, now, while I could? Later I felt completely enraged - how dare this man make assumptions about how I would choose to bring up this imaginary daughter if I had one? As I told him, I don't plan to have any more kids, I'm never giving birth so why should I resolve this long standing fear? It is my fear - I own it, I get it is irrational, but hey, it isn't harming anyone else. Hell, I am in awe - complete awe - of any woman who has ever gone through birth - something I could never get my head round in a million years. Perhaps my Mother's gynaecological problems when I was growing up - culminating in a hysterectomy - also played a part in my squeamish-ness when it comes to lady bits.

Anyway - I reminded the Doc that C sections cost £3,500 whereas normal births only £1800 on the NHS - so perhaps money could be at the route of all this 'let's have less sections' directive. I also pointed out that we are having bigger and bigger babies these days, with better diets - so no longer are 6lb babies the norm - 8lbs is more regular - rather than the 5lb/6lb ers in my mum's day. 10lb babies aren't that irregular. Yet skelatorially - if there is such a word - we haven't evolved enough yet as a species to push such big babies out - which is why there are more and more emergency sections. In an article I read a while back - 8 out of 10 obstetricians would elect to have an elective section rather than try natural birth. Dr coughed uncomfortably and told me I was well researched. Then I hit him with a government funded study by the college of midwives in 2006 that's directive was purely to prove that birth was best - in a bid to get costs down in maternity wards - the costs of so many sections.

At the heart of every directive, every initiative - is a money saving ethos.

Dr relented, realised there was no point in trying and booked in my section - 6th Dec 2010 baby arrives. I read back over his notes later in my maternity book - describing me as 'agitated' and 'weepy' - 'physically and emotionally distressed' etc and all his great suggestions that I had 'refused.' He had his ass well covered. He wasn't taking the wrap for my choice - clearly he had tried. Yet he had failed to note I am demanding stitches and not staples for the operation. Too busy ticking his boxes I imagine.

The thing that annoyed me most from this whole experience, wasn't the fact as a healthy person who takes care of myself and who has worked bloody hard since at Uni and has paid every tax bill on time - that the one time I need help - a section, I am made to beg for it - no, what angered me was this man's character assumptions about me - and what my phobia will do to my family in years to come. How dare he! When I had mentioned that had I not been able to get section first time around, I would have got a loan and gone privately - he suggested I took this money (which I explained I didn't have - I said 'loan' Doc, as you clearly weren't listening) and re-directed it into therapy for such an 'extreme and deep rooted phobia.' This from a man - who will never have to give birth, who is busy ticking his boxes and dotting his i's and making women like me feel shit about themselves.

I may have won my section, but it wasn't without humiliation and having to justify my choices. Why can't women just choose? Why have we lost the right to the births that we want? Where's the fucking directive that lets us decide what works for us - as people, individuals and not just numbers/boxes?

Friday Night Lights and nesting

2010-09-12T19:03:00.005+01:00

I am still here. Just been working hard, having mini hormonal driven meltdowns and nesting my ass off. I have spent every last spare moment on line looking for a rug, curtains and all things cosy to make our lounge less barren. I have visions of me come December, feeding a small child at 3am, freezing in our sub zero temperature lounge. At the moment it has no curtains. We said we'd get round to it when we moved in. 2 years ago. My neighbours must have loved watching me cavort around to Body Combat (in the days when I could do it) and watching our general sloth if there is nothing on the tube. Our sash windows rattle come winter and let in a cold draft that could freeze your neck solid, so curtains are a must. I've done 2 winters without them - not any more. Thermal lining needed to boot.

It would be a lie if I said I didn't love this time of year though - when the temperature dips a few degrees, the leaves begin their voyage through the colour spectrum and the last rays of summer sun begin to disappear. I get that 'ole back to school feeling - the need to purchase something from Paperchase; I get excited by stationary - embarrassingly so - what that says about me, I don't want to know. When soups and one pot recipes come out along with the blankets and cardigans. Speaking of which, being almost 7 months preggers I can't indulge in any retail therapy clothes wise (not that I have spare cash to do so with all my extreme nesting going on)as fashion may as well be on planet moon at the moment, it bears so little impact on my maternity wardrobe - but I have just ordered a cashmere cardigan that I have coveted for a while. My Mum kindly went halves on it as otherwise it wouldn't have got anywhere near me. But I am convinced this is 'an investment piece' - cost per wear it will work out dead cheap - or so I tell myself to appease the guilt. Plus it is from The White Company - and every time I look in that catalogue, I want my life to resemble it's serenity. It will cover big bump and also post baby bump too. It also is the softest thing I have ever draped over myself and in it I feel cocooned, safe, all ready to bed down for winter.

That is, if I could do any bedding. My god - the heartburn. It rages. And rages. Two ranitidines a day and I am still swigging gaviscon like an alkey swallows whiskey and giving up on any food past 6pm... I wake up at 2am - just for a wee swig as the back of my throat burns. Maybe again at 5am. I wake up with it and go to sleep with it - even though my head is propped up on two plus pillows. I am counting down these weeks with a mixture of fear - what the hell am I doing having two kids, when I barely cope with one (and an easy, well mannered, does as he is told, great sleeping kid into the bargain - this isn't meant to sound boastful, I just hear from other folk that Sproglet is fairly easy to parent)- and the need for it to pass mighty quickly so I can stop feeling this burning sensation so damn often.

