Gummy, Gummy, In My Tummy!

After recently starting that petri-dish of vomitville, Pre-School, i went whole hog into defense mode. Broccoli, oranges, apples, heck, I'll throw in a few prunes. However, i did have a slight heart attack when Olive wandered into my bedroom recently having digested an entire bottle of recently purchased gummy princess vitamins. I had no clue on what to do! oh god - it felt like a lifetime movie - i knew this day of child doing something horrific that may be serious but we could ultimately laugh about would come but NOW? NOW? Immediately, i envisioned putting a bar of soap in her mouth or charcoal (which i clearly have in my pantry along with my anaphylactic shock kit...) or perhaps cooking salt and then shoving my fingers down her throat. Think, i thought! THINK!! OK - 911?! Seems extreme...and yet in hindsight that makes me feel even worse that i put embarrassment before possible over dosage of gummy Cinderellas.

Doctor - next step down - I called and get the advice nurse. She spoke very calmly but firmly - in the same tone as my mother had told me to get out of the pool in Florida because there was a snake behind me that i hadn't yet spotted - and told me to call Poison Control.

Great - right - OK - i feel like Hugh Grant in Four Weddings and a Funeral - "...um, could i have their number, please???" Never had i felt more of a failure. Shouldn't i have had a fridge magnet with this number on it? Surely, it should have been handed out in the hospital with the baby? I'll take the placenta - you take this list of useful numbers...

I swear i hear a tut or some sort of irritated sigh. As she starts with the numbers i have to ask her to "hold on" while i find a pen. Note to self, get one of those pens on a string to also go on the fridge. Located pen, now paper, find back of an envelope that will do - "OK, go ahead". I'm surprised that this woman hasn't dispatched social services at this point.

I hang up, call Poison Control - which sounds terrifying - i keep picturing the Jolly Roger flag. Surely it should be "Potentially Harmful Ingested Items Hotline?" Meanwhile, Olive is so jacked up on sugar that i swear she is tripping. She is riding the rocking horse at accelerated speed and i swear she is singing the song that Willy Wonka plays when they go through the psychedelic tunnel on the boat.

HELP!

Poison Control answers - I reluctantly give my name and address and find myself altering my accent slightly. I quickly explain that my daughter has eaten practically the entire contents of some Costco gummy vitamins. Eyes closed, baited breath.

...and then as though she was shelling peas on the other end of the line..."Oh, (did she laugh?)they do it, ALL THE TIME!" she says - Don't worry".

Um, OK - i think about hanging up and trying another poison expert.

Really? I ask.

Yes, then she asked me some legit questions about weight of child and what the gummies contained and i started to relax a bit, wheeze a little less.

So, apparently 45 gummy vitamins for a toddler - not such a big deal!!! (Do not ever quote me on that).

So...thank you super sugary, yummy gummy princess vitamins!! I have the healthiest, super immune, come and get me virus free toddler in the universe.

(We are however waiting for her to stop riding the rocking horse like a maniac... )

Sometimes I wonder if I'm a Suitable Parent?

A Time to Stop and Smell the Roses

Olive,

Well, the good news is I'm not dead. The bad news is you are missing about 8 months of your life...however, let me be the first to tell you that you just became interesting! We now have conversations. It's brilliant - I ask a question and you answer, and it doesn't matter if the response is you bursting into the ABC's - we are on the same page, or at least in the same book. Recently, I was so excited about a party you had been to that as i drilled you with questions, you turned to me, rested one hand on my arm and told me to 'calm down'. It was then that i knew we had reached the next stage and that whole ridiculous babbling, wash, rinse, repeat stage was over. You were my friend!!! Everything had changed - things like blowing bubbles - i no longer have to pretend and applaud you for licking the miniature wand...

However, let me share with you part of this transition. Currently, you are on the home stretch with toilet training, and now it's just the occasional accident...usually on my knee or when you crawl into bed with us in the morning - "wait, what's that warm feeling?"

Anyway, one weekend we ran out of diapers and that was it. We were going cold turkey. (Also, I think all the wipes had gone too, and the paper towels - we really are those parents that forget to bring snacks, fill sippy cups, carry spare underwear, feed pets, buy gifts at Christmas - the list goes on). Anyway, when the bulged diaper of a poop is not only visible across a playground, but it carries the stench of an adults 'evacuation', well, then it's time to call it a day.

So, I needed a battle plan and since my nose usually bears the brunt of anything gross - my attack was to share the suggestion of sensory disgust. I started with... "Oh, no more diapers - who wants to be smelly down there?". Or, "ugh (said softly), we don't want wee wee all on you down there". "How about we try some nice and clean big girl knickers?". Things like that. Now, aside from the Elmo potty book, i hadn't really sought out any formal thinking on the matter, which is perhaps a shame. However, I don't trust anyone that only speaks in the third person... as such my relationship with Elmo is strained at best.

So, i had my tactic and all was going very well. Easy...right?

Fast forward a couple of weeks when i pick you up from preschool. Now, I'm new to this parental club business - i just get a little uncomfortable seeing them all bosom up and talk tofu snacks and toy drives. I've noticed that some parents when they collect their child will even sit down in the classroom, in those tiny plastic chairs, and do things like read to them or play in the sand box, rather than whisking then away home. (Seems a bit for show, if you ask me). Anyway, this is not me - I'm like a mountain lion. Stealth. In and out, only stopping long enough to use the hand sanitizer. Having said that, I'm not totally rude. I'll nod and smile at anyone, just not long enough to engage in conversation.

Anyway, today your little face lit up as you saw me and you ran to me shouting "Mummy" at the top of your little lungs! (Think Princess Di greeting Prince William and Prince Harry as she stepped off Britannica...yup, that's right) Before i can scoop you up, you run to me and bury your head in my legs. Just as joy almost forced me to introduce myself to the lady standing next to me, whose own child hadn't even noticed her- you remove your face from between my legs and shout to the world, "ugh, stinky wee wee. Oh yucky!"

