... And it made me wonder. Are we really letting our daughters down? And our sons? By we, I mean all of us, but I think mainly I mean writers, and people who enjoy the writing. So yes, pretty much all of us.
Because here's the thing. The Andrew McCarthy character. The way he pitches up at the party at the end, the way he eschews all his friends, tells Molly how much he loves her.
It's total baloney.
I mean, he's meant to be, what, seventeen?
SEVENTEEN, people.
Do you know a single seventeen year old boy who would do that? To feel so deeply, to have such confidence, such sophistication? No, no and no. Seventeen year old boys should be smirking with their friends, growing into their bodies, reprogramming their parents' computers and telling everyone how bored they are. And having sex, possibly... okay, probably. But exploratory sex, or sweet sex, or even embarrassing sex. They might fall in love, even. But act like a thirty year old? Sweep in and save the day like a modern day Mr Darcy?
I don't think so.
Mr Darcy, let's not forget, was a lot older than seventeen.
And I know that Pretty in Pink is an OLD FILM. But there are new ones being made the same, every day. And books. And the trouble is, girls, who often mature earlier, are led to believe that teenage boys do act like this. Think like this. Or at least that they might. And believing that makes them read things into situations, encourages them to make allowances, allows them to wait on tenterhooks for someone to save them when really, they need to be concentrating on themselves, doing pretty much what the boys are doing just with a bit more nail varnish. Possibly.
It also puts a whole load of pressure on the boys.
I don't know, the whole thing left a bit of a bad taste in my mouth. I don't want my children being fed a whole load of junk about the world. I'm not saying I want them to watch The Wire aged 6 and get a dose of gritty reality. I just want them to be strong, self assured, confident and to know that if they're looking for a saviour, they need to look inside, not out.
So I guess no more 80s brat pack films. Although the theme tune was pretty good. And she was kind of pretty in pink...
Tuesday 1 October 2013
Wednesday 28 August 2013
back to school...
How did that go so fast? Summer is pretty much over, in school terms if not in weather terms, and already I'm getting palpitations as I pull together all the various bags of uniform and realise that none of it fits. I'm convinced my kids are part plant; the sun seems to make them grow. Christmas holiday, not at all. Summer holiday, inches all round.
And it's funny, in some ways I'm looking forward to them going back, having them out of the house, knowing they're fully occupied every day and not having to book various camps and activities. But in reality, it feels like I'm the one going back to school. We're going to be back to military regimes every morning, homework after school, checking and double checking school bags each day, working out how to collect three different children at different times/from different places, deciding how many clubs and after school activities they're allowed to do...
It's exhausting even thinking about it.
But more than any of that, it's that they're getting bigger. Birthdays are milestones, but for me September has always been the critical month. Back to school, new academic year, everything more serious somehow. It's exciting, watching them turn into little people. Or, rather, big people.
But sometimes I miss the pre school days, the little bundles running about, happy to spend the morning sorting washing.
Then again, those were the days of sleepless nights and tearing my hair out when, once again, I got little or no work done.
Okay, back to school it is. Now where are all those name tapes?
And it's funny, in some ways I'm looking forward to them going back, having them out of the house, knowing they're fully occupied every day and not having to book various camps and activities. But in reality, it feels like I'm the one going back to school. We're going to be back to military regimes every morning, homework after school, checking and double checking school bags each day, working out how to collect three different children at different times/from different places, deciding how many clubs and after school activities they're allowed to do...
It's exhausting even thinking about it.
But more than any of that, it's that they're getting bigger. Birthdays are milestones, but for me September has always been the critical month. Back to school, new academic year, everything more serious somehow. It's exciting, watching them turn into little people. Or, rather, big people.
But sometimes I miss the pre school days, the little bundles running about, happy to spend the morning sorting washing.
Then again, those were the days of sleepless nights and tearing my hair out when, once again, I got little or no work done.
Okay, back to school it is. Now where are all those name tapes?
Tuesday 6 August 2013
So how do you cope with the summer break?
We're, what, nearly mid way through? So how are you coping? Who is keeping your children entertained? I've done a straw poll of friends and acquaintances and it seems to be a mixture of grandparents, holiday camps, favours and meltdowns.
As one close friend put it: 'I want my children to enjoy the kind of summers I did - long lazy days spent outside, learning to ride their bikes or something. And instead I feel like I am handing them over to whoever will take them just so that I can get to work on time.'
The truth is that summer is probably one of the hardest times on working parents. Christmas you can take a few days off. Easter, it's usually raining anyway, and the short break can be managed with some annual leave and a few activities. But summer? Summer isn't just a holiday. It's a lifestyle event. It's lifestyle magazine photographs of families lazing around together, freckly children mucking about in the garden with go-karts and home-made lemonade. Summer is when the stay at home mother comes into her own, with picnics and days out, all so much easier when the sun is shining. The working parent, on the other hand, often watches miserably from within their air-conditioned office, wondering if they've made the right choices.
'I always start thinking about giving it all up in the summer,' confides another close friend. 'And it's not just about the children; pre-children I used to spend summers wistfully thinking about going freelance so I could control my own hours and hang out in the garden. But having a family has just intensified this longing. I know it's not realistic, but I have such a yearning to be at home, putting on the sprinkler and watching my children lark about instead of packing them off to yet another activity camp.'
And holidays is where having multiple children can often complicate things further. 'We have a full time nanny,' one friend explains, 'but she's pretty much looking after our 18 month old who needs naps and routine. Our six year old can just about tag along, but our nine year old needs way more stimulation. I end up shipping in each set of grandparents for two weeks each over the summer, as well as arranging activity camps, otherwise I come home to find everyone climbing up the walls. Then my partner and I take three weeks of annual leave, and that pretty much covers it. But I don't know what I'd do without my parents and his.'
And that's with the luxury of a full time nanny. 'I get into work late throughout the summer holiday,' a good friend tells me resignedly. 'I send my two boys to an activity camp but it doesn't open until 8.30am and it's further away from the station than their school. In term time I'm on the train by 8.15am after dropping the boys off at breakfast club; during the holidays I have to get the 9am train. And I have to leave earlier, too, to pick them up. Fortunately my manager is supportive and I make up the work in the evening or at weekends. But I hate it. And I also hate arriving to pick them up and finding that they're the last ones there.'
So what's the answer? An end to the long break? Michael Gove, Education Secretary, certainly wants this. But would it really make things easier or would it just create many more shorter holidays to contend with? And would our children be better off? I'm not convinced. The truth is, maybe a bit of extra hassle organizing activities is worth it. Have a look at your chidlren. Are they happy? Are they enjoying the summer? Are they relaxed and carefree and learning new skills? Good, so stop beating yourself up.
'I love the long holiday,' a friend (who works long hours in an investment bank) tells me, without a flicker of irritation or guilt. 'I feel like I can almost watch the kids grow; they really come alive. They go to a wonderful activity camp that they love, and there's no uniform to worry about, no homework... I wouldn't change it for anything.'
Happy holidays...:)
As one close friend put it: 'I want my children to enjoy the kind of summers I did - long lazy days spent outside, learning to ride their bikes or something. And instead I feel like I am handing them over to whoever will take them just so that I can get to work on time.'
