The missing 'Mother' gene...

There is an expectation in life that if you have one - you should really just go the whole hog and have 2. It would be wrong not to - after all bairns need company. Family holidays are always for 4. A car fits 4. 2.4 is the national average. So step up, do your bit for mankind and give your offspring a sibling.

I applaud those who do - or who sprog even more - Braneglina style. They must have many hands, much patience and the energy of an Olympic athlete. Folk keep asking me when I plan on no 2 - many presuming that there will be a no 2. Why wouldn't I? Well... I like having a life. My life. Shallow as it sounds, I still have hopes and ambitions in the working world. Things I want to achieve before I die. I'm sure these are achievable with more than one child - but oh my god, how? It is hard enough getting sproglet up and out every day - buckling him up in the car and then dashing to work - never mind the thought of bottles, bibs and calgel. When I pick up Sproglet on an evening I manage a spot of playing and bath time before I collapse on the sofa in a mini coma - imagine night time feeds on top of this - a child with colic or reflux!!!

My cup of admiration overflows for those who have children and manage to juggle all the balls without dropping them. But I drop my basket every other week - partially down to the fact I'm a semi-single parent with Husband's working hours... I see those Moms around me at sproglet's nursery - they know stuff. It's like they went to a secret Mother school and graduated with honours. They know all about the best schools, pre-schools, when names should be down for both; how to potty train in two days; that the nursery should have this or that; their kids sport name tags - handmade!!! sewn in everything (even socks!!!); hold tea parties every weekend and make sure their offspring can swim, dance, juggle and create masterpieces before they can wipe their own bums. I am in awe. And fear.

They don't admit to two glasses of wine before dinner is cooked. Or that they stick on DVDs to entertain the wee one in order to read the Sunday papers. Or feed their hyper over-tired kids a dose of medised to knock them out for the night. They don't say how relieved they were to get to work when their pride and joy kicked off and wouldn't eat/brush their teeth/dress in the morning. They seem to revel in the denial of self and their devotion to their kids. I want to be like that - I swear I do. But I'm not. I had 33 years of just me to worry about and it is damn hard to surrender spontaneity and the luxury of choice on a daily basis. Don't get me wrong - I wouldn't swop Sproglet for the world - but do I want to double my already heavy load? I dunno. I don't want him to grow up an only kid - but hell, I did and... I turned out... scrap that. I don't want him to grow up a lonely kid. But do I have the energy and zest to do the night feeds, endless nappies, gooing and gahhhhing stage again? Mmmmmm... not sure.

Dare I say that at times I found parts of motherhood not only isolating but also (whispers) boring? My step-sis once admitted that she wasn't jazzed on the 1st year - but loved it from then on. For a similar remark Felicity Huffman from Desperate Housewives was almost burned at the stake in the US. She mentioned that after child no 1 she and her husband didn't know whether to give one kid away or have another. I read about an American journo who wrote an article about Motherhood boring her silly - she was vilified to teh degree that you would have thought she had said she loved Hitler. What's wrong with us if we want our own lives too? Men aren't expected to give up their sports, business lunches, pints after the match - are we? Or are we missing the 'mother' gene?

This question haunts me all the time - it intimidates me, unnerves me, keeps me up at night occasionally. I'm not saying I don't love sproglet - I couldn't love anything more. This isn't about love. It's about what comes naturally to some women and others - hell they must just be better fakers. Maybe my own Mother didn't inspire this cosy nesting instinct in me... Motherhood certainly wan't natural to her. She didn't try and hide it either. My opinion is -as long as your child feels like the most important thing in your world - isn't that all that matters? But still people ask about baby no 2 and I still have no answers. Part of me wants to nuture again - to feel the overwhelming l love that I feel for sproglet. The other part of me wants to find a balance in my home/working life - and have time to write a book, see friends... nuture myself. Is that so wrong?

Friends with money

Have any of you guys seen the movie 'Friends with Money' starring Jen Aniston and Catherine Keener? I remember going to see with with my friend Pocket whilst I was pregnant - and it really struck a chord with me. See Jen plays a poor cleaner type singleton who dates the wrong men (could be real life bar the home help part eh?) and doesn't have a life plan - hell in this movie she doesn't even wear make-up - in fact she steals beauty products from clients. (One of those indie worthy movies that has Sundance award hype and the like). Meanwhile all her mates are rich successful types who have kids and cars and extensions and patios and fancy dinners with matching crockery. Jen doesn't aspire to be like them - thank god, or else I would have slept through the movie - she just moseys on through, not really giving a damn and being treated like a doormat. But what makes it fascinating is how much her friends compare themselves to her - in order to feel good about themselves and their depressingly mundane mapped-out existences.