Now - there are only a few places to go from there. I can try and explain to the other mothers that we are going through the transition to underwear phase, or i can just let them think that i forgot to wear a scented pantyliner that morning. I silently thank God that i had not come in my workout clothes, and instead was dressed in business attire, having come straight from work. Oh God, i thought - please just let a bottle of Summer's Eve fall from my bag. Seriously - for all my pee jokes, this was not a moment where i cracked a funny about dribbling and sneezing. No, this was out and out embarrassment. I wanted to scream - "BUT I HONESTLY DON'T!!!!"

But i didn't - i forced a chuckle that actually almost turned into a burp and tried to make eye contact with another mother to find some camaraderie, but all eyes were down or looking away. Dear Lord - they were actually embarrassed for me. They probably thought I birthed a 14lb baby and never recovered. So, I tried to brush it off with a snort and made some bizarre comment about "ooh, the things they come out with - goodness, where does it come from?"

Silence...literally, crickets and tumbleweeds.

So now, when you have a bath or you accidentally pee on me, I bite my tongue and use words like "fresh", "summer breeze", "lovely", when stressing the importance of cleaning that "area" properly. As an act of caution, I have also adopted a different approach to publicly greeting you. I am prepared - I bend down, stretch my arms as far as they can reach and scoop you up before you even get close to my fragranced, summer breeze.

To my mum...

Mothers Day

The words came so easily – not because they were fake, lies, or cliché. I mean each and every word of them. Its just…it never quite feels like enough.

Dear Mum,

Thank you for your continued love and support. You are an inspiration. I can only hope to be half the mother you have been to me.

Lots of love, Paula

I think I say the same, or words to that every effect every single year. Again…meaning every word. The whole point of this blog was that if I were to drop dead tomorrow, my daughter could know me, read stories of herself and have a truth of motherhood that only a mother can share. In the midst of my post partum depression, I became panicked that I was going to lose myself and leave her motherless…and so the true confessions began. No baby book, I’m afraid. Already, I cannot remember when your first tooth came through – it’s a haze.

So, I think of my mum. Incredible. Amazing. Loving. I could go on for days but somehow it seems empty because we have gone beyond that. I can say a million words by looking away from you and leaving a question hanging in the air. You can somehow read my hurt over the phone. You are my mum. You are irreplaceable. In fact, you are the one person on this earth that cannot be replaced. So here is something that I need to say…that i'd like you to know.

I’m sorry.

I am wholeheartedly sorry that I once made you cry. That my own words could cause you such grief. That before I finished saying them I saw the pain etched on your face. That he was in the room. That I had the audacity to ever say to you,

“What you think doesn’t count.”

It’s hard to remember the context. It wasn’t said out of malice but the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. You left the room and went upstairs without saying a word. I followed. I could feel the pain I had caused through your bedroom door. In the midst of all you were going through and all the pain you were shielding us from, I let you down. All of that...and I should throw that at you?

I’m sorry.

I eventually walked in and you looked at me with swollen eyes and asked me straight,

“Why would you say such a thing?”

I always remember thinking that you didn’t say ‘How could you?’ but ‘why would you?’ I just blabbed that I didn’t mean it, it came out wrong, and it wasn’t what I wanted to say.

I’m sorry.

I can see you now, holding a crumpled piece of toilet paper in your left hand, tightly fisted with the white tissue peeping through your knuckles. Some of it is caught in your diamond ring. You tell me it’s ok. You tell me you forgive me. We hear him coming up the stairs and we both know you just want me to leave the room so you can curl up and sleep this away. I can respect that.

I leave and dissolve on my own bed. I am wailing. I have never wailed before. Knowing already what you think I don’t. I hate myself in this moment more than ever. I can see myself lying on the bed, tears streaming and I don’t want them to stop. I want to cry myself away for what I just did to you. He enters then. I thought I would stop crying and just lie still and silent but I don’t. I hug him and fully fall into being a child again. “I really upset her”. I say over and over and over and over. And there in that moment, he comes the closest that I have ever heard him get to an admittance of wrongdoing.

“It’s not you she’s upset with. It’s me.”

I wanted more of this man. More of this father. More of hearing this pain from him. I wanted so badly for him to be who we wanted him to be. I know you wanted that way more than me...had wished for that on more nights that I could count.

And then he was gone. Still hugging me, but I knew he was going to break away first. He told me to ‘get some sleep, it would be better in the morning’ and was gone. Back in bed with you. It was done.

I don’t remember anymore than that. Not the next morning. Not if it was ever brought up again. That year, for a million reasons, is forgotten. I do know that I have never told you just how sorry I am and how I only need to think of that moment and I literally wilt. That you deserve to know that every single word you say is important. Every thought you share is taken in and every bit of advice you give is treasured. That every day I will quote you, or hear you in something I say to Olive. I have your lyricism in my voice. I have your bend in my toes. So does Olive.

They don’t leave enough room in cards for that sort of a Happy Mother’s Day downer…but should I drop dead in the night or you leave me tomorrow, I hope you see this first and know forever that you are my everything. That every thing you do counts and is counted and remembered forever.

I love you.

An Ode To New York

Dear New York,

This is probably the toughest email that I will ever write. Where to start? Firstly, I'm sorry i didn't get to say goodbye in person, I had hoped to see you this afternoon to say a quiet goodbye but in the end it was just too hard. So, I planned to just slip off without saying a word, but I'm here at the airport and I just can't leave without explaining. r.

So, it's not you, it's me. Cliche, huh?