The truth is that summer is probably one of the hardest times on working parents. Christmas you can take a few days off. Easter, it's usually raining anyway, and the short break can be managed with some annual leave and a few activities. But summer? Summer isn't just a holiday. It's a lifestyle event. It's lifestyle magazine photographs of families lazing around together, freckly children mucking about in the garden with go-karts and home-made lemonade. Summer is when the stay at home mother comes into her own, with picnics and days out, all so much easier when the sun is shining. The working parent, on the other hand, often watches miserably from within their air-conditioned office, wondering if they've made the right choices.
'I always start thinking about giving it all up in the summer,' confides another close friend. 'And it's not just about the children; pre-children I used to spend summers wistfully thinking about going freelance so I could control my own hours and hang out in the garden. But having a family has just intensified this longing. I know it's not realistic, but I have such a yearning to be at home, putting on the sprinkler and watching my children lark about instead of packing them off to yet another activity camp.'
And holidays is where having multiple children can often complicate things further. 'We have a full time nanny,' one friend explains, 'but she's pretty much looking after our 18 month old who needs naps and routine. Our six year old can just about tag along, but our nine year old needs way more stimulation. I end up shipping in each set of grandparents for two weeks each over the summer, as well as arranging activity camps, otherwise I come home to find everyone climbing up the walls. Then my partner and I take three weeks of annual leave, and that pretty much covers it. But I don't know what I'd do without my parents and his.'
And that's with the luxury of a full time nanny. 'I get into work late throughout the summer holiday,' a good friend tells me resignedly. 'I send my two boys to an activity camp but it doesn't open until 8.30am and it's further away from the station than their school. In term time I'm on the train by 8.15am after dropping the boys off at breakfast club; during the holidays I have to get the 9am train. And I have to leave earlier, too, to pick them up. Fortunately my manager is supportive and I make up the work in the evening or at weekends. But I hate it. And I also hate arriving to pick them up and finding that they're the last ones there.'
So what's the answer? An end to the long break? Michael Gove, Education Secretary, certainly wants this. But would it really make things easier or would it just create many more shorter holidays to contend with? And would our children be better off? I'm not convinced. The truth is, maybe a bit of extra hassle organizing activities is worth it. Have a look at your chidlren. Are they happy? Are they enjoying the summer? Are they relaxed and carefree and learning new skills? Good, so stop beating yourself up.
'I love the long holiday,' a friend (who works long hours in an investment bank) tells me, without a flicker of irritation or guilt. 'I feel like I can almost watch the kids grow; they really come alive. They go to a wonderful activity camp that they love, and there's no uniform to worry about, no homework... I wouldn't change it for anything.'
Happy holidays...:)
Wednesday 17 July 2013
Holidays...
Ah, summer. A proper summer for once, not two hours of warm weather followed by a gust of wind, a cloud, then torrential rain. This is what I remember of summer when I was young - endless weeks of sun, hanging out in the garden, by the local outdoor pool. The summer holiday defined each year as I grew up; it was during the summer holiday that I fell in and out of love, hung out with my friends, and, away from the relentless routine of term time, figured out who I was and what I wanted to do with my life.
But the long summer break is also, let's be honest, a pain in the butt for working parents. Week upon week to fill, to find cover for, to occupy and, hopefully, educate a bit.
And now change may be on the horizon; Michael Gove is encouraging schools to break free of the shackles of the traditional three term and long summer holiday. He envisions a future where schools work to their own timetable, perhaps with four terms and shorter holidays, or possibly just much longer terms.
Which should be great news for working parents. So why am I not convinced? I think, if I'm honest, because when it comes to childhood I'm a romantic at heart. I want for my children what I had; I want them to enjoy these precious years. I want them to get bored and be forced to be creative, inventing games, turning cardboard boxes into spaceships or hospitals. As they get older I want the long summer holiday to be the time they turn to books, discovering whole worlds and characters. I want summer holidays to be turning points, like they were for me: learning to ride my bike one year; conquering a particularly high tree in the park the next; being allowed to walk around to my friend's house ON MY OWN the year after that... And I know that the reality isn't going to be like that; mostly they'll be doing various activity camps to keep them amused. My parents were teachers; child care wasn't a major issue whereas most working parents have to rope in grandparents, neighbours and others to help them through. But still I feel that a long summer break is important.
The truth is that education has ratcheted up in the past few years. There are exams virtually every year; the pressure starts much younger. And with university fees increasing, students are going to want to get bang for their buck on their degree courses; already, universities are looking to condense degree courses to one or two years, and why not? If you're paying for your degree and getting into serious debt, the sooner you can get out and get working, the better.
But where is the time for growing up? Where is the time for contemplating your navel, exploring new ways of doing things, challenging your parents' value system, discovering the world? I did all of those things and some. I took a year out, and then studied philosophy at university. How many children of the future will be able to do that? To study a subject for three whole years that has no direct relevance in the workplace? Very few I suspect. Instead they will go straight from exams at school to an 18 month degree course in something that will make them super-employable, and then they'll be into the world of work. Which is great. Obviously. God knows our economy could do with highly skilled, motivated young people joining the (hopefully soon to be growing) work place.
But before they get to that point, I hope they can at least hold on to their endless summers stretching ahead, full of promise and potential, shedding the skin of the previous academic year, ready to start anew in September, refreshed, replenished.
And it also means that the bitter pill of summer ending is sweetened slightly by the prospect of your child/children finally going back to school...
But the long summer break is also, let's be honest, a pain in the butt for working parents. Week upon week to fill, to find cover for, to occupy and, hopefully, educate a bit.
And now change may be on the horizon; Michael Gove is encouraging schools to break free of the shackles of the traditional three term and long summer holiday. He envisions a future where schools work to their own timetable, perhaps with four terms and shorter holidays, or possibly just much longer terms.
Which should be great news for working parents. So why am I not convinced? I think, if I'm honest, because when it comes to childhood I'm a romantic at heart. I want for my children what I had; I want them to enjoy these precious years. I want them to get bored and be forced to be creative, inventing games, turning cardboard boxes into spaceships or hospitals. As they get older I want the long summer holiday to be the time they turn to books, discovering whole worlds and characters. I want summer holidays to be turning points, like they were for me: learning to ride my bike one year; conquering a particularly high tree in the park the next; being allowed to walk around to my friend's house ON MY OWN the year after that... And I know that the reality isn't going to be like that; mostly they'll be doing various activity camps to keep them amused. My parents were teachers; child care wasn't a major issue whereas most working parents have to rope in grandparents, neighbours and others to help them through. But still I feel that a long summer break is important.
The truth is that education has ratcheted up in the past few years. There are exams virtually every year; the pressure starts much younger. And with university fees increasing, students are going to want to get bang for their buck on their degree courses; already, universities are looking to condense degree courses to one or two years, and why not? If you're paying for your degree and getting into serious debt, the sooner you can get out and get working, the better.
But where is the time for growing up? Where is the time for contemplating your navel, exploring new ways of doing things, challenging your parents' value system, discovering the world? I did all of those things and some. I took a year out, and then studied philosophy at university. How many children of the future will be able to do that? To study a subject for three whole years that has no direct relevance in the workplace? Very few I suspect. Instead they will go straight from exams at school to an 18 month degree course in something that will make them super-employable, and then they'll be into the world of work. Which is great. Obviously. God knows our economy could do with highly skilled, motivated young people joining the (hopefully soon to be growing) work place.