What else has been happening in Crummy Mummy's small world? Ok, a confession. I have a new crush - and it is all the fault of my work buddies. They are all big drama fans - as in, tv shows. They chew the fat over what is good, bad or downright shouldn't be on screen. Since I've been back at work I've heard them chatting about 'Friday Night Lights' a tv show about American football - teen drama stylee. I wasn't convinced - I'd never heard of it and series one was shown on an obscure channel over here in the UK. But with the autumn tv schedule yet to kick in - there was honest to god - NOTHING to watch here since Greys and Damages ended months ago... So I bought the box set.

It is brilliant. The characterisation is fantastic - particularly the relationship between the coach and his wife Tammy. I want her to be my best friend. I have equally strong feelings about the tortured, delicious Tim Riggins, but in a more X rated version. It reels you in and makes you care - with mercifully sparse dialogue and without moralistic monologues. Everything is underplayed - giving the viewer the chance to relish all the subtext. It is no West Wing, but it doesn't want to be. Husband agreed to watch the first ep with me - then we did no 2. Next day he told me off for trying to watch one without him and now it is our guilty pleasure. I am relieved to know I still have seasons 2, 3 and 4 to go. I'm not sure my hormones could take the loss of Timmy Riggins from my life right now. Even if he does need to wash his hair. If you have never seen it - go on, treat yourself.

So the highlight of my days at the mo? Snuggling under blankets watching Tim Riggins sweat. Dreaming of curtains and rugs and hot pots. Maybe I need to get out more, but frankly, I just want to stay in.

What goes on behind closed doors

2010-08-31T20:24:00.002+01:00

Can you tell I am back at work - blogging ceases abruptly?

So... you know those questions - 'what would you do if you were invisible for the day?' and people say funny stuff like 'hide in Brad Pitt's trousers' or 'rob a bank' blah blah - well mine is quite simple: I would spy on married couples and see what really goes on behind closed doors...

Does that make me freaky or creepy? I make no apologies. Husband and I had some corking rows over the weekend - one culminated in him punching a crack in a door. I am not faultless at all - at the moment my hormones are so shot I am behaving like a teenage girl with PMT - and yet we had friends coming for lunch on Sunday - so we had to plaster on our 'we are happy and normal and would you like more dip?' faces and pretend we liked each other. By the end of the meal, we actually did. Those 'fake it til you make it' rules really work. I was a bit emotional about it all yesterday - full of woe and anger - but I managed to dilute it into a civil email and Husband replied and now we have joint 'task lists' and promises of more help round the house (acts of service - HIM) and less nagging/acting deranged (ME).

He arrived home just as I hit the hay and planted some impressive kisses on me. That isn't a euphemism for hot sex - I am after all a beached whale at the moment, with a chest bigger than Manhattan - the man would have to don a helmet and some climbing hooks in order to scale them/me, I genuinely mean he gave me some lovely affection. Underrated it is.

Anyhow, it got me thinking about other couples - and how they juggle full time jobs and kids and childcare and household bills and money and chores and stress and in-laws and still enjoy each other's company? Still belly laugh at the end of the day? I don't mean celebs - their lives aren't really goverened by the same rules that we have to abide to - and therefore who knows what is stage managed/a lavendar marriage/even exists? Boring. I'm talkin' regular folk - like you and me.

Husband and my's problem isn't that we have nothing to say to each other and the marriage is stale - it is that we so rarely get time together. We've had 2 dates recently - both were fab. One was a ridiculous 45 min drive to and from, the nearest cinema showing an Argentinian film that I wanted to see (The Secret In Their Eyes - good by the way) - I booked us a comfy sofa with cushions - (god I LOVE the Everyman Hampstead cinema, why didn't I go more when I lived 15 mins walk from it for 7 years???)and Husband was thrilled to discover it offered waiter service and he was able to drink wine throughout. I supped tea and ate chocolate covered honeycomb. Bliss. The other date was a brilliant meal at a cosy little country gastropub where I drank a hearty glass of red and then suffered heartburn until 3am. But it was worth it.

I digress. I just wonder how folk still want to tear each others clothes off after their kid(s) have just crapped their pants, or their mother-in-law is having a bath in the next room? Or how they decide who's turn it is to take out the bin/do the food shop/clean the bathroom... or who pays what? There is so much that people never say. They show the world that everything is just rosy in their garden and then out of the blue announce they are splitting up. 'I never saw that coming' you'll say, in shock. But they never let you know. It is terribly British to act like everything is fine, even when it isn't. And maybe things are fine most of the time - but what happens when they're not? Ohhh it's interesting isn't it? The taboos of marriage, the secrets we must never tell. The relationship we show the world and the one we have in private. Thing that fascinates me most, is as Husband pointed out yesterday - that it isn't easy, but it is how you get through the hard times that defines how strong your marriage is - that commitment to make it work, to try your best, otherwise what was the point?

It is all so easy when you first date, can't keep your hands off each other, live on air and the butterflies in your stomach. Getting engaged, planning a wedding, setting up a life together. Nothing can prepare you for kids and how much your lives change post birth.... So staying together - is it simply luck? That the person you fancied across that crowded bar, who gave you 5 orgasms in an evening, who took you to Paris, who charmed your Mother, who bought you flowers and got on one knee and all the rest, is still as amazing 10 plus years on. Can still light up a room when they walk into it. Still make you feel a bit mushy. Still make you smile. How do you ever know in that sweaty packed bar, that he's a good bet and you'll make it through all those rites of passage, all that life throws at you. You don't, you take a chance and suddenly, here you are - 2.4 kids and a 3 bed semi. I'm just curious how you got there and why you stay.

I know why I do. And it isn't because I got an enormous bunch of lillies last week and some impressive kisses. But the reasons why I do - well, find that invisibility cloak and you can find out.