Life rafts

21 Nov

Today I am travelling North. This fact alone explains how eager I am for this meeting to which I am moving, since I have what could be described as a ‘Southern bias’.

I am travelling to spend the weekend with five people who collectively proved to be one of the most positive influences I have ever had on my life. Geography, circumstance and conflicting demands on time mean we never meet as often as would be amazing; and I think it has been eight years since I saw two of them. But when you have been grey-eyed and teary, with everything on your anatomy hurting and leaking, unable to get out of the house before 2.30pm and even then when you do make it out forgetting everything you had to bring with you, and you have then spent quality empathic and entertaining time with people, welcomed and unjudged (and with nappies you can borrow to make up for those you forgot!) that equates to friends for life for me. Eight years will mean nothing.

These five are friends I made ten years ago through the National Childbirth Trust in East London. We had babies within an eight week period, and first met just as spring was risking an entrance, in late April. Following L1’s ‘fascinating’ birth, the end of my lengthy hospital incarceration and self-inflicted troubles such as ‘not being able to get up from the floor when you get down there to play with your baby when on your own in the house'; with M back to work for weeks, and family and friends being amazingly, blessedly supportive but also at work during the week, I was incredibly lonely and incredibly overwhelmed by that period of time, my best of times and my worst of times.

My NCT membership was my life raft in the storm, my promise of people in the same area and same situation to spend time with. I was so desperate for those afternoon meet-ups to start that I phoned the convenor rather than waiting to be phoned; I didn’t say ‘I NEED FRIENDS’ explicitly but I may as well have done.

That first afternoon we met, swapping ‘war stories’ and finding out others too were permanently changed by the process of birth, feeding was tricky, sleep nonexistent and being overwhelmed by tears in Tesco Express quite normal, I felt my horizons open up once again. Here were people who needed to talk about babies and birth just as much as I did.

It was this group, during coffee in a Walthamstow deli, who helped me overcome my terrible fear of L1 choking on solid food, stood by me while I fed her a rice cake, and saved her from a lifetime of monotonous puree, which had I been left to my own neurotic devices would have been the way things went.

And as time passed and we became more capable and adventurous, they were fantastic companions for day-time (and later, memorably, minus-offspring night-time) adventures and for the unique challenges of taking the next step, whatever that ended up being, about returning to work.

So I am travelling to Manchester, excited and grateful, both for these friends in my life and for the work the NCT has done. They acknowledge and understand the universality of those first weeks of motherhood, when perversely I (and countless others) have never felt more isolated and alone, and taken great strides in doing something about it.


How not to pack, but be happy

24 Oct

On Tuesday I abandoned all pretence at capsule wardrobe packing. I hefted the massive suitcase and the slightly smaller massive suitcase out from under the bed, took the ‘carry on Samsonite’ (not a lesser-known episode of the Carry On oeuvre, but our trusty in-cabin everything bag for any flights) out for good measure, and got laundering and cramming.

I have been away on numerous holidays where I have spent an age poring over women’s magazine’s ‘capsule’ wardrobe articles, then attempted to replicate them in my own suitcase. But inevitably something ends up missing from the magazine’s double page spread on the ‘only five items you need for a week in Belgrade’. Something quite crucial, like trousers, or a cardigan.

Once to be fair I did follow these instructions to the letter, and travelled without any trousers packed, but that is more a cautionary tale about why it isn’t wise to pack after a massive work night out than an attempt to encapsulate the elegantly streamlined accounts-for-all-eventualities packing that I imagine Amal Clooney to be a master at.

So for this upcoming week – the tour named #FrozenNorth2014 – I have made sure that every eventuality is covered, for me and for the Ls. Short sleeved, long sleeved, warm, furry, waterproof, thin trousers, sturdy trousers – just not ‘no trousers’. M is old enough to plough his own packing furrow, although that doesn’t mean I don’t cast a critical eye on his attempts, naturally.

Apologies to those with whom we come to stay, but at least we won’t be caught short if we unexpectedly need to dress to impress, eh.


If kids spell ‘love’ ‘t-i-m-e’

13 Oct

Two landmarks approach apace. My 21st birthday, at the start of next year (see dictionary definition of ‘denial’) and L1’s move from primary to secondary school. The former event is currently dead to me as the latter event – with open days and agonising about the ‘right thing to do’ – is occupying quite a bit of temporal and mental space right now. And also I’m not ready to turn ‘new 21′ as I still consider myself something around ‘old 21′, only with more grey hairs and assorted scars.

In the past, I would not have defined an event taking place in five or eleven months, as the above two are, as ‘approaching apace’. But yesterday I realised that in two weeks time we head back up North to reprise last October’s ‘long march’, a trip which as far as I can tell took place about six weeks ago, not fifty weeks ago. And my job requires a lot of future planning, consistently thinking a month, three months, even six months ahead, working on projects to influence outcomes during the next quarter, rarely tomorrow.