But before they get to that point, I hope they can at least hold on to their endless summers stretching ahead, full of promise and potential, shedding the skin of the previous academic year, ready to start anew in September, refreshed, replenished.
And it also means that the bitter pill of summer ending is sweetened slightly by the prospect of your child/children finally going back to school...
Monday 8 July 2013
Sales shopping
So fortuitously, the sales are on just as the weather has hotted up, meaning that I can buy all my summer clothes at a bargain price. Or, you know, more summer clothes. I might, just might, have got a bit carried away back in February when I somehow felt that if I bought some sandals and breezy linen trousers, then Spring would surely follow.
Still, a mere five months later, the sandals and trousers are just perfect:)
The truth is, I'm never averse to a spot of shopping. I like to think it's my gathering instinct, honed over many thousands of years. My trouble is working out what to buy and what not to, because I have a multiple personality when it comes to clothes. Dungarees and clogs? Love 'em. Skinny jeans and leather jacket? Totally. DVF wrap dress with power heels? Fabulous!
I mean, sure, everyone has a slight split personality when it comes to clothes - usually divided down the lines of work clothes, home clothes and going out clothes. But I seriously envy people who have a look and stick to it. And I also know that when it comes to the workplace, these things matter.
Corporate brands don't waver between different looks and feels. Successful brands are utterly clear in the minds of everyone who comes into contact with them: what they look like, feel like, what they represent. It makes decisions easy, because new directions/opportunities are only considered if they fit the brand values.
And, stretching a rather tenuous analogy, the same is kind of true when it comes to getting dressed. If all your clothes fit the same 'brand' (I'm not talking clothing designers/shops here. I'm talking look and feel), then they will probably all work together and provide zillions of outfits. Whereas if items are all bought individually, according to a whim, then, well, they probably won't.
More to the point, if you have a look, people know who you are. Your manager, clients, the teams you manage. And that's a good thing at work. Too much wavering in the wardrobe department suggests a lack of confidence. Too much chopping and changing suggests a mind that is not entirely focused on work.
Which is why I have decided to take action. To decide who I am, or, perhaps more realistically, what I would like to project. Do I want to feel like Fiona Bruce (classic) when I'm walking down the street? Audrey Hepburn (ingenue)? Tilda Swinton (avant garde)? Emmanuelle Alt (editor of French Vogue, and rocks a skinny jean better than anyone on the planet. With blazers and heels so very work-friendly. I think she'll have to go in as rock chick)?
Big, important questions which I shall obviously spend hours deliberating on:)
In the short term, however, I'm getting my colours done. No, not my hair. I'm being analysed by a colour specialist to determine which colours suit me and which I should avoid like the plague. WHich will at least, hopefully, explain partly why some clothes purchases sit in my wardrobe and never get worn because they never feel quite right.
I shall report back...
Still, a mere five months later, the sandals and trousers are just perfect:)
The truth is, I'm never averse to a spot of shopping. I like to think it's my gathering instinct, honed over many thousands of years. My trouble is working out what to buy and what not to, because I have a multiple personality when it comes to clothes. Dungarees and clogs? Love 'em. Skinny jeans and leather jacket? Totally. DVF wrap dress with power heels? Fabulous!
I mean, sure, everyone has a slight split personality when it comes to clothes - usually divided down the lines of work clothes, home clothes and going out clothes. But I seriously envy people who have a look and stick to it. And I also know that when it comes to the workplace, these things matter.
Corporate brands don't waver between different looks and feels. Successful brands are utterly clear in the minds of everyone who comes into contact with them: what they look like, feel like, what they represent. It makes decisions easy, because new directions/opportunities are only considered if they fit the brand values.
And, stretching a rather tenuous analogy, the same is kind of true when it comes to getting dressed. If all your clothes fit the same 'brand' (I'm not talking clothing designers/shops here. I'm talking look and feel), then they will probably all work together and provide zillions of outfits. Whereas if items are all bought individually, according to a whim, then, well, they probably won't.
More to the point, if you have a look, people know who you are. Your manager, clients, the teams you manage. And that's a good thing at work. Too much wavering in the wardrobe department suggests a lack of confidence. Too much chopping and changing suggests a mind that is not entirely focused on work.
Which is why I have decided to take action. To decide who I am, or, perhaps more realistically, what I would like to project. Do I want to feel like Fiona Bruce (classic) when I'm walking down the street? Audrey Hepburn (ingenue)? Tilda Swinton (avant garde)? Emmanuelle Alt (editor of French Vogue, and rocks a skinny jean better than anyone on the planet. With blazers and heels so very work-friendly. I think she'll have to go in as rock chick)?
Big, important questions which I shall obviously spend hours deliberating on:)
In the short term, however, I'm getting my colours done. No, not my hair. I'm being analysed by a colour specialist to determine which colours suit me and which I should avoid like the plague. WHich will at least, hopefully, explain partly why some clothes purchases sit in my wardrobe and never get worn because they never feel quite right.
I shall report back...
Friday 28 June 2013
End of term
Is it me or does it feel like this school term has flown by in a matter of minutes? The weather doesn't help; I don't feel like we've actually turned the corner yet, am still waiting for the day that I feel that yes, now I can finally pack away all the coats for a few months. But actually I think it's the relentless routine, the frantic mornings, the urgent deadlines, work crammed into the hours available, then home, sleep, and it all starts again.
But that wasn't the point of this blog post. No, my subject du jour is End of Term, and what I mean by that is all the lovely events that herald this date. Sports day. School production. Things you don't want to miss, things that you want to record, and play for your squirming child when they have reached the grand old age of eighteen.
But can you make it? What if you do manage to book a day off, then it rains and it's rearranged for a day when you're presenting something important and can't get away? Will your child grow up angry and withdrawn if you fail to make it to anything, or are we actually heaping way too much pressure on ourselves to make every single thing? How many of you are brave enough to give your child a kiss, tell them that they'll be brilliant but that mummy has a meeting she can't miss, and wave them off? And is that child going to be more or less resilient, more or less attention seeking than the child who's parents attend every single thing they're in?
I mean, hey, don't listen to me, because I'm the one who moves heaven and earth and goes to EVERYTHING. But, actually, last year I didn't make sports day. Not because of work, but because my youngest saw fit to throw himself back on his new high chair (since binned), which wasn't massively stable and propelled him backwards so he smacked down on the tiled floor. Not a great thing to happen at 7.30am. Fortunately he was fine, but I had to take him to A&E just in case, which meant no one to cheer on my eldest as he competed in... well, whatever he competed in. I wasn't there, remember?
And did he care? Does he even remember now? No, he doesn't.
There's a moral in there somewhere.
But in the meantime, I've got a calendar to organise...
But that wasn't the point of this blog post. No, my subject du jour is End of Term, and what I mean by that is all the lovely events that herald this date. Sports day. School production. Things you don't want to miss, things that you want to record, and play for your squirming child when they have reached the grand old age of eighteen.
But can you make it? What if you do manage to book a day off, then it rains and it's rearranged for a day when you're presenting something important and can't get away? Will your child grow up angry and withdrawn if you fail to make it to anything, or are we actually heaping way too much pressure on ourselves to make every single thing? How many of you are brave enough to give your child a kiss, tell them that they'll be brilliant but that mummy has a meeting she can't miss, and wave them off? And is that child going to be more or less resilient, more or less attention seeking than the child who's parents attend every single thing they're in?
