Entirely Humble Post

I'm not going to go on about it. I'm simply recording the moment for posterity.

I made these.

*allows herself a small pat on the back*

For The Next 'Fat' Day

The next time I tug mournfully at a too tight waistband or have a 'bleurgghh' moment when looking in the mirror, I am going to lift my head up high, throw back my shoulders and remember that the ideal of female beauty was not always based upon malnourished bodies with their protruding collarbones and hips.

I feel lucky to maintain a reasonably stable level of self esteem. I am neither thin nor overweight, not too small or too tall, not beautiful yet not considered offensive to the eye. My appearance has very little impact on my ability to pay my bills, and my family and friends seem to like me even when I am wearing my fifteen year old tracksuit bottoms. Yet despite this I would still give at least one month's mortgage payment for a pill that would melt away a stone of never-lost baby fat. Oh, to be a size 10 and wear a dress with an actual waistband.

So it was nectar for the soul to see the work of Anna Utopia Giordano and witness so viscerally that skinny does not automatically equate to beautiful.

Consider the ripe, blooming fleshiness of these Old Master's depiction of Venus and then compare this with the version which has been digitally manipulated to conform with the modern idea that skinny is best. No contest. Not only were the original Venuses allowed to carry their voluptuous hips and luscious, plump thighs with pride, but if I'm not mistaken those secret smiles they share can only mean one thing. Sheer satisfaction from the Rennaissance equivalent of a guilt free box of krispy kreme's for breakfast.

School Days and Directorships

I don't know why I stopped blogging just before my son started school, but somehow I lost the blogging mojo.

I wanted to faithfully record my boy's first day at school. Seminal moment as it was I am unlikely to forget the day but in the interests of using this blog to record our family history here's the memory.

The new scholar excitedly put on his uniform whilst I frantically tried to take the definitive photo of him to keep for posterity, my efforts somewhat thwarted by the fact we hadn't managed to buy a school tie in time or arrange the all important start of term haircut. He skipped into school without a backwards glance whilst I struggled to contain sudden hot tears and an apple sized lump which had found its way from nowhere into my throat. Three hours later my husband and I picked him up with over excited interrogation about what he'd done and whether he'd made any new friends whilst he just shrugged and reminded us that we'd promised him a celebratory trip to pizza hut.

On getting back home our tired little boy took himself upstairs to get changed. Whether it was down to the carbohydrate overload or the sheer intensity of the day I cannot be sure, but downstairs he came dressed in pyjamas. He lay down on the sofa, covered himself with the throw and fell fast asleep for two hours. The definitive photo of the day was not of my boy in his shiny new school uniform, but of a little boy worn out by his adventures napping like the baby he was only a heartbeat ago.

I had been hopeful that school would be a good way of calming down his tigger-like bounciness but of course that was the foolish hope of the naive optimist and school has brought its own issues of on/off friends, the gibberish of jolly phonics, and general behaviour issues that arise when you pick up an over-tired, over-stimulated four year old boy from after-school club.

Life for this working mother remains a constant act of balancing the guilts, with the balance tipping a little bit more towards work in the last few months as I have now been made a director at work and therefore find I am having to squeeze more and more work into chinks of my homelife.

I am not normally one to blow my own trumpet but this is my blog and I would be lying if I didn't 'fess up to being totally chuffed at my promotion. The directorship was made official almost a year to the day since I had been made redundant from my last job where, as a part-time working mother, I knew I would never have been able to play the office politics or put in the expected hours which would lead to promotion.

I had a feeling when leaving my last job that I would look back on that difficult time as being a branch in the road which I would never regret taking, and I am delighted to confirm that to be the case. Much like splitting up with a long term boyfriend - it was very hard at the time but meant I had the chance to meet someone a lot more compatible and with whom I had a long term future. My fellow director is also a working mother and it does feel very special to be able to go forward knowing that by still working part-time I can spend quality time with my children yet combine that with ambition and commitment on the work front. The balancing act that is my life is currently finely balanced between family and work. Time for friends and myself has somewhat slipped out of the equation recently (hence the badly neglected blog), but I'm working on it......

The Women We Become After Children

Friday night is a treat for my boy. He gets to stay up later than normal bedtime and invariably falls asleep on the sofa, snuggled up under the red blanket.

I watched him tonight on the sofa as his eyes closed and his breathing became regular. I watched him as wakefulness seeped away and his body eased into stillness, the day's energy finally spent. I watched him with a large lump in my throat and hot tears welling in my eyes.

He starts school in a week and it is another milestone on the inevitable journey towards independence. Whilst I know he is ready in every way for the next challenge in his short life I'm not sure this melancholic mother is.

Being in this frame of mind I was brought up short by the book I have been reading and wanted to record one passage that really resonated with me.

The Women We Become After Children.