I first met you when i was 12 (and I should have known you'd be trouble when i got my first period in Central Park) and it was love at first sight. When we met again I was 23. I saw you and was completely spellbound. I was barely a woman. I had no idea who I was and yet i knew enough to know that you were everything I had ever dreamed of. You literally consumed me and within days our nights were as long as our days together. I knew that I could wake up and feel wanted. There were even times that I felt completely needed by you. Seven incredible years you made me feel that way. Nobody compared to you, not even close. Not even London. Long, heady nights together, sleeping in till hunger forced us to brunch, then I'd nap and then we'd do it all over again. Crazy, incredible days. You were my everything. I know we had our ups and downs. You drove me nuts. You were a drug, irresistible. I was addicted. You were my 20s. You watched me grow up and you were a huge part of that, but when life threw me a curve ball a couple of years back everything changed. Everything changed, except for you. So, when i left you in 2009, I was terrified. It was without doubt the most difficult decision that I have ever made. I had become so co-dependent and i was terrified that i no longer knew who i was. I had suddenly been forced to change very quickly. I had other priorities and you didn't understand. You didn't even try. I withdrew and when you made no attempt to come and get me, i gave up.

And so i left.

I went west, not knowing what to expect. I just had to get you out of my head. I couldn't see how the new me would fit into you, into us. And so, I met Portland. Friends urged me to go and I found a new life. I didn't expect to feel something so soon but we became friends. Things were different. It was slower. I didn't feel rushed into anything. I could hear myself think for the first time in a long time about something other than working out, seeing you and auditioning. Portland healed me. I felt so understood and not constantly overshadowed. I felt like an individual - no longer one of many. Can you imagine what that feels like? Of course you can - when have you ever been in someone's shadow?

Of course I would still think of you and my heart would hurt. We both know that I wasn't your first and you were never exclusively mine, but it still stung when i saw you with friends of mine or in pictures or heard perfect strangers describe what they had done with you. (Sing, Sing, till 4am, really?)

I refused to be jealous because i knew that you had always been a free spirit, but i guess i was just another stupid, blinkered one of many, thinking that I could be the one. The one to conquer you. There were times, you know, when I just really thought we would make it. But there were many other nights when i would sob over feeling utterly inadequate around you, and I wanted to leave. And then you would show me what I was capable of. Thank you for that.

My time in Portland went quickly. We seemed a distant memory and I began to question if i had left too soon? What on earth had I done? Did i just walk out on the love of my life? So, I talked to Portland and i felt listened to. Really listened to. But i just couldn't get you out of my head. There was always you. Everywhere i turned i saw you. I had friends that told me they had seen you. The photos, the stories. It hurt. Seeing other people do what we did. I wanted to scream at them, that I heart New York and they didn't even know what they were talking about. I had earned you. Seven years of you must have meant something.

So i came back. I had to know. Had to know if you were the one. God, I wanted it to work. I wanted you to see me as all grown up and embrace me and show me that you missed me that you would change. That you would finally adapt and meet me half way. I was a fool. I knew as soon as I stepped off the C train that nothing had changed.

It took 6 months for me to be sure. Totally sure and yet, even now, i know you'll always be a part of me. I'm okay with that. I'm sure this time. You are my heart. It's always going to be hard to hear of you and see you with others, but I'm excited for the future. For us both. Portland is right for me and i know that this new friendship has all the makings of a beautiful, long love affair. It's, well, it's just different. But so right. It's right for me now.

I'm boarding now but just wanted you to know that I didn't give up on us, I just saw that we had grown apart. I heart you, NY. Always.

Paula

Caught Red Handed

Q: Is it ever ok to lie to your child?

A: Yes, when she walks in and sees you extracting a tampon.

And so it went something like this. There i was, just home from work, needing to pee so badly that my back teeth were floating. Ran in, kissed Olive, announced I just needed to wee and scuttled off. Anyway, I was literally hemorrhaging and i knew I had a limited amount of time to make the change. I was thankfully wearing tights but knew the sight was going to pretty grim upon wiggling them down. Down came the knickers, and then as though in slow motion, thumb met finger and went in for the kill. So, there I am, hovering over the toilet seat. And at this point, i suspect some people can picture the scene, others are scarred at the thought, but a few more perhaps find this unimaginable because they themselves adopt the sit down pose upon extraction. For me, just like opening my mouth when applying mascara, i stand there legs akimbo and pull. It's a stealth operation, because if you are not quick, a swing in the wrong direction can have you grabbing a flannel and mopping the floor. Dear lord, i am making myself sound like i'm some 16th century wench who empties her chamber pot from the window.

Fact: being a woman is not glamorous.

Anyway, so there i am doing a semi squat, knees bent, tights hinged mid thigh, bright yellow thong resting slightly higher. Pencil skirt hitched up to my waist and just as I am breathing a sigh of relief that i didn't go through onto my skirt, sodden tampon swinging in the wind... in walks Olive.

Now, I've had some doozies in my life. At about 23, I vomited in the middle of a subway platform and when viewed with disgust by fellow rush hour passengers, i looked up with yesterday's mascara in my brows and pretended that it was morning sickness. I think it was the clear liquid puke that stank of vodka that gave me away.

Regardless, that was then. This was now and here I was. Caught red handed.

She came, she saw, she whimpered.

"Momma" she said and began to cry.

I drop it in the loo at this point.

"Momma got owie" , she said. Insert terrified two year old face at this point.

"Oh no, it's just a red poop". I say. This is what you call, thinking on your feet.

"Red poo poo", she repeats, - even more startled look, tears, arms outstretched.

I sit on toilet seat.

And now, i think, "Oh crap, i can't say a red poop. We are about to start potty training, I can't have her think that is normal".

And so logic took me to a better place...honesty? Nope, not even close!