I mean, hey, don't listen to me, because I'm the one who moves heaven and earth and goes to EVERYTHING. But, actually, last year I didn't make sports day. Not because of work, but because my youngest saw fit to throw himself back on his new high chair (since binned), which wasn't massively stable and propelled him backwards so he smacked down on the tiled floor. Not a great thing to happen at 7.30am. Fortunately he was fine, but I had to take him to A&E just in case, which meant no one to cheer on my eldest as he competed in... well, whatever he competed in. I wasn't there, remember?
And did he care? Does he even remember now? No, he doesn't.
There's a moral in there somewhere.
But in the meantime, I've got a calendar to organise...
Wednesday 19 June 2013
Feminism? Has it become a dirty word?
So I was reading The Times at the weekend and read an interview with Annabel Karmel, she of the hugely successful baby food empire, and she said that she wasn't a feminist. Not a feminist? How? Why?
It got me thinking. Because if she, head of a huge business, is 'not a feminist' (in spite of the fact that, if it wasn't for feminism, she would never have been allowed to trouble herself with complicated things like supply chains and growth strategies), then either she believes feminism isn't needed anymore, or it's become such a dirty word she doesn't want to be associated with it.
Which is tragic because feminism is so totally needed and it shouldn't be a dirty word, but somehow it's become associated with anti-men lobbies, with strident militarism, with anger and vitriol. When really, surely, feminism is about equal opportunities. I have two boys and one girl, and I have the same hopes and aspirations for them all: happiness, love a fulfilling career. Only fifty years ago, women were forced to give up their jobs when they got married. For years afterwards a woman couldn't get a mortgage without a man to guarantee it. Sure, there are women in boardrooms now, and women politicians. But old habits die hard and few workplaces have yet completely thrown off their all-male legacies; late night working is still lauded, and nights out at strip joints are still acceptable so long as clients are there.
The trouble is, we disagree on what the problems are and we also disagree on the solutions. On the one hand, I welcome extended maternity leave and flexible working for mothers. On the other hand, I can see the huge burden this puts on businesses (particularly small to medium size businesses) and how employers might start to favour male workers. In the States, where maternity leave tends to be around 3 months, there are more women in senior positions; in European countries where up to 2 years maternity leave is available, hardly any women work in the private sector, and the vast majority work part time. Is this progress? I'm really not sure.
Equal opportunities are, of course, now enshrined in law, but it's society that really dictates what is acceptable. Women who work full pelt are lauded in the media but pitied at the same time; they must miss their children, their children must be missing out too. Nannies are discussed with raised eyebrows and high profile celebrities talk with pride about how they look after their own children, not mentioning the grandmother, housekeeper and tutors working full time behind the scenes to raise their children when they are on a film set 12 hours a day.
The reality is, there's no silver bullet. But that's because we are all different and want different things. Some women are desperate to get back to work a few months after giving birth; some fear the end of their maternity leave and start working out how quickly they need to get pregnant in order to minimise the time back in the office. But, and here's the real point of what I'm trying to say here, SO DO MEN, and this is where the revolution really has a chance of taking hold.
It's happening very, very gradually, but bit by bit, fathers can be seen pushing buggies around on a weekday; one by one they are appearing on the school run, slowing their careers right down so they can look after the children whilst their wives work full time. Usually it's down to economics; the highest earner continues earning whilst the lower earner does more child care. But sometimes it's just down to choice. Because not every woman enjoys domesticity, and not all men want to work full pelt and see their children only at weekends.
And the more men who make the choice to stay at home, the more it will become acceptable (and more fun for them, probably), the more future generations will have a genuine choice over who, if anyone, stays at home and what their childcare arrangements will look like. That is true equality of opportunity. That is surely the win win that we all want?
Once we can start seeing people as people instead of stereotypes, then true equality has a chance; once the government understands that it isn't always women who want to stay at home with the baby, once men start feeling they have a genuine choice in the matter, then I will relax.
Until then, I am very proud to say that I am a feminist.
It got me thinking. Because if she, head of a huge business, is 'not a feminist' (in spite of the fact that, if it wasn't for feminism, she would never have been allowed to trouble herself with complicated things like supply chains and growth strategies), then either she believes feminism isn't needed anymore, or it's become such a dirty word she doesn't want to be associated with it.
Which is tragic because feminism is so totally needed and it shouldn't be a dirty word, but somehow it's become associated with anti-men lobbies, with strident militarism, with anger and vitriol. When really, surely, feminism is about equal opportunities. I have two boys and one girl, and I have the same hopes and aspirations for them all: happiness, love a fulfilling career. Only fifty years ago, women were forced to give up their jobs when they got married. For years afterwards a woman couldn't get a mortgage without a man to guarantee it. Sure, there are women in boardrooms now, and women politicians. But old habits die hard and few workplaces have yet completely thrown off their all-male legacies; late night working is still lauded, and nights out at strip joints are still acceptable so long as clients are there.
The trouble is, we disagree on what the problems are and we also disagree on the solutions. On the one hand, I welcome extended maternity leave and flexible working for mothers. On the other hand, I can see the huge burden this puts on businesses (particularly small to medium size businesses) and how employers might start to favour male workers. In the States, where maternity leave tends to be around 3 months, there are more women in senior positions; in European countries where up to 2 years maternity leave is available, hardly any women work in the private sector, and the vast majority work part time. Is this progress? I'm really not sure.
Equal opportunities are, of course, now enshrined in law, but it's society that really dictates what is acceptable. Women who work full pelt are lauded in the media but pitied at the same time; they must miss their children, their children must be missing out too. Nannies are discussed with raised eyebrows and high profile celebrities talk with pride about how they look after their own children, not mentioning the grandmother, housekeeper and tutors working full time behind the scenes to raise their children when they are on a film set 12 hours a day.
The reality is, there's no silver bullet. But that's because we are all different and want different things. Some women are desperate to get back to work a few months after giving birth; some fear the end of their maternity leave and start working out how quickly they need to get pregnant in order to minimise the time back in the office. But, and here's the real point of what I'm trying to say here, SO DO MEN, and this is where the revolution really has a chance of taking hold.
It's happening very, very gradually, but bit by bit, fathers can be seen pushing buggies around on a weekday; one by one they are appearing on the school run, slowing their careers right down so they can look after the children whilst their wives work full time. Usually it's down to economics; the highest earner continues earning whilst the lower earner does more child care. But sometimes it's just down to choice. Because not every woman enjoys domesticity, and not all men want to work full pelt and see their children only at weekends.
And the more men who make the choice to stay at home, the more it will become acceptable (and more fun for them, probably), the more future generations will have a genuine choice over who, if anyone, stays at home and what their childcare arrangements will look like. That is true equality of opportunity. That is surely the win win that we all want?
Once we can start seeing people as people instead of stereotypes, then true equality has a chance; once the government understands that it isn't always women who want to stay at home with the baby, once men start feeling they have a genuine choice in the matter, then I will relax.
Until then, I am very proud to say that I am a feminist.
Thursday 13 June 2013
One child policy?
So according to the journalist and author Lauren Sandler, writers should stick to one child if they don't want to limit their careers.
Actually, that's a bit disingenuous. She didn't write exactly that in The Atlantic, but the headline ('The secret to being both a successful writer and a mother: have just one kid') made out that she did and she certainly spoke in reverential terms about writers who all had just one child.