One great scene has them all at a fancy schmancy benefit dinner - all polite banter and chat about Jen's rather ugly date. They all drive home in their cosy couples and dissect the evening: 'worrying' for Jen's life... 'sympathising' that one couple don't look happy, 'concerned' that another looks like they've put on weight, another may be sending their kids to the wrong school etc etc. Go on hands up - who hasn't done it - compared their life to another person's in order to feel better? It virtually is a sport these days - picking apart who does what and why, in order to inflate one's own fragile esteem. Why else do celeb mags featuring their break-ups, breakdowns and body issues sell so well? When you meet with friends does the topic always stray to other mates - their absence an open ticket to vent little grievances, to comment on their lifestyles, their choices. To feel a bit smug that your choices are much better - that whatever you're doing, at least you're not so and so with their great big whatever it is, and how much did that big whatsit cost - and them with their blah blah blah blah... did you know that they never... and therefore no one but no one wants to go to their whatever event. And on. And on.

Does it make us feel better? Thaw the jealousy, quell the insecurity, hide the frustration that some people have all the luck and others just plod through from one drama to the next? Well yes, sometimes it does. But at the end of the day - it doesn't make a jot of difference to your life who does what where and how - unless they are doing it with your husband/boyfriend/man of the month. And those who judge you - let 'em. They have their life and you have yours. And they're talking about yours. Right Now.

All this ADD (after dinner dissecting) isn't good for the soul - even genuine concern can spill over into judgemental cynicism. So this year - in the spirit of resolutions - mine is to rake over folk's lives less. Going cold turkey will be hard - in fact it makes me wonder what I will have left to talk about with some aquaintances - but I am determined. Hell I may even enjoy myself.

Great Expectations...

So how was it for you? Xmas that is? Did Santa deliver? Were your high expectations met? Did you feel that the christmassy moment buried deep within your heart spilled out and overflowed with goodwill to all? No? me neither.

Two nights ago I was at the DVD store (I still call it the Video store but whatever) chatting to the welcoming geek behind the counter - his words not mine - about our respective Xmasses. His was 'horror.' Mine was fine. Husband cooked a lovely meal. Sproglet got more toys (great - all 'musical') than you could shake a stick at, we lit the fire, drank champagne, stuffed our faces, ate too much chocolate, played on the Wii and all politely had a good time. There was nothing wrong, not even the usual friction that is obligatory between my Mother and I - but it just didn't fill my heart with exploding joy - and why should it? Thing is, every year we work ourselves into a frenzy of 'must have perfect house, great gifts, good food, there must be laughter and cheer and ... and... and... everything!!!' But does the day itself ever deliver? Has it ever really since we spotted Dad under the tree rearranging Santa deliveries?? Video store boy spent it with his dad's new family and his step-siblings who are like something straight out of Deliverance. He recoiled in shock as he spoke of his step-bro's racism and homophobia (a closet if ever there was one it sounds) and his miserable step-sis who wouldn't even speak - perhaps a blessing. The poor lad looked distraught as he told of his descent into the abyss of depression on 'the happiest day of the year.'

My new year's motto is to have less expectation that everything will turn into a Hallmark card just because it is meant to. I plan to stress way less. I'm not quite sure how to achieve this yet - but I am determined to try. My life has become an OCD stressathon where I worry about the house, my finances, my son's development, what to have for dinner, does my boss like me, can I do my job, when to replace the dripping fridge, do I need petrol, have I remembered so and so's b'day, will I make it to the nursery on time - every day. I need to give myself a break - chill a bit - just accept things and move on. I have turned into Bree Vandercamp without the glossy hair - and it is frightening!

So that coupled with a pledge to lose the 10 pounds that have settled comfortably on my hips and tummy - are my resolutions. I know it is so goddamn tiresome to have them as they are there to be broken - but as much as I loathe new year (high expectation event if ever there was one) it is a time to wave goodbaye to bad habits, shitty years, unmended hearts etc - and focus on today. Not even tomorrow. Maybe watching sproglet's Kung Fu Panda for the millionth time since Xmas is rubbing off on me...

Have a good one - see you on the other side. Oh last one - to blog more often - promise!

I am alive - just!!

I have not died. I am still crummy. But Sproglet knocked the laptop off the sofa and we have been without one for about 6 weeks now. After haggling and more haggling and er... getting nowhere with those lovely insurance folk at Axa - we are getting a new laptop next week... I will rejoin the cyber world again...