All this does not sit easily with my commitment to live in the moment and take in as much as I can of my kids while their own pace of change continues exponential. When you’re forward-planning for four days a week it can slip into normal life as well; reaching for the future becomes commonplace even though I know full well that the future, and where I am now, will collide soon enough.

Once again, this weekend, I received a timely reminder to concentrate on the now. And it came from an internet meme, on Facebook, saying that kids spell love ”t-i-m-e’.

Reading that made me realise that just now, with things so busy, I am spending too much time contemplating what happens next and not enough time acknowledging what is happening now. So we headed out to a country park for the afternoon, no plans, and simply enjoyed what we did right then, as it happened. More of the same, please, more of the same.


Disqualified vegetable growers anonymous

15 Sep

When is a courgette not a courgette? When it’s a marrow, apparently, although where ‘courgette’ ends and ‘marrow’ begins seems to have a hung jury.

And yes, I know marrows are courgettes grown on a plant where people have been a bit too busy to harvest for a couple of weeks, but to me this is not the sole definition of a marrow. A marrow has those big thick green stripes. It’s flesh is watery. A marrow can only be served stuffed with mincemeat as an unpopular tea in my house when I was growing up (this is now unfair as I like a stuffed marrow – stop sniggering, you at the back), but the palate matures with age particularly where the marrow is concerned, and I quite like it now. I would certainly not have been ashamed to have grown a marrow in a courgette’s stead, and would have had no qualms about confessing its ‘marrow-ness’ up front. And that’s a fact.

Rather like it is a fact that our courgettes, grown lovingly over a long (too long? Jury’s still out) time, were disqualified from the Village Produce Show (highlight of our family calendar) for being deemed marrows. So as you can tell, I have thought of little else but vegetable differentiation since Saturday. Little else.

Apparently arbitrary veg reclassification occurs without chance of disciplinary hearings to put both sides of the story, and with no option to bring in an independent supporter. I know vegetable growing doesn’t tally with employment law, and I appreciate this may drag out the duration of judging somewhat, but most important decisions taken on the part of others allow for the right of appeal.

Still, being disqualified from the Village Produce Fayre is, I would argue, noteworthy, and I shall be putting it on my CV.


Loopy for loom bands

11 Jul 20140712-204815-74895148.jpg

Earlier this week we had a fork crisis (this is not a euphemism, and to make it very clear for reasons not at all related to this blog, nor is ‘garage conversion’, I literally mean I want my garage changing into a habitable room not anything adjusted ‘down below’).

The cutlery tray was a fork-free zone.
This was perturbing since we have a decent canteen, particularly if you’re not fussy about fork size: there are eight available.

The usual suspects – dishwasher, cutlery tray, still unwashed on the breakfast table – were searched and found wanting in their fork-ness; I wandered into the living room to ask if anyone had any ideas, only to find that all four of my ‘adult’ forks were employed as a versatile and inventive loom substitute following the accidental destruction of all plastic looms at the Hop Farm Festival last weekend.

Forks bound together by loom bands were creating multi-stranded bracelets with startling ease and speed. Good news, I thought, since the kids had run a Loom Factory at the festival the previous weekend making two pounds for eight bands (bulk order discount but slightly inflated individual price due to use of scented bands -
now you know).

I like loom bands – and not just because of their potential to help fund the garage conversion (the actual garage conversion you realise).
I like the fact that they have otherwise occupied my small son in lieu of electronic equipment (although like his mother, OCD tendencies lead to some loom band fraughtness when he wishes just to finish ‘this last one’). I like the fact that they are creative and fun and that the kids are handing them over to each other as gifts.

It’s seriously fascinating to see how crazes start though, and why. Why small plastic bands? They are everywhere!

A month, maybe six weeks ago, loom bands nowhere to be seen. But now, everywhere, even, brilliantly, in the village shop which has saved a lot of searching. Where did they come from? And why? Which kid was the innovator and which the early adopter? Why? How? And when? If brands could capture this wave-crest capability they’d hugely benefit from the flood as that wave crashed down. Incredible.


Sleep status

19 May

Not very often, noL2’s been poorly for the last nine days, which has been horrible and heart-wrenching, as he has had a very high temperature on and off that has spiked at ad hoc moments and has floored him when it does. As a result, sleep has been at a premium; starting the night after I didn’t sleep as I was striding through London for So it’s fair to say that sleep has been as sleep has done since then.

This has led me to consider my relationship with sleep. Sleep now is a treat; not the six hours standard interrupted by the alarm’s rallying cry, not that sleep; the kind that you wake up from feeling you’ve drained a glass of perfectly fizzy ice-cold Sprite at a moment when all you craved was sharp tangy lemon fizz. The perfect refreshment.

I don’t expect it anymore, and there have been times when even a day off sick, feeling drained and disastrous, has been underpinned by a quiet and guilty thrill of pleasure that a map is medically in order. And last week’s tactical pre-Moonwalk sleep? One of the unexpected highlights of the decision to do the walk in the first place – a Saturday afternoon nap, justified.