Really? I mean... really?
Sure, the fewer distractions you have, perhaps the more energy you have to throw into your work - whether that's writing books or running your country. And when you're struggling to get three young children into a car/along the road/anywhere, frankly, mothers walking serenely down the road with one perfectly behaved child can look, well, appealing.
But one child can require way more input than two. They need playdates, they need input, they need activities. Two or three children just need a blanket to make a den and they're off. We have just installed a trampoline in our garden. Our three children bounce themselves stupid for hours at a time, throwing balls to one another, taking it turns to lie flat whilst the others bounce them up and down (please don't tell the health and safety police). If we had just one, I guarantee I'd be out there a whole lot more bouncing with them, playing the games that my three make up as they go along.
My head sometimes spins from the 'To Do' list that three young children entails. And I know as they get older, and life becomes more serious for them, I will be needed more and more to help with big decisions, to listen to their worries, to steer, and guide and sometimes lay down the law (no, you are not going to a house party you read about on facebook...). But that doesn't preclude having space in my head for work, too. Nor does it reduce my ambition. Not remotely.
Actually, it does the opposite. Shopping for three children is eye-wateringly expensive. Talking of which, I'd better get on with some work right now...
Actually, that's a bit disingenuous. She didn't write exactly that in The Atlantic, but the headline ('The secret to being both a successful writer and a mother: have just one kid') made out that she did and she certainly spoke in reverential terms about writers who all had just one child.
Really? I mean... really?
Sure, the fewer distractions you have, perhaps the more energy you have to throw into your work - whether that's writing books or running your country. And when you're struggling to get three young children into a car/along the road/anywhere, frankly, mothers walking serenely down the road with one perfectly behaved child can look, well, appealing.
But one child can require way more input than two. They need playdates, they need input, they need activities. Two or three children just need a blanket to make a den and they're off. We have just installed a trampoline in our garden. Our three children bounce themselves stupid for hours at a time, throwing balls to one another, taking it turns to lie flat whilst the others bounce them up and down (please don't tell the health and safety police). If we had just one, I guarantee I'd be out there a whole lot more bouncing with them, playing the games that my three make up as they go along.
My head sometimes spins from the 'To Do' list that three young children entails. And I know as they get older, and life becomes more serious for them, I will be needed more and more to help with big decisions, to listen to their worries, to steer, and guide and sometimes lay down the law (no, you are not going to a house party you read about on facebook...). But that doesn't preclude having space in my head for work, too. Nor does it reduce my ambition. Not remotely.
Actually, it does the opposite. Shopping for three children is eye-wateringly expensive. Talking of which, I'd better get on with some work right now...
Wednesday 5 June 2013
Like we need our paranoia fed any more...
So now the latest news is that pregnant women should 'avoid' food in plastic containers in case it could harm their baby. And avoid moisturiser, shower gel, household cleaning products, make up and new furniture. Of course that's in addition to not eating cheese, drinking alcohol and all the myriad other rules imposed.
This latest advice comes from the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists. They admit that there is 'considerable uncertainty' surrounding the risks of chemical exposure, but say that women should take a 'safety first' approach, which is to 'assume there is a risk present even when it may be minimal or eventually unfounded'.
So, just to be clear, then, that means not eating vegetables that have been packed in plastic containers, not taking a sandwich to work in tupperware, not buying a new cot for the nursery, not moisturising your bump (or your face), not wearing deoderant when you're sweltering in the sun and carrying a little heat creator inside you, not wearing sunscreen... all because there may possibly be a minimal risk to your baby, maybe?
Pregnancy is hard enough without 'helpful' advice like this. And the trouble is, what starts as advice ends up as dogma. And this approach isn't taken with anything except pregnancy. Links have been mooted/substantiated between all sorts of things and devastating illnesses. Sugar, car fumes, hydrogenated fat, food colourings, pesticides. But are we told to avoid them just in case? No, we're told that without any firm evidence, we should just keep calm and carry on.
I totally get that creating life is important and that genuine threats need to be shouted from the rooftops. But advice like this, making women feel guilty if they so much as rub their face with a bit of Nivea?
Really not helpful at all.
This latest advice comes from the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists. They admit that there is 'considerable uncertainty' surrounding the risks of chemical exposure, but say that women should take a 'safety first' approach, which is to 'assume there is a risk present even when it may be minimal or eventually unfounded'.
So, just to be clear, then, that means not eating vegetables that have been packed in plastic containers, not taking a sandwich to work in tupperware, not buying a new cot for the nursery, not moisturising your bump (or your face), not wearing deoderant when you're sweltering in the sun and carrying a little heat creator inside you, not wearing sunscreen... all because there may possibly be a minimal risk to your baby, maybe?
Pregnancy is hard enough without 'helpful' advice like this. And the trouble is, what starts as advice ends up as dogma. And this approach isn't taken with anything except pregnancy. Links have been mooted/substantiated between all sorts of things and devastating illnesses. Sugar, car fumes, hydrogenated fat, food colourings, pesticides. But are we told to avoid them just in case? No, we're told that without any firm evidence, we should just keep calm and carry on.
I totally get that creating life is important and that genuine threats need to be shouted from the rooftops. But advice like this, making women feel guilty if they so much as rub their face with a bit of Nivea?
Really not helpful at all.
Sunday 2 June 2013
Sunday nights...
Is it terrible that sometimes, by Sunday night, after a glorious weekend with the kids I'm (whisper it) kind of looking forward to Monday, when I can get back to work?
I mean look, sure, I adore them, love hanging out with them, watching them, playing with them, seeing them learn new stuff, seeing them blossom into little people with interests and thoughts and opinions.
But my God, the mopping up and the dishwasher loading and the food preparation and clearing away, and the screaming, the fighting, the not having a moment to read the paper or sit and have a cup of tea... And the questions. Oh my. That's the nearly-six year old. I counted 342 questions this morning and then I gave up. They just don't stop. The toddler tantrums (the nearly two year old). The pushing every boundary to see what might happen (the four year old).
I'm exhausted.
And I'm looking happily at my desk knowing that tomorrow I can sit down, drink coffee, with no one pestering me. And I can work.
I mean look, sure, I adore them, love hanging out with them, watching them, playing with them, seeing them learn new stuff, seeing them blossom into little people with interests and thoughts and opinions.
But my God, the mopping up and the dishwasher loading and the food preparation and clearing away, and the screaming, the fighting, the not having a moment to read the paper or sit and have a cup of tea... And the questions. Oh my. That's the nearly-six year old. I counted 342 questions this morning and then I gave up. They just don't stop. The toddler tantrums (the nearly two year old). The pushing every boundary to see what might happen (the four year old).
I'm exhausted.
And I'm looking happily at my desk knowing that tomorrow I can sit down, drink coffee, with no one pestering me. And I can work.
Saturday 1 June 2013
Things that save me time... and things that don't
I hate that my life is always rushed; the things I miss the most about my life pre-children is the ability to take my time over things. Like getting up in the morning. Like having breakfast. Looking out of the window. I am always rushing back from places, rushing the children out of the door, rushing in and out of the shower. Blow drying my hair is often a luxury too far.
But one of the benefits of this fast-paced existence is that I have learned how and where to cut corners and trim time. I have also identified the things that take too long, that make things worse. So here is my list; please add to it with your own because seriously, I could use the help.