"Oh darling, it's okay, it's just a red crayon"

Relief in toddler's face.

"Crayon? I wanna color."

"Okay, we can color - how about go and get the colors and mummy will come in in a minute and we can color."

"Ok" Olive starts to leave. I am a genius.

Faster than a speeding bullet, I pluck a fresh tampon from the cupboard, rip the wrapper with my teeth...

And then, re-entry - for Olive...

Upon, seeing pink plastic applicator - "I wanna color, " she says.

"Ok - me too - let mummy just do this"

"Mummy color?"

"Yes, mummy just needs to put this color in and we can go in the other room"

"Mummy color?"

"Yep, go on, go in the other room, I'll be right in." I am starting to make a shooing action.

"I wanna color"

(about here i think: ohgodijustcamehomefromworkiamsotiredijustwanttopullonmypyjamas)

"OK - Mummy, has a color" Here, all logic disappears out the fan extractor and I actually hand the fresh tampon applicator to Olive. It's a Playtex pink, scented one, so somehow this seemed better.

(I know...okay, i know)

"Red poop?" she said.

"No, Olive. (and this is the real kicker). Mummy colors every once in a while and sometimes she keeps a color tucked away. Ok?"

"Ok" This she understands and produces a smile. I am a genius.

Smiling - "Ok, give mummy the color and you go out."

"I wanna color"

(pleasejustleavemealone)

And then in a break with tradition, and because i just couldn't go any further with this whole Crayola episode, I took the crayon from her hand muttering something about safety and sat on the loo and in a first time move, I performed the seated one handed underhand insert and no doubt scarred my daughter for life. We walked out holding freshly washed hands and colored for all of 5 seconds before we went on to playing musical statues.

Next day at bath time? I'm just sitting on the lid of the toilet while she lies on her tummy, discreetly drinking the soap water hoping i won't see...but I do and when I say, "Olivia, No", she turns and upon seeing me on the loo, she asks if she can color?"

And that's the truth. Period.

Breeding Contempt

When I was sixteen I fell in love for the first time. I remember being on a coach for 20 hours returning from a school ski trip to Austria and can see myself nervously sat next to the boy that had stolen my heart. I picture us sharing earphones, listening to East 17 and my heart is pounding so hard in my chest because I'm hoping that when everyone falls asleep and they turn the lights off, we will kiss. When it happens, I never want it to end. I would constantly replay that moment in my mind for the next three years of our relationship and it never failed to make me blush. I was 16 and everything was raging; my hormones, my fight for independence, my complete inability to focus on anything but the thought of us being alone together again. Of course nobody understood. I remember being completely fearless in love. Why not? I'd never had my heart broken before. I had no thought that this would ever end. I can honestly say that I have still not experienced pain as sharp as I did in the summer of 1998 when my first love called time on our relationship. I hope I never do.

Some 10 years later, I became pregnant and spent the 9 months getting to know myself again. I had to. I don't know where I had lost that connection but I wound up being present with myself for the first time in years. I was my own best friend and yes, I am fully aware how pretentious this sounds. For me, being pregnant was without doubt my most lonely time to date. Not because my husband wasn't the most loving and supportive man on earth. Not even close. The pregnancy was unexpected and it took a wealth of soul searching to get to the joy I eventually experienced. I found the realization that life was going to change forever utterly overwhelming. Receiving that first lesson post discovering your pregnancy is one you never stop learning - that it's not about you anymore. We graciously and unwittingly take 2nd or 3rd or 4th place. Doesn't mean it is easy or without sacrifice.

With that said - the thought of being a hormonal 16 year, teetering on the cusp of independence and then discovering the unfathomable responsibility and hormonal insanity that accompanies pregnancy sounds not only terrifying but quite unimaginable.

This week a (dreadful) woman called Kim Kardashian suggested that a TV show called Teen Mom was to blame for a rise in teen pregnancy by glamorising the experience. I found this claim absurd. Watching a young girl repeatedly vomit, go through labor unsupported and juggle night time feedings with schoolwork is not glamorous television. We see young girls robbed of more than their figure and social life. They should be making mix tapes (okay, okay), mooning over boys and running out the door without a second thought - that's what being 16 is all about. Yes, the girls get paid for their TV appearance but I suspect they will pay a much dearer price than their 15 minutes of fame brings them. Witnessing the most punishing emotional journey a woman gets to have experienced by a young girl is far from appealing.

Plus, last time i watched Celebrity Rehab, i didn't rush out and snort my weight in coke.

I wasn't a teen mom but I was a loved up, sexually active teenager. There comes the realization that a lot of contraception and a little bit of luck is all that separates the two.

You know you're a mother when...

...You go out in 20 degree weather with wind chills making it feel like single digits. You find yourself wading through snow after a massive blizzard just to get emergency supplies from the grocery store. You have only your two frozen hands and know you must have equal distribution to save you from slipping on your way home.
You have been trapped indoors with a toddler for 9 hours. You have seen so much Caillou that you worry your own child might never grow hair.
And then you find yourself in the midst of a dilemma that can only be described as of ginormous proportion.

Wine or diapers.

Wine.
or
Diapers.

You find yourself in the checkout clutching pampers. You know you look like a hag. You have no makeup on, hair pulled back, an angry zit that is bubbling under the surface and feels like a bruise on your chin. A woolly hat that won't sit on your head properly so it looks like a wizard's cone and your teeth feel furry no matter how many times you rub your tongue over them. Worse still, you have a visible granny knickers line through your jeans because you are wearing bikini bottoms. Then, just to top off the class act, as you rummage around in your altogether too large purse for your wallet, you put your handmade Estonian red mitten in your mouth and try and make a noise that could convey - "debit, I'm paying by debit".

Even the guy bagging your groceries doesn't find you attractive.