I don’t think I know anyone who would say they get as much sleep as they want; sometimes I’m not sure I get as much sleep as I need, either; but there are things I want to do which take priority. I feel more refreshed from a walk with the dog at 6am than an extra hour’s kip; so that’s the choice I make.

When the Ls were teeny I thought that would be the most sleep-deprived, but parenting turns out to be a course of not sleeping for multiple different reasons. When they’re teens and don’t get up til midday I guess I’ll be awake the other end, waiting for them to come back at 2am. Looks like six hours will be the maximum for a whole to come!

How I met your father

8 May

And they all lived happily ever after...A fellow blogger I was speaking to via Twitter is running a series of guest blogs on how people met their partners. It’s been said that how M and I met bears repeating, so I have written this for her and also posted it here. Enjoy. Every word (except where clearly indicated) is true…

In May 2001 I was running late for a dear friend’s leaving drinks in Central London. I’d also been to a step class, something I was only driven to when I perceived standards to be in the direst straits, so the me that arrived at the Covent Garden venue was not a ‘me’ likely to attract anything other than, potentially, flies. So when the lovely hostess whisked me over to meet ‘the boys’ I may not have been overly enthusiastic, concerned that it wasn’t a case of not my best side, but more not my best at all.

‘The boys’, it transpired, were very nice people indeed, and I ended up speaking to one of them pretty much all night. I didn’t realise it was all night, but the first time I looked at my watch post my initial flustered entrance into the ‘do’ was when the bar staff startled me by calling ‘time’. After all, I’d only been there about 30 minutes. Hadn’t I?

Naturally (naturally for those days, anyway; nowadays I have neither the time, inclination nor tolerance) many drinks had been consumed over that ‘thirty-minute’ period which was actually about three hours. The man I’d been chatting to gave me his card, said ‘Email me, please e-mail me’, and that was it, I was in a cab (something else that’s not an option nowadays!) and heading home, reflecting on the speed of the evening and the interesting nature of the man I’d met.

For me, to be honest (and he knows this), that was that, for then anyway. I was off on a girly holiday to Iceland; I had a cracking job that I was absolutely immersed in; and (in my head, anyway) I was way waaaaaay too young to settle down. And the odd thing was that even after that one evening I had a sneaking and quite unwelcome suspicion that meeting him again might just mean that I would end up settling down (yeah, it did, alright, I know), and I wasn’t ready for that. So I filed his card and decided to drop him a note in a couple of weeks to see if we would meet again and if silence changed anything – how keen, actually, had he been?

Turns out, he was pretty keen, but acting on that didn’t quite play out how either of us might have expected.

He went home that night also reflecting on the excellence of the evening. He, however, decided that action was a more desirable route than delay (I blame his more advanced age ha ha!), grabbed the business card belonging to ‘the girl he met’ – that’s me – and dropped ‘her’ – that’s me – a text.

The observant amongst you will notice the first flaw in this already.

Imagine his delight when she – or should I say, I, responded immediately. Great to meet you too, I said. And, in response to a subsequent suggestion, I agreed, yes, let’s meet up next week.

So – a date! With me! Off he trotted to Selfridges, invested in some ‘new impressing clothes’ and waited with baited breath till the next week came round and he headed to the appointed bar at the appointed hour to meet me and further our acquaintance.

Sitting in the bar with me, his date, he pondered the fact that he must have been much drunker than he had thought when we first met, or at the very least, more blinded by my brilliance (that latter statement is of my own invention) than he had realised. For I looked and sounded nothing like he recalled; there were other friends of mine around the table all on a nice pally night out – not really his idea of a date in the conventional sense; and most puzzlingly, I spoke fondly and regularly of ‘my husband’. This ‘sort of thing’ being neither what he is into nor, of course, what I appeared to be into either – it turned out my motivation for meeting up was to ask advice about the music industry, his chosen specialised subject – he finished his drink, after a nice chat said a cheery goodbye, and, with resignation, headed off home armed with what he believed would remain a pretty entertaining ‘disastrous date’ story. At least, he reasoned, something good had come out of the mistaken identity date.

Of course, it had been clear to him within about the first fifteen minutes that alcohol was blameless here to an extent in terms of recognising ‘me’ – or not: he had gone on a date (considered a date by only one party) with the wrong girl. He had suddenly recalled that I – the real me – had not given him my card (an activity I cringe at professionally, I confess, let alone personally) – and here alcohol IS to blame for the blip in his initial memory – the only card passing had been from him to me, and the contact ball was most firmly in the real me’s court.

What happened next? Well, the real me went to Iceland, had my holiday, talked about whether or not to contact him, dealt with a couple of massive work projects, talked about whether or not to contact him; then looked at the business card waiting on my chest of drawers and thought, you know what, I liked him, I’ll drop him a line. This was about six weeks later.

The rest is history. Our instincts had been right: it was the real thing. Engaged within five months and married a year after our engagement, we’ve been married now for nearly twelve years. And it remains a cracking tale whenever any new acquaintances ask us how we met, so I’m pretty pleased to have it.


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