Things that save time:
1. Jamie Oliver's new 15 minute recipe book. They take 30 mins but they're delicious and easy (if you buy the right ingredients)
2. Taking the time to go through the kitchen cupboards properly before ordering the supermarket shop so that I can tell at a glance what we need and what we don't
3. Ordering the supermarket shop over the internet (subject to number 2)
4. Ordering most stuff over the internet (with a caveat... see number 1 of the next list)
5. Laying out clothes for the following day before I go to bed. Five minutes is not long enough to shower, get dressed AND work out what to wear
6. Keeping my daughter's hair cut in a bob so I don't have to plait it/clip it/spend hours brushing it in the morning (and it's devastatingly cute, which helps...)
7. Getting a good hair cut every 6 or 7 weeks.
Things that do not save time:
1. Impulse buying online and having to return huge parcels back to the post office
2. Exercise DVDs. Probably would save me time, but I never get round to doing them.
3. My phone(s). All the time I save being able to email on the go is more than made up for by the time I spend googling random things and refreshing my emails to see if there's anything new
4. Bundling the children out of the door too quickly. Two minutes later one of them will inevitably have a call of nature/have no coat/have no drink/need a nappy change and the nappy bag is at home. Tortoise works better than hare with young children.
5. Multi-tasking where it isn't absolutely essential. Nothing gets done properly, I start to feel scattered and then inevitably drop one or more of the balls I'm juggling.
Now, over to you...
But one of the benefits of this fast-paced existence is that I have learned how and where to cut corners and trim time. I have also identified the things that take too long, that make things worse. So here is my list; please add to it with your own because seriously, I could use the help.
Things that save time:
1. Jamie Oliver's new 15 minute recipe book. They take 30 mins but they're delicious and easy (if you buy the right ingredients)
2. Taking the time to go through the kitchen cupboards properly before ordering the supermarket shop so that I can tell at a glance what we need and what we don't
3. Ordering the supermarket shop over the internet (subject to number 2)
4. Ordering most stuff over the internet (with a caveat... see number 1 of the next list)
5. Laying out clothes for the following day before I go to bed. Five minutes is not long enough to shower, get dressed AND work out what to wear
6. Keeping my daughter's hair cut in a bob so I don't have to plait it/clip it/spend hours brushing it in the morning (and it's devastatingly cute, which helps...)
7. Getting a good hair cut every 6 or 7 weeks.
Things that do not save time:
1. Impulse buying online and having to return huge parcels back to the post office
2. Exercise DVDs. Probably would save me time, but I never get round to doing them.
3. My phone(s). All the time I save being able to email on the go is more than made up for by the time I spend googling random things and refreshing my emails to see if there's anything new
4. Bundling the children out of the door too quickly. Two minutes later one of them will inevitably have a call of nature/have no coat/have no drink/need a nappy change and the nappy bag is at home. Tortoise works better than hare with young children.
5. Multi-tasking where it isn't absolutely essential. Nothing gets done properly, I start to feel scattered and then inevitably drop one or more of the balls I'm juggling.
Now, over to you...
Tuesday 28 May 2013
The trip
Reasons my (5 year old) son found for me NOT to go on the trip I've just been on, to the Hay Literary Festival where I was due to give a workshop on how to write a thriller, and take part in an event with two other authors:
1. Everyone in my class knows how to write a story. If the people coming to see you don't know, they should have listened properly at school.
2. Wales is very cold mummy. Everyone knows that.
3. It's a bank holiday mummy. That means you're not allowed to work.
It was hard to argue with really - his reasons were pretty solid. But go I did. And I'm so pleased I did - I met some great people, met a whole bunch of enthusiastic and talented teenagers, took part in one of the best literary festivals we have in this country.
But there was no mobile phone reception. Like, NONE. I'd promised to call at 6.30pm to read my children a story over the phone. I promised to check in, sending pictures of things I thought they'd like. And I couldn't do it. Like really, could not do it. That's rural Wales for you. I got into a panic, I tried borrowing my publicist's phone, but her signal was dead, too. I was signing books, meeting lovely people who had listened to me talk and then actually bought my book, and all I could think about was my children, waiting for me to call, their little faces so full of disappointment when I didn't... Then, finally, the signing was over and I walked and walked, over a mile from the festival, in the pouring rain, until I found a signal. And what did I discover? That my kids had forgotten all about the promise, gone to bed no problem, with none of the sense of betrayal, of broken promises that I'd been killing myself with.
The moral of the tale? The guilt I beat myself up with is totally stupid and I should just relax and enjoy myself.
And only go places with good mobile reception...
1. Everyone in my class knows how to write a story. If the people coming to see you don't know, they should have listened properly at school.
2. Wales is very cold mummy. Everyone knows that.
3. It's a bank holiday mummy. That means you're not allowed to work.
It was hard to argue with really - his reasons were pretty solid. But go I did. And I'm so pleased I did - I met some great people, met a whole bunch of enthusiastic and talented teenagers, took part in one of the best literary festivals we have in this country.
But there was no mobile phone reception. Like, NONE. I'd promised to call at 6.30pm to read my children a story over the phone. I promised to check in, sending pictures of things I thought they'd like. And I couldn't do it. Like really, could not do it. That's rural Wales for you. I got into a panic, I tried borrowing my publicist's phone, but her signal was dead, too. I was signing books, meeting lovely people who had listened to me talk and then actually bought my book, and all I could think about was my children, waiting for me to call, their little faces so full of disappointment when I didn't... Then, finally, the signing was over and I walked and walked, over a mile from the festival, in the pouring rain, until I found a signal. And what did I discover? That my kids had forgotten all about the promise, gone to bed no problem, with none of the sense of betrayal, of broken promises that I'd been killing myself with.
The moral of the tale? The guilt I beat myself up with is totally stupid and I should just relax and enjoy myself.
And only go places with good mobile reception...
Sunday 26 May 2013
I love grandparents...
... Particularly when it's sunny outside, the toddler is napping and the other two are busy pestering two indulgent, loving people for attention.
And I've figured out the whole low-in-energy thing. It's the sun, pure and simple. I was out last night (Rupert Everett at the Southbank Literary Festival. Brilliant fun) and my husband is away, but this morning I bounded out of bed with the children, made smoothies, chased them around the garden and all of this was before 7am. Why? Because it was sunny. Is sunny. I'm just in such a good mood.
Of course it isn't going to last. I'm going to the Hay Literary Festival tomorrow and according to the weather reports I need to pack wellies and an umbrella. But for today all is good.
At least until my in-laws go home...:)
And I've figured out the whole low-in-energy thing. It's the sun, pure and simple. I was out last night (Rupert Everett at the Southbank Literary Festival. Brilliant fun) and my husband is away, but this morning I bounded out of bed with the children, made smoothies, chased them around the garden and all of this was before 7am. Why? Because it was sunny. Is sunny. I'm just in such a good mood.
Of course it isn't going to last. I'm going to the Hay Literary Festival tomorrow and according to the weather reports I need to pack wellies and an umbrella. But for today all is good.