The irony is that you need a drink more than ever. The reality is you are going home to change a diaper and then later find a pebble of poop on the couch that escaped. Worse still, after gorging yourself all week you actually wonder for a second, if it is a leftover Lindt truffle that got away. You pick it up and before putting it close to your nose you realize - no, that's poop that my thumb and forefinger are holding.



You need a drink.


I am a walking contraceptive for under age sex.

Smells Like Teen Spirit

Yesterday I walked past a man in Grand Central Station that had the exact same smell of my father when I was a child. It caught me by surprise and I came to a complete stop. I was immediately taken back to Christmas Eve and my father pouring cocktails for his daughters. I was perhaps 13 and being handed a glass of something sour and foul to toast with that I would insist on finishing, while sneakily trying a taste of every other glass at the table. Hey, why not? I wasn't driving.

This is my favorite memory of my family. My father. He would return home late afternoon on Christmas Eve. He would slink into the house and enlist one of us, his daughters to wrap a last minute gift for my mother. Of course, in reality it would have been purchased weeks before by his assistant and it was an elegantly concealed cover up for his other doings. He was drunk to my mother. He was fun to the three of us. He was laughing, dancing and he was home. We were wooed by this man. A man in hand tailored suits, shiny spats and a glint in his eye that every other man in our lives would be forced to compete with. We were terrified and thrilled by him on any given day, but on Christmas Eve he only had eyes for his girls. He was ours for the day. Or so we thought.

Truth is he had already had three too many. He was already fed and would ruin my own mother's hard work by not clearing his plate as her bountiful feast deserved. As the courses neared dessert we knew we were losing him. As Santa Clause approached he retreated into himself. That must be why my mother was the one dragging pillowcases to the bottom of our beds in the middle of the night.

I can see my mum looking at his mum and my Nana throwing daggers at my father's father urging him to pull his son in line. By the time we cleared the dishes, he would be in bed. Exhausted from eating two Christmas dinners, from drinking enough to entertain two families, from the pretence, no doubt.

Of course, we didn't know this at the time. Not until later. Not until much later did we realize where our new toys would disappear to in the days and weeks that followed Christmas. Why my mother would dread him returning late and had to stifle her anger that he had cajoled us into believing he was the ultimate romantic; that he had been out for hours finding the perfect gift for his beautiful wife. Instead of eating with his other family. His secret family.

One moment in Grand Central this week, 3000 miles from where I grew up and at least 20 years from those special evenings and I can still smell the Christmas tree in the room, can still see the scrunched up wrappers on the dinner table from the After Eight mints we ploughed through. I see my grandfather reaching down to pick up his paper crown and my Nana's arthritic fingers fiddling with her charm bracelet. I see my beautiful mother in my memories but I always see her from behind. She is always at the sink in my mind, or at the window arranging flowers.

Christmas Eve always packs a punch in my heart because of these memories. They are not bad. I only have to remember setting the dinner table to Wham's Last Christmas and see my sister on the phone to her boyfriend, so irritated that I won't leave the room and give her some privacy and I smile. It just makes me all the more aware of our own little family unit and the importance of making our own little traditions and the memories that we will create. No pressure, huh?

Funny thing is - I already bought Tom cologne for Christmas from Olive. I'll have to remind him that with great smell comes great responsibility. Or something like that...

The Best Things In Life Are Not Free

Tummies! Tummies! Tummies! If they are not growing, they are popping. It's baby fever, baby, and I'm a little worried it's contagious.

Deep breath.

No, No, No - I'm (emphatically) not preggo. Dear lord, no!! I'm hemorrhaging as I type. But, for the first time today when one friend reminded me of those first butterfly kicks and another of seeing her tummy pulse as a limb bulged...just for a moment, I was well, envious.

Gulp.

I'd heard that this happened. Mothers lose brain cells or have to give up precious archive memory space to make room for remembering all that other daily stuff. Diapers? Check. Cheese sticks? Yep. Garbage bags? Got 'em! Milk? Oh crap - back to the store. They forget the lack of sleep and the lack of sleep and the lack of sleep. Anyway, I'd heard that you start to romanticize pregnancy and then POP, before you know it you are pouring away half a bottle of white wine...well, most of it.

So, I'm on the subway and I catch myself thinking about it. And I think about it. And then I'm distracted by the thought of the boots that I tried on at lunch, that I really need, but I didn't buy them because we can't afford it. Back to thinking about babies - wait, what? I can't afford a pair of winter boots yet I am actually wondering about having a child? (for the record I do have a husband that this would be discussed with before I yank out my paragard).

Oh yeah, i'd forgotten - that having a baby thing is so expensive! Actually, it's not just when they are babies - it's never ending - I think I actually owe my mum money at the moment and I'm 31. So, if we're so in debt now, how can we logically afford number 2?

(insert stomp of foot here) BUT I WANT ONE...maybe.

Now I've heard what people say... 'it doesn't matter how much money you have, you just make it work' - but in that case, can I go back to Nine West tomorrow? I know you can't compare boots and babies. Boots are actually useful. Boots give something back. Yes, but babies give you love. Babies are for life, not just for Christmas. Yeah, yeah..so are dogs. And cats. And I can't afford one of those either.

The sad reality is, our generation is now set to work until we are 72. This giant national ponzi scheme called Social Security is going to cripple a country before long. If you thought Madoff was bad, wait till it's us.

And yet past generations had more than one or two children. Perhaps it was because they had the rest of the family around them for support. They would live in the same house they grew up in until they married? Family would help family and family businesses were literally that. I mean, I have heard my parents and grandparents talk about being poor and working their way up the ladder. Here's the difference, we not only have no money - we have negative money! We are the debt generation.