It has been manic manic manic MANIC at work and what with Xmas (oh god - it should be bi-annual no?) and small child and gift shopping and Relate and wrapping gifts and buying chairs and hen dos (am too old for that kind of malarkey now) I haven't had a chance to write.

So this is a simple - hello - I am here, well, frazzled and will be back for a pre-Xmas rant if possible. Promise it'll be a goodie.

Is it wrong that we have bought Sproglet a dance mat - as his sense of rhythm is kind of like a slo-mo Stevie Wonder crossed with acid user - purely to laugh at... I mean with him?

So... have a great chrimble - hope you survive it and my tip is just to drink through it - and don't miss EastEnders (natch).

Must dash I have something to stuff, wrap, wipe or decorate...

X

Eternal juggling

What the hell did I do with my money and time before I had Sproglet? I think I ate out all the time, took cabs, had long wine fuelled phonecalls, compared martinis across hotel bars in London lay in my bed (oh to have a lie-in)read more books, bought products that I didn't need and heels I actually got to wear.

Cut to now. My life has lost all spontaneity, and is an endless rush to and from work, nursery and Sainsburies. I have no money, live in flats, am too exhausted for phone chats and haven't had a martini since....er... way back when. I'm not bitter that my life has stopped being about glam restaurants and sexy bars and is now a fraught hour in Pizza Express with a pooey nappy break. My beauty regime is remembering to take off my mascara and shave my pits once a week rather than a cleanse, tone, steam and scrubathon of yester year.

Obviously I wouldn't swop life post Sproglet for life pre - but feck me, I am knackered. Every morning getting out of the house feels like a production in itself -a swirl of teeth brushing, wetting bed hair, cereal across the floor and shoes on beds. I achieve more before 9am these days than I used to in a week.

My mate Hannah rang me last week with overflowing guilt about not being a better friend/being in touch/sending birthday cards etc etc. We made a present amnesty to stop buying gifts for each other's kids as it was becoming a chore rather than a joy and an added stress to our already stressful lives as full time working mothers. Hannah admitted that she felt as if she was failing in all areas - as a friend, mother, wife, colleague, worker, daughter etc etc. Now Hannah to me is simply Wonderwoman. An amazing teacher, brilliant Mother, top friend and the best cook I know. Yet she was beating herself to a pulp. I admitted that recently I have felt the same - like I was just keeping my head above water and sometimes sinking under...

I wake up with lists dashing round my head - buy a birthday card, pay the nursery, buy milk, remember tampax, get scripts, have we run out of raisins, I should facebook Chris about our NY visit, I must call bank about going over my overdraft limit, did I switch off the heating, has Finn brushed his teeth etc etc I never feel like I get on top of anything and am constantly wondering when it will all collapse in a heap. This week was a tough one at work. I got screamed at my a frustrated writer - who vented all their anger at me. Tired, stressed and at the end of my tether I tearfully rang a friend at work - Caroline - who was brilliant and soothing and supportive. Word went round my fellow workers and they all were incredibly protective and helpful the next day - which is so great - because when your head is swimming and you feel kicked when you are down - having people become like a human blanket to you is very comforting indeed.

Anyway, I digress. By Friday I was melted down - ready to curl under a blanket and just watch X factor and read papers and do jack all, all weekend. I had a kid's party to attend today (Sproglet loved it) and one tomorrow that would have involved a 3 hour drive (alone) which I sadly declined. I felt like a crap friend. But I swear I am spent - physically and emotionally - I just need a break. My body craves the comfoting needles and drops from my acupuncturist saint-like woman Mary and about a months sleep. Memo to self - buy some multi-vitamins... I have no idea how some women manage to juggle everything and still look amazing, cook up masterpieces, claim to have sizzling sex lives, have immaculate houses and never forget a birthday. I hate these women!!! I feel like I am spread thinner than lo-fat butter on Victoria Beckham's gluten-free toast on a morning. I need to have a word with myself and work out I can't be all things to all people but somehow I still try.

Thank god I escape to NY this week... for a much needed break. I can't wait to wander in Central Park with a coffee and just breattthhhhhhheeee... I won't have much money, but hell I'll have time - and that sounds pretty damn good to me.

Happy Halloween!!!!

No I haven't been kidnapped by aliens or run off with the circus - I'm just a full time working Mother now and boy does that rain on the old free time parade. But I am back - in time to wish you all a very Happy Hallowe'en. What tricks or treats do you have in store? I just don't get how folk cannot be enamored with All Hallow's Eve. When I was growing up in Belfast - Halloween was a big deal - you saved your pocket money religiously to buy Bengal matches, sparklers and indoor fireworks (that stank the house out and almost gave you 3rd degree burns but when the snake thingy grew out of a small pink tablet or the mini volcano erupted it was worth it). We had no interest in Guy Fawkes Night - that was seen as an English celebration and besides, mid Troubles, the fireworks were banned save that some poor sod would assume that folk were bombing the house next door...