At least until my in-laws go home...:)
Saturday 25 May 2013
Good mum, bad mum
I have just shut my children in the garden for 30 minutes. I didn't lock the door but near as damnit. 'Outside?' you're thinking. 'But that's good, that's healthy.' Yes, it is, but that's not why I did it. It is Saturday morning and I need a cup of coffee, need half an hour to plan my day, to just... think. And they weren't being awful, but they were being LOUD, teasing each other, needling each other until one started to shout or scream and they would all erupt and...
So I've just marched them out of the back door into the garden. Sorry neighbours.
The thing is, I know that when I'm fully engaged, the whole parenting thing is actually much easier and also much more enjoyable. Take the time to sit down, do a puzzle, play a game, and they all respond brilliantly. But I don't always have time to do that. Okay, I rarely have time to to that. I have breakfast to make, breakfast to clear up, food to buy (husband is away, in-laws are coming for lunch tomorrow). I have work to do (I'm giving a workshop on 'how to write a thriller' on Monday at the Hay Literature Festival. Super exciting, but I need to plan, to think. I mean, I'd quite like to go to a workshop on how to write a thriller myself... Bit scary to think that I'm now apparently the expert), birthday parties to organise. Birthday presents. Damn, forgot to put that on the list.
The real problem here is not the children; it's me, trying to do too much and ending up feeling incredibly scattered, all over the place. Right now, as I'm writing, I'm thinking about the laundry basket piling up, the front gate that keeps banging and needs a new bolt, the edits that I need to get on with, the strategies I need to employ to get it into my daughter's head that she has to wipe front to back and not the other way around...
But actually, right now it's all good. They are pottering around outside, sweeping up blossom, throwing it over each other. Right now, no one is screaming, and here, sitting at the kitchen island, I feel calm, in control, like it's all doable. Twenty minutes on my own and the list gets reduced in no time.
Of course it may not end up being twenty minutes. Any minute now one of them could fall over; decide they want to play with something that one of the others is playing with. Then the screaming will start once again. Then all bets are off...
So I've just marched them out of the back door into the garden. Sorry neighbours.
The thing is, I know that when I'm fully engaged, the whole parenting thing is actually much easier and also much more enjoyable. Take the time to sit down, do a puzzle, play a game, and they all respond brilliantly. But I don't always have time to do that. Okay, I rarely have time to to that. I have breakfast to make, breakfast to clear up, food to buy (husband is away, in-laws are coming for lunch tomorrow). I have work to do (I'm giving a workshop on 'how to write a thriller' on Monday at the Hay Literature Festival. Super exciting, but I need to plan, to think. I mean, I'd quite like to go to a workshop on how to write a thriller myself... Bit scary to think that I'm now apparently the expert), birthday parties to organise. Birthday presents. Damn, forgot to put that on the list.
The real problem here is not the children; it's me, trying to do too much and ending up feeling incredibly scattered, all over the place. Right now, as I'm writing, I'm thinking about the laundry basket piling up, the front gate that keeps banging and needs a new bolt, the edits that I need to get on with, the strategies I need to employ to get it into my daughter's head that she has to wipe front to back and not the other way around...
But actually, right now it's all good. They are pottering around outside, sweeping up blossom, throwing it over each other. Right now, no one is screaming, and here, sitting at the kitchen island, I feel calm, in control, like it's all doable. Twenty minutes on my own and the list gets reduced in no time.
Of course it may not end up being twenty minutes. Any minute now one of them could fall over; decide they want to play with something that one of the others is playing with. Then the screaming will start once again. Then all bets are off...
Friday 24 May 2013
Energy... will it ever come back?!
It can't be just me who's tired all the time. Actually I know it isn't; I had supper with two great friends the other night, and all we could talk about was how frazzled we were. Sometimes it's actual lack of sleep that's the problem -because of waking children/babies, or because my stress levels are so high I'm waking up at 5am with a whole list of worries, and unable to get back to sleep. Other times, it's not lack of sleep that's the problem but more a general lethargy, an inability to jump out of bed in the morning, a general feeling that life feels harder than usual.
Right now it's the latter; the truth is, I'm sleeping like a baby. Partly because I finished my latest book a few weeks ago and so a major stress-creator has disappeared from my life for a while, but also because of a book I read when my youngest was a few months old. Diggy had reflux, rarely napped properly, and was prone to screaming several times in the night and I was so tired I was barely human. And then I stumbled across this book by Dr Weissbluth. It was all about children's sleeping patterns and how sleep begets sleep, but as I read it I started to recognise myself in the case studies (about very young children. Go figure...). I get stressed out, I get hyper, I sleep less, I get more hyper, I sleep even less... and it's the same with babies apparently. They miss a nap, they make up for it with adrenaline, and then they can't soothe themselves back to sleep.
The good doc suggested putting my 'difficult baby' to bed super early, like 5pm, for a few weeks. And I was dubious; VERY dubious. But I tried it. And what do you know? Suddenly he was sleeping through. A few weeks later, though, I was still waking up on high alert listening for the cries which never came. So, in desperation, I tried the same method on myself. Bed at 9pm. I never thought it would work, but blow me, it only took two nights and I was cured. No more 5am wakings worrying about plots, laundry, bills and homework (my children's, not mine). I wouldn't recommend it every night. Otherwise you will have NO FRIENDS. But every so often, it's not a bad idea.
No, my lack of energy is not about sleep. Not right now, anyway. So what else? Well, one culprit might be low levels of Vitamin D. My friend Emma has been eulogising the benefits of Vitamin D and I think she's right. Lack of sunlight means we're all pretty low and doctors are now finding links between low levels of Vitamin D and loads of nasty illnesses from heart disease to cancer.
And Iron, too... Many a time I have felt at death's door, barely able to drag myself upstairs, only to feel entirely better after downing a couple of sachets of Spatone iron supplement.
So that's my plan to revive myself. Good food, supplements and maybe an early night or two. And if all of that fails, there's always chocolate, right?
Right now it's the latter; the truth is, I'm sleeping like a baby. Partly because I finished my latest book a few weeks ago and so a major stress-creator has disappeared from my life for a while, but also because of a book I read when my youngest was a few months old. Diggy had reflux, rarely napped properly, and was prone to screaming several times in the night and I was so tired I was barely human. And then I stumbled across this book by Dr Weissbluth. It was all about children's sleeping patterns and how sleep begets sleep, but as I read it I started to recognise myself in the case studies (about very young children. Go figure...). I get stressed out, I get hyper, I sleep less, I get more hyper, I sleep even less... and it's the same with babies apparently. They miss a nap, they make up for it with adrenaline, and then they can't soothe themselves back to sleep.
The good doc suggested putting my 'difficult baby' to bed super early, like 5pm, for a few weeks. And I was dubious; VERY dubious. But I tried it. And what do you know? Suddenly he was sleeping through. A few weeks later, though, I was still waking up on high alert listening for the cries which never came. So, in desperation, I tried the same method on myself. Bed at 9pm. I never thought it would work, but blow me, it only took two nights and I was cured. No more 5am wakings worrying about plots, laundry, bills and homework (my children's, not mine). I wouldn't recommend it every night. Otherwise you will have NO FRIENDS. But every so often, it's not a bad idea.
No, my lack of energy is not about sleep. Not right now, anyway. So what else? Well, one culprit might be low levels of Vitamin D. My friend Emma has been eulogising the benefits of Vitamin D and I think she's right. Lack of sunlight means we're all pretty low and doctors are now finding links between low levels of Vitamin D and loads of nasty illnesses from heart disease to cancer.