The generations above us may look at our generation as not having the same traditional family values. "Our priorities are mixed up". Fact is - we can't afford to. These days, it's more common that both parents have to go to work. College debt crucifies us before we get out of the gate. We have to go where the jobs are and often that is not where we grew up or near the retirement villages our parents have gone out to pasture in. Sadly, grandparents can't always save us a killing in childcare. We can't pay back into our own family because we are trying to survive ourselves.

I think that that is why our generation isn't the 2.4 children that our parents were. More and more parents are perhaps asking those same questions - can we afford another child? Especially when 80% of the week is spent away from them working to afford them and ourselves a better life.

Plus - if we are going to live until we are 92 (Lord willing) that's 20 years of retirement to have to save for. Oh God - I just threw up in my mouth a little.

Anyway, before I schedule a hysterectomy (think of the tummies, the tummies, the tummies) I just wondered if in any other part of your life, would you encourage getting something that you can't afford? Probably not.

Except for boots from Nine West.

(And probably a second child - who am I kidding?)

From Mewling and Puking...

As I jollied along to the subway this morning, I was nearly knocked off my feet by a young girl hurtling past me waving at the yellow school bus in the distance. I smiled to myself. I was as smug as Jeremy Beadle and was pounded with a large dose of nostalgia as I remembered my own self sprinting up the lane we lived at the bottom of (with a steep gradient, one might add) weighed down by my sports kit, school bag, all the while waving my hockey stick - desperately trying to catch the school bus. Ah, memories. And then the smile and smug faced atrocity was slapped in the face by Father Time - that was over 20 years ago. I'm sorry what did you say?


Just like that - the next 20 years flashed before my eyes. I actually thought I was about to drop dead and see the light. My time is up, I thought. I backed away from the edge of the subway platform for fear of being shoved on the tracks. I was sweating as I stepped on the train, all the while wondering if i would ever get off. Was this it? Was this what people experienced just before death? A flash of their lives before seeing the tunnel and a garden. Time was running out. As i started glancing around for suspicious folks with oversized backpacks, i was somewhat pleasantly distracted by a couple of people throwing down over the fact that one of their purses hit the other's back. Excuse me, said one. Shut the beep up, beepity beep beep, said the other. And so it went on.


Now, i was no longer convinced of immediate death, i had merely calmed to the neurosis of someone who became aware that time was running out. Wait, what? Time is what? Ok, so I am being ridiculous but being contained in that subway car all i could think was that time was moving faster and faster. And then I remembered hearing my mum say that when I was a kid. What was happening? Was this real? Had I officially gone mad? Was Paul Bettany actually my imaginary friend?


I rushed down to the gym on my lunch. I had an hour and just wanted to fit it in so I wouldn't have tobother lying to myself that i would actually get up the next morning and go before work. Anyway, I breezed in and...wait for it...no, literally I had to wait for it. Time was running out and I was bloody waitlisted for the class. I have an hour on lunch - I had no time for this. Anyway, 5 minutes later (tick tock) I got in and just wanted to switch off. I wanted to zone out, listen to some music and turn my legs quickly while composing long overdue emails to friends in my head that I could then mentally vomit and type up later. Nope, not the case, no thank you - I had some fresh faced pit bull instructor that must have been 10 years younger than me (See? I'm saying things that parents say. I'll be suggesting to today's children that they should listen to Jason Donovan as a young pop idol of our time - not Justin Bieber). Anyway, just as this little thing was yelling and blahing at the class - guilting me into pedaling so fast I thought I was going to fly into the sky with ET in my bike basket - she suddenly went from drill seargent to life coach.


"Nothing that you really want in life is without a struggle. Make it count"


Focus. Oh god - i just wanted to forget that my time on this planet was a never ending egg timer. Was today my day? I didn't know if to pee or cry - so I did a little of both.

Walking through Grand Central on my way home this evening, I walk past a newstand and a glossy magazine showed Michael Douglas' face - with headlines such as the final farewell, goodbye to Catherine. I'm saddened - I think of watching Basic Instinct on the school coach returning from a ski trip to Austria when i was in my early teens. Blushing in the dark. How many years back was that?
And now...right now, on the TV, I see Jennifer Grey on Dancing with the Stars and think of her dancing on a log with Patrick Swayze. (All the while wishing she had never knocked her nose into shape). How on earth is that 25 years ago?

Good Lord! If the next 20 years go that quick, I'll be having hot flashes and buying vaginal lubricant before I know it.


**Okay, okay...issue disclaimer here - I have no qualms about my age - i'm 31 years. I hope to grow very old. My shock was in the way it creeps up on you - suddenly you go from wearing knickers over your tights to hold them up to looking in the mirror to see if skinny jeans are appropriate on a post baby body. **

I digress.


It's just that...When i was 10 I wanted to be in Andra's Flitwick Drama Club, by 13 I had vowed to be captain of the netball club, by 17 I was determined to be head girl, my 20s in New York training to be an actress. Done, done, done. The next stuff just tumbled into place. Married, Pregnant, Happy? YES. Yep, Yesiree. But - wowzers - I hit that point? I'm at the family stage? You grow up just knowing those things will happen, right? You're never really expecting them. Holy catcrap - that means a second child, a mortgage, an SUV and school runs must be pretty close. Resistance is futile. In suburbia nobody can hear you scream. Breathe - you live in NY...for now. Yeah, but we all know that's not going to last...


Remember when Christmas took an age to come round? When Summer holidays were so long, you were almost bored? When your empty Forever Friends diary at the start of a calendar year had numbers on each page counting down until a you went on holiday with your best friend and her family to their caravan in East Anglia. The cover of which was graffitied with so many practice fake marital signatures that you had to white them out by May, when the next week long BF came along. Remember when playing Murder In the Dark with your cousins on Boxing Day was almost as exciting as watching Moonraker with the family on Christmas Day? Time dragged. Weekends were only fun if they were full. Good lord...that certainly changed.