We change shape, we buy low heeled shoes, we cut off our hair. We begin to carry in our bags half-eaten rusks, a small tractor, a shred of beloved fabric, a plastic doll. We loose muscle tone, sleep, reason, perspective. Our hearts begin to live outside our bodies. They breathe, they eat, they crawl and - look! - they walk, they begin to speak to us. We learn that we must sometimes walk an inch at a time, to stop and examine every stick, every stone, every squashed tin along the way. We get used to not getting where we were going. We learn to darn, perhaps to cook, to patch the knees of dungarees. We get used to living with a love that suffuses us, suffocates us, blinds us, controls us. We live. We contemplate our bodies, our stretched skin, those threads of silver around our brows, our strangely enlarged feet. We learn to look less in the mirror.We put our dry-clean only clothes to the back of the wardrobe. Eventually we throw them away. We school ourselves to stop saying 'shit' and 'damn' and learn to say 'my goodness' and heavens above'. We give up smoking, we colour our hair, we search the vistas of parks, swimming pools, libraries, cafes for others of our kind. We know each other by our pushchairs, our sleepless gazes, the beakers we carry. We learn how to cool a fever, ease a cough, the four indicators of meningitis, that one must sometimes push a swing for two hours. We no longer tolerate delayed buses, fighting in the street, smoking in restaurants, inconsistency, laziness, being cold. We contemplate younger women as they pass us in the street, with their cigarettes, their makeup, their tight seamed dresses, their tiny handbags, their smooth, washed hair, and we turn away, we put down our heads, we keep pushing the pram up the hill.

excerpt from 'The Hand That First Held Mine' by Maggie O'Farrell.

I recognise that my heart does indeed exist outside my body in the shape of two sturdy, warm, often mucky bodies and the further those bodies move away from me then the greater the chance of my heart becoming even more bruised and battered by this journey of motherhood.

Denying the inevitability of growing up is to be the mothering version of King Canute. I know it can't be stopped by wishful thinking and I have done all I can to induce a sense of excitement in my son about this new adventure. I just hope that I can hold back that first hot fat tear until after he has waved goodbye to me at the school gate.

Feral Camping and Just So Festivals

So this was the summer I wanted to immerse the kids in the outdoors. Heralding from a suburban cul-de-sac, the concept of total freedom to run around is pretty unprecedented in their young lives.

I took my eldest to a small festival last year which was a great success. I'll never forget his utter joy at being allowed to sit wrapped up in his buggy, eating fish and chips and singing along to Seasick Steve at a time outrageously north of normal bedtime. That time we slummed it in a two man tent whilst taking advantage of a friends superior caravan facilities. This year I needed something a little more plush for the three of us so invested in a larger four man tent which I can just about manage to put up by myself, as it is unlikely that I can tempt my man away from such luxuries as mattresses and running water to join us on a regular basis.

We have had two great trips away with friends and I have been amazed at the speed with which my kids can go feral. Smeared with mud, scooting down hills at terminal velocity and tearing around in packs systematically sniffing through open tents hunting out the next salt or sugar based snack, like National Geographic footage of monkey thieving raids.

It was wonderful to be able to go away with my two closest friends and our six children, and I can't wait for future summer holidays away together. Apart from the tragic loss of an incompetently secured gazebo (RIP - you served us well for the first two days. Stupid wind.) it was a joy from start to finish.

Then hot on the heels of 'Nine Go Away on a Camping Trip' came the bunting strewn joy that is the Just So Festival. We loved it last year, and this year did not disappoint either. The weather was far better for a kick off. The festival is chock full of adventures, curios and activities for the youngsters. Long may it continue. I for one will be definitely be taking the new tent and family to camp there next year. In the meantime here I am showing off my new photo editing software. I have yet to develop any subtlety of touch with this, and the discovery that I can de-wrinkle, airbrush, tooth whiten and thin out all the old horrid photos of me that exist means that any future natural photos of me are going to be as rare as sightings of Alice's white rabbit at the Just So festival.

Looting: A Masterclass

To My Two Year Girl

You were not my first, but you are my last. My baby. My adored girl.

Your infancy was not marked by the all-encompassing anxiety of the first time mother. I did not spend my time trembling in fear of your vulnerability but instead gloried in your perfect simplicity.

As a first time mother I didn’t trust my own instincts. I looked to others for guidance and answers and merely become confused, conflicted and frustrated in the process. As a second time mother I trusted that you and I would find our own way together. I was right.

You have enchanted and bewitched me from the moment we met. All cheeks, curls and dimples. With eyes of cornflower blue and hair that changes colour with the light. A sweet tempered, giddy, twinkling fairy.

There you go - twirling in your ballerina skirt banging your dolly’s buggy into some convenient ankle. Look there you are - grabbing your brother’s toys and running away shrieking with delight much to his annoyance. Oh and here you are – tugging me towards the fridge and demanding “Logurt and poon”.

You greet me every morning with a smile and cuddles which melt my heart. I will yearn for those cuddles in years to come and their memory will sustain me. For now I just beg shamelessly for more; “Another cuddle for mummy please. Oh and a kiss. No a big kiss…….” It is always you who loses interest first, lured away by an enticing book or an opportunity to tease your brother. Until then I will take all I am offered.