Halloween gave us a full week off school (once I spent the entire week trying to catch falling leaves as I heard for each leaf caught a wish was granted) toffee apples, costumes, carved out pumpkins and best of all - Trick or Treating - otherwise known as the cash cow. A tuneless rendition of 'Halloween is coming the geese are getting fat... ' would entice the kindly neighbour whose bell we had rung relentlessly to part with fifty pence, ten pence, or maybe the flutter of a pound note (no £1 coins in those old days) to get rid of us pronto. With necks of brass, we would call at every door up and down the neighbour hood, swinging our lantern that would stay lit for all of ten seconds and straightening our wonky masks. Those that offered apples or money nuts would be met with a disappointed grunt; a mental note made that this house deserved thunder and lightening played on them daily for the next 2 weeks (ringing their bell and running off). All we were really interested on was the cold hard cash. I remember my mate Mandy and I making £18 between us one Halloween - in the days where pocket money was 20p a week - this was akin to winning the lottery!

Now that I am a grown up (of sorts) my enthusiasm for all things spooky remains undaunted. I spent my last fiver on a set of fetching pumpkin lights that decorate my desk at work. When work mates trundle past my desk they will be rewarded with sweets shaped like human body parts. My son will go to nursery tomorrow dressed as a fetching pirate and I will have tat galore decorated around the house in celebration. Have you noticed how much Halloween related junk you can buy these days? Torches shaped like eyeballs, skeleton lights and liquid filled novelty green tongues... fabulous. In short I love this holiday as I can be a child again. I'm thinking of solving my own credit crisis with a spot of Trick or Treating. Anyone?

Maternity leave - can I leave it until now please?

Two friends had babies at the weekend - both boys. Both already had sons. My step-sister had a baby girl last Monday. Cue lots of pics of sweet wrinkled squished wee bunnies - all blotchy and new, mewing and snuffling as they splutter through their shiny new days on this earth. What long days they are... feeding round the clock, our bits healing, your body recoiling from the onslaught of birth - leaking and swollen, a shadow of it's former self.

I don't envy those first few weeks - to me they were hell on wheels. Second time around is never so difficult (apparently) - by then you have (hopefully) grown Mother's balls and no longer feel the fear of venturing further than a metre from the comfort of home and steady supply of wipes. You are immune to the dirty looks in Starbucks from career women chatting merrily about holidays and designer wear over coffee; from the sniggers of teenage boys as you buy maternity pads at the chemist and when you say the words 'nipple shields' with absolutely no hint of embarrassment in front of the ten deep queue in Boots you know you are in a new zone. Frankly, you don't give a fuck. You've been there, done it and can no longer fit into the T shirt.

These are meant to be the golden days - filled with baby bonding, sweet smells and Mommy lunches with the gals. In reality the washing machine never stops, your house looks like invaded Basra, your daily scent is crusted vomit and you are so tired you hallucinate that Josh Harnett is the milkman. (Not that you would be up for anything frisky with him even if he was - christ let no man go near there again!) No bra fits as your milk comes, nay, charges, in - you have begun sporting weird pigment spots on your face and you haven't washed your hair in over a week. You would sell your soul to the devil for 5 hours straight sleep and every time you open your wardrobe all you can see are a row of clothes mocking you - they may as well belong to Kate Moss they look so damn tiny. Golden days my ass.

God is certainly a man. Because if he wasn't this birth business would be a piece of cake - we women would pop them out and stride back into work a la Phoebe in the dream sequence episode of Friends, leaving the spew, sleep deprivation and complete loss of life (let's not even mention how isolating the whole experience can be) to men. Then, when the bunny turns two - all cute with new words and activities every day - THAT is when we can take our much loved maternity time. Sooo much more fun. Take sproglet to the jungle gym place filled with coloured balls; take sproglet for lunch and dare to have a glass of wine; read books, have afternoon baths, bake cakes, ice biscuits etc etc - all jolly fun. So much more fun than the 'golden days.'

Sproglet is so much fun these days I find it genuinely hard to leave him. Ok, not so much when he is throwing the king of all strops in Waitrose, lying on the ground refusing to move unless I buy him a cake shaped like Sponge Bob... but in general he is so much more... interesting. If I could vote on when to take maternity leave - something I never had in the first place after Sproglet was born, being self employed and all that - I'd like to call it in now please. If only that were possible...