Now...instead of lining up in the school yard, I stand in a crowded elevator making small talk if someone's phone rings with the same ring tone as your own. Weekly phrases include "Happy Hump Day" and TGIF. I don't buy sweaters if they are dry clean only. I wear practical shoes. I. Wear. Practical. shoes. God, I never thought I would say that.


Just as I am about to purchase a burial plot for me and Tom, I see a poster on the train for Florida. Ah, Florida. I am transported to a world of sun, sea, sand and old people. Old people. I'm not there yet. I am crinklier than I ought to be and as this thought crosses my mind, (leading me to hope that by the time I am older and wealthier and am ready for some lifting and tucking), I think of the movie, Cocoon. Now, this is my favorite movie of all time. Whereas Beaches eventually failed me as a surefire bawler, Cocoon never let me down. Here's why...I think...

So, I get that it wasnt a fly on the wall documentary, BUT...there is something interesting about watching these actors play characters that confront their mortality and old age when the actors themselves must have scarily similar thoughts about their own near future. Is that the point in all this mindless drivel I am spouting? - it's the pace? The pace of the actors/characters/having conversations. They don't speak slowly because they are old and struggle to put sentences together. They just listen. Old people listen - how's that for a sweeping statement?! Now, i like to think that I listen but when i think of conversations I even had today with people, it's so rare that you ever actually drop the ball when talking to someone. I'm agreeing with someone before they finish their thought or they are already sharing a similar experience before I get to my point. You'd think we were the ones on blood pressure and cholesterol tablets not knowing if this day is our last. Where am I going with this? Well, there were no roses smelled today. How about that?


So - obviously there is not some enlightening conclusion or moral to this tale. What the heck do I know? With age comes that sort of wisdom. I'm just saying that I can't beat time. The clock is running. That's that. I just don't have to always keep pace with it.


So, how do we sweeten that blow? Well, i've kind of always thought that our time here with the ones we love is the greatest gift we are given - the cruel irony being that we never know when our time is up. That thought could keep you up at night. I mean, I'm not sure I completely sucked the marrow from my grandparents. And that is not to say that I don't believe I will see them again - but is it their legacy - their time spent on Earth that can only surely not be considered futile if it is passed on? We are the granchildren of the dying generation of World War survivors - it's quite terrifying that those stories will no longer be told first hand, when we grew up able to share in a history class with living testimonies. How important is it that we continue to pass them on? To have the answers to our granchildren's questions? I should think incredibly important to them. It's not the facts that we can't get, it's the experience and that is something time gives us. If the currency is age, then sign me up. And perhaps that is what is important? Perhaps that is that actually how we beat time by living on through those those we love? Those we spend our time with? I hope so. Makes the clock a little friendlier.

Steve Guttenberg in denim short shorts. You're welcome.

Working Girl: For anyone who's ever won. For anyone who's ever lost. And for everyone who's still in there trying.

I'm back at work.

At lunch it dawned on me that I had not thought of my daughter for about 3 hours.

This afternoon I thought of her playing at the park and my nose ran.

I missed taking a nap at midday. Instead, I called a friend at the exact time I had promised I would.

Nobody scampered after me when I left the room. I peed alone.

I fed myself.

I felt fulfilled. I felt fragile. I felt relieved. I felt like a weirdo for smiling at every adult holding a child. I felt like shouting, "I have one too."

I am surrounded with women that commute with this conflict. That share the same anxieties, enjoy the same adult interaction, get a kick out of knowing something. Knowing something else. Working hard but with clear working hours.

Motherhood is an exempt position. It doesn't pay extra for overtime. The glorious second shift is where worry comes with the turf. No 401k, just TMJ. Lying awake wondering if your daughter's teeth are going to rot because you forgot to brush her teeth after her night milk is the motherhood version of carrying a blackberry at all times.

There's conflict.

Since we moved cross country and I had time between jobs I was able to spend the last 5 weeks with my daughter. It was an incredibly special time and I'm glad that in all the change, I was her constant. We became very close - you might call her clingy but I would counter that I needed her just as much. Yet there was conflict there too. I loved the time together but found the loss of independence and spontaneity hard.

See my last post. Feel me at the end of my tether. The grass isn't greener. It's equally green. Or brown or whatever it is that we are trying to get away from.

And so back to work.

But, it's harder this time. Somehow.

Yet I need this.

But, it's not without conflict.

So - to combat the disappointment of zero trashy reality television on a Wednesday night (seriously, why cram it all into Monday and Tuesday?) I hit the world wide web on the hunt for trashy celebrity musings and trip up on a blog. I shan't name the blog because I respect the difference in opinion and enjoyed the writing if not the content. This was a post on the role of the mother in a household. Anyhow, I love to read the comments after a blog post (bizarrely, I am actually interested in what people that I will never meet have to say) and as I scrolled down I read one that felt like being slapped in the face with a wet fish.

"Amen. The reason we have so many lost, dysfunctional, selfish, and, dare I say, even evil, people in the world today is the fact that they’re mothers effectively abandoned them to the child-care machine."

Ouch. I take comfort in her poor grammar and incorrect spelling.

Deep breath.

Perhaps if she just noted the conflict I would feel better...?

"Amen. The reason we have so many lost, dysfunctional, selfish, and, dare I say, even evil, people in the world today is the fact that they’re CONFLICTED mothers effectively abandoned them to the child-care machine."

Perhaps not.

Anyway, I'll go back to searching for childcare now - right after pulling a knife from my back. You see, I'm a monster ;)

The Wonder Years

It's hard this parenting lark. And I'm not sure I am any good at it.