I was blessed with my first child. I never knew I could love another child as much - but then there was you. It was a done deal. I could no more resist you than I could decide to stop breathing.

And now you are two. For two whole years I have had the privilege of being your mummy, and I promise that I will do all I can to deserve the light, love and happiness which you continue to bring into our lives.

Happy birthday my darling daughter.
xxx

Blimey - Its Been A While.....

Oh dear. I'm a bad blogger. Call blogging social services - I'm guilty of appalling neglect.

I'm sorry blog - it wasn't you. It was all me. Specifically the fact that my new job only allows me half an hour for lunch and I always did my best blogging whilst luxuriating in the decadence of a whole 60 minutes at my last place of employment.

Half an hour is barely enough time to read half a Grazia whilst wolfing down a pot noodle without burning my chin, never mind trying to simultaneously craft some barely coherent words of insight and interest. However the anniversary of your creation is fast approaching and you deserve some attention. So I'm back.

A quick update on events since we last chatted.

I'm now officially old. Yup - the big four oh grabbed me by the hand and pulled me kicking and screaming into the bosom of middle age. I have spent the last year practising how to nonchalently tell casual enquirers that I'm 40 hoping it wouldn't come as too much of a shock to my system in due course. But darling blog - I don't mind admitting to you that I don't feel half so nonchalent now that it's true. My decolletage is crepe'ing as I type, and I have been monitoring the armpit wattle situation on a daily basis. Bah.

Still I had a very nice party, and I have some lovely friends who truly embraced the seventies party theme. Anyone who is prepared to wear polyester clothes and bad afro on a hot June night just to celebrate my birthday is a hero in my book.

However the real hero of the hour was my husband. He gave me one of the most thoughtful and sweet presents I have ever received. He found some short fairy stories I had written years ago and thought long lost on an old computer. He had beautifully illustrated them and printed them into a book which I am now under instruction to fill with other stories for the children. I will do my best.

He also planned the party, stayed sober at said party in case he had to make an emergency dash home to a daughter plagued with tonsilitis, and then let me stay in bed until noon the next day, despite the fact that it was father's day. What a guy.

Other news is that my darling girl turned two. I will post about her separately, but here she is on her birthday. My darling baby girl - all growing up and beautiful.

Some months ago I had announced to my husband that we were going on holiday in the week of my birthday. "Fine" he said. "Whatever makes you happy". He visibly blanched when I told him we were going camping.

My husband has developed a significant aversion to life under canvas as a result of an unlucky incident at Glastonbury 2005. Lying in our tent one night there was a panicked cry of; "Incoming!!!!"

The whole sky seemed to light up as an emergency flare was released into the sky by some stoned numpty only to plummet earthwards into the tent next to ours, incinerating everything except the charred remains of the tent poles.

For some reason this has left my husband with an uneasy feeling about the safety of camping, however a trip to Featherdown Farms has relaxed him on this subject somewhat. An idyllic, bucolic week was spent on a gorgeous farm and I can recommend this holiday to anyone with young children and a yen to get back to nature. Some piccies;

The morning routine: yawn, stretch, walk out of your tent, step into warm goose poo. Every day.

Adventures, larks and lashings of ginger beer.

You know the eggs are fresh when they are still warm from the hen.

Took a while to pluck up his courage but a true friendship was forged.

Scream if you want to go faster.

The wood burning stove. Heater, cooker, entertainment and bloody hard work.

God bless gas and electricity.

Well blog, that's us up to date. Oh don't look at me like that - I've said I'm sorry. Now you're just pouting - you're making me feel bad. Look I am really, really sorry. How about some chocolate? No? What about wine? Flowers? Diamonds?

What about if I just tickle you right here. Right by your mouse. Ha - that's much better - a lovely smile.

Friends?

Friends. x

Listography - 5 Simple Pleasures

This week's listography over at Kate's is one which appeals greatly. Here are 5 of my simple pleasures in life:

1. Slipping between freshly laundered sheets one hour early to indulge in some quality bedtime reading. Oh the luxury. It happens so rarely at my house (the clean sheets part, not the reading).

2. My morning latte and walk to work. Alone time - just me and the caffeine. It's a love thing.

3. Red magazine day. Look at it lying there on the dormat, encased enticingly in its pristine plastic wrapper, all full of pretty stuff and words of wisdom. Sigh. *strokes it lovingly*

4. Sneaky mid-week child free days with my husband. It's absolutely fine by me if all we do is go to the garden centre, as long as there is a lunch out thrown in to the mix too. Especially a pub lunch - or to be more specific - scampi and chips. I love scampi. In fact can I just change this choice to 'scampi'. Deep fried loveliness. Mmmmmmm.

5. Sunny picnics in our favourite local gardens. Even better if there are other children there for the kids to play with. Even better again if I have had sufficient forethought to prepare a flask of tea. Perfect.

Those are a few of mine. Why not pop over to Kate's to read a few others or to share yours.

The Best £89.99 I Ever Spent