And Iron, too... Many a time I have felt at death's door, barely able to drag myself upstairs, only to feel entirely better after downing a couple of sachets of Spatone iron supplement.
So that's my plan to revive myself. Good food, supplements and maybe an early night or two. And if all of that fails, there's always chocolate, right?
Thursday 23 May 2013
First things first
This is the blog of a working mother of three (Atticus, age 5, Allegra, age 4, and Diggory, age 22 months), the things I've learnt along the way, the things I struggle with day-to-day, the things I think I've cracked and the things I truly haven't. Like feeling guilty. Like feeling that there's never enough of me. Like knowing that I need some downtime but failing to do much about it because there's always so much to do...
I don't have the answers (I'm hoping you might supply those), but I do know that all my working mother friends are crying out for somewhere to talk, to download, to exchange ideas. Because it's really tough, but it's also really worth it, and whilst the idea of 'having it all' is meaningless because none of us would agree on what 'all' is, we can, surely, learn from each other to get some balance. At least I hope I can.
A bit about me... I'm a writer. Which is great; it means I work from home most of the time and I get to see my children much more than I would if I was in an office an hour's commute away. But it also means I have serious boundary issues (there are none differentiating 'work' from 'home'). It means I get to go to book festivals, have to travel up and down the country to give author talks to fantastic teenagers, but it also means being away from home for days at a time. It means that some days I can drop everything and play in the garden, but around deadline time I work around the clock and because I'm self-employed there's no such thing as annual leave (or maternity leave, for that matter). I'm not complaining - if I was, you'd be justified in shooting me. I love what I do. LOVE IT. Just like most of my working friends love what they do, too. But that doesn't make it any easier when I'm walking out the door to the sound of crying because one of my children is ill and I can't stay home to be with them because I have a commitment elsewhere.
Why the title? Two phones and a packet of wet wipes? Well, that's one of the things I've learnt. See, I used to get into a whole lot of trouble with my phone. Like, always having it on, always checking it. I'd be with my children, trying to give them my full attention but instead I'd be scrolling through emails and checking my editor hadn't called with her feedback on my latest manuscript. Or I'd be with my agent having a discussion about Brazilian publishers and we'd be continually interrupted by pictures of my children being texted to me by my nanny (which, naturally, I'd be desperate to share immediately and have to literally sit on my hands to stop myself from interrupting the conversation to do so).
I love my iphone; it's a portable work station and it's got everything on it from photographs to contact details to my calendar. At least it used to. The problem is, one minute the phone was freeing me up, and the next it was weighing me down because it NEVER STOPPED.
Which is why these days I have two mobiles. I know. Streamlining is all, and here I am adding a second phone into the equation. Ridiculous, huh? Not to mention expensive. But it's worth it. Totally worth it. I have a work phone, and I have a home phone. Key people have both numbers (my husband and my nanny), but mostly I just give out one: the home mobile number goes to other mothers, family, friends. The work number goes to everyone I work with. Agents, librarians, editors, publicists, television and radio researchers. It helps keep me sane, and, perhaps more importantly, it helps me slip into the correct identity. Work me, Home me. It sounds simple, but it really isn't easy making the switch, whether I'm going from adrenaline-fuelled work me to *in my dreams* patient, fully-engaged mother, or going from chilled out mother *wearing-sweats-and-ugg-boots-that-are-covered-in-various-unidentifiable-goo-stains* to totally-focused author talking with very clever people on the radio. Ever had to have a conversation with your boss or client on the telephone with an 18 month old hanging from your shoulder whilst another child (or more) is/are screaming in the background? You'll know what I mean, then. The two don't mix. At all.
As for the wet wipes, well, do I really have to explain? I never carried them before I had children. Now I don't leave the house without them, mostly because I can always guarantee that however much I try, I will always fail to spot that blob of snot/gunge that has been deposited on me just as I walk out of the door. And it's a personal thing, but I find Huggies wipes to be the best. Nicest texture, and they don't split.
So there we have it. Hope you enjoy. And please get in touch...
Gemma
I don't have the answers (I'm hoping you might supply those), but I do know that all my working mother friends are crying out for somewhere to talk, to download, to exchange ideas. Because it's really tough, but it's also really worth it, and whilst the idea of 'having it all' is meaningless because none of us would agree on what 'all' is, we can, surely, learn from each other to get some balance. At least I hope I can.
A bit about me... I'm a writer. Which is great; it means I work from home most of the time and I get to see my children much more than I would if I was in an office an hour's commute away. But it also means I have serious boundary issues (there are none differentiating 'work' from 'home'). It means I get to go to book festivals, have to travel up and down the country to give author talks to fantastic teenagers, but it also means being away from home for days at a time. It means that some days I can drop everything and play in the garden, but around deadline time I work around the clock and because I'm self-employed there's no such thing as annual leave (or maternity leave, for that matter). I'm not complaining - if I was, you'd be justified in shooting me. I love what I do. LOVE IT. Just like most of my working friends love what they do, too. But that doesn't make it any easier when I'm walking out the door to the sound of crying because one of my children is ill and I can't stay home to be with them because I have a commitment elsewhere.
Why the title? Two phones and a packet of wet wipes? Well, that's one of the things I've learnt. See, I used to get into a whole lot of trouble with my phone. Like, always having it on, always checking it. I'd be with my children, trying to give them my full attention but instead I'd be scrolling through emails and checking my editor hadn't called with her feedback on my latest manuscript. Or I'd be with my agent having a discussion about Brazilian publishers and we'd be continually interrupted by pictures of my children being texted to me by my nanny (which, naturally, I'd be desperate to share immediately and have to literally sit on my hands to stop myself from interrupting the conversation to do so).
I love my iphone; it's a portable work station and it's got everything on it from photographs to contact details to my calendar. At least it used to. The problem is, one minute the phone was freeing me up, and the next it was weighing me down because it NEVER STOPPED.
Which is why these days I have two mobiles. I know. Streamlining is all, and here I am adding a second phone into the equation. Ridiculous, huh? Not to mention expensive. But it's worth it. Totally worth it. I have a work phone, and I have a home phone. Key people have both numbers (my husband and my nanny), but mostly I just give out one: the home mobile number goes to other mothers, family, friends. The work number goes to everyone I work with. Agents, librarians, editors, publicists, television and radio researchers. It helps keep me sane, and, perhaps more importantly, it helps me slip into the correct identity. Work me, Home me. It sounds simple, but it really isn't easy making the switch, whether I'm going from adrenaline-fuelled work me to *in my dreams* patient, fully-engaged mother, or going from chilled out mother *wearing-sweats-and-ugg-boots-that-are-covered-in-various-unidentifiable-goo-stains* to totally-focused author talking with very clever people on the radio. Ever had to have a conversation with your boss or client on the telephone with an 18 month old hanging from your shoulder whilst another child (or more) is/are screaming in the background? You'll know what I mean, then. The two don't mix. At all.
As for the wet wipes, well, do I really have to explain? I never carried them before I had children. Now I don't leave the house without them, mostly because I can always guarantee that however much I try, I will always fail to spot that blob of snot/gunge that has been deposited on me just as I walk out of the door. And it's a personal thing, but I find Huggies wipes to be the best. Nicest texture, and they don't split.
So there we have it. Hope you enjoy. And please get in touch...
Gemma
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