My husband just came home from work. I was feeding our daughter and as she threw her spoon full of food over me, I exclaimed her name, Olivia. It's always serious when it's her full name. Perhaps a little too loudly, perhaps a little too brash. I don't remember. I do remember my husband's shocked face and his concern as he came and lifted her from my lap.

Am I a monster?

Perhaps.

How do you explain that this was the umpteenth time she had done this today and i was at the end of my tether? That i had a second degree burn from a pan that i lifted off the stove earlier today and all day long it had rained so i couldn't take her outside even if i wanted to.

How do you explain that I just wanted my mum today so I could just cry over my stupid burnt finger? That I didn't have it in me to entertain my daughter.

You don't explain. You just stand up and walk away and feel like a monster.

Actually, more of a monster.

Since returning to New York, i have been a "play all day in the park mom" with Olive. I've been on both sides of this in the past 18 months and a return to work will be inevitable in the very near future. Being a "you must nap between 12-2 mom" is the most taxing job in the world. Yet, I have to work. Financially we have no choice.

But isn't that actually a wonderful cop out when really, I've discovered these past two weeks, (deep breath) that I actually don't enjoy it. At least, I don't think I do.

There, i said it.

It feels like a club that I have no idea how to get into and i don't really want to anyway. I can't explain it. You are left utterly drained, exhausted, flat out crazed and yet, there's an entire part of me that is left brimming with stuff that needs to get out. My mind whirrs. It is constantly singing a song that is designed to educate toddlers. I couldn't sleep for the sound of Hey Diddle Diddle pounding my brain the other night. And, guess what? I have a favorite cartoon. Not since the age of 8 have I actually contemplated which animated character is my favorite. Yes, I have formed opinions on these things. Even worse, my favorite is not Olive's favorite. In fact, one of her favorites is an irritating animal bouncing around discussing nature. I turn this one off if she hasn't already seen it start.

You see, I'm a monster.

I think i am more fulfilled/balanced/ less unhinged (!) when i go to work. I think.

Ok, so how can I reconcile loving my daughter more than anything in the world and not wanting to spend all day, every day with her? Yes, I have no choice because of finances and the need for insurance for her but if i did have a choice?

IF i had a choice, what would i choose? I honestly don't know, but my head tells me that it would be going into work. My heart wilts. How can this be a legitimate question from a mother?

I'm a monster.

Is there something wrong with me? Is there a gene missing? I didn't enjoy pregnancy. I suffered with post partum depression and now this? Am i a man trapped in a woman's body? Am i one of those people that shouldn't have had children?

But I love her. I know her better than anyone. I fantasise about throwing myself in front of cars, bullets, knives - I'm back in Brooklyn now ;). I would let someone burn every finger I have slowly just to save one head on her hair from being touched. I nearly kicked a kid in the face yesterday when he tried to push Olive and he hit another little girl. You see, I'm a child abuser - i wanted to kick another child in the head. And really hard, too.

Yet, would i willingly pay someone else or a daycare facility to look after her during the day so i can go to work? You know, work, that thing that you moan about everyday and then dread on Sunday night. Makes it worse, doesn't it. I see the nannies at the playground and immediately pass judgment. I imagine wealthy parents that have little time for their children. Ouch.

I pushed Olive in a swing yesterday next to another lady pushing her daughter. She also had a 2 month old strapped to the front of her. We did the usual chat and I was so desperate to find an ally or someone to talk to that when she told me that she was returning to work the following week, I asked her if she was excited? The pause was painful enough for me to realize that she likely thought she was being attacked. I quickly explained that i was likely returning to work and was looking forward to that adult interaction. She agreed. And then it was like we were in a secret club. We weren't giddy about our lack of enthusiasm for being at home with our little ones, nor were we melancholy that we felt this way. We were just honest. It's hard being apart from our children but what we get from going to a 'formal' job (I'm careful about wording because there is nothing stay at home about a stay at home mum) is food for our soul.

We wouldn't question the fathers on this. So, do i have a gene missing? Do other women feel this way? How can we claim to love our children more than anything and yet not want more than anything to be there all the time. Olive bumped her head today and as i snuggled her I took back every thought of wanting to leave her in the arms of someone else. And when she woke up and asked for a hug, my heart melted. I can't describe the pain of this conflict. Yet, it's a moot point. I HAVE to work. But, what if i didn't, a little voice asks?

I know this is a divisive issue. I offer myself up as sacrifice. I know people who will read this and take comfort in pulling me down to their spouses. Why bother having children if you don't want to look after them? If that helps them sleep better and not question their choices, then what do i care? I also suspect that there maybe more of us that feel this way. By that I mean conflicted. Torn. Confused. There's nothing easy about thinking these thoughts. I'm just choosing to share them.

Does this make me less maternal? Should women like me not be allowed to have more children? Well, i'm ridiculously maternal. My breasts just about leak everytime I see a newborn. And as for more? God willing, yes, please.

Do I secretly wonder if my husband is disappointed that I don't seem content and fulfilled when he comes in from work? Actually, I don't. I flat out asked him and he flat out told me that he knew who he married and he loves me more now that ever before. I mean, it's not as if i don't get giddy when i show him videos of her playing at the park at the end of the day. You see, i enjoy it...but...but...that's it. There is a but.

I'm lucky. My husband knows me. But his face this evening? Was it concern for me or for my daughter? I'll know soon enough - the end of day chats in bed will tell me and either way i know that he will love and support me. Yet when we roll back over to our sides of the bed, I will lie awake and wonder.

Am I a monster?

Forgive Me Olive For I Have Binned...

Dear Olive,

I want you to know that I am sitting here selling your toys. Your ExerSaucer (you loved that - do I have a picture of you playing in it?) your high chair, your train (you just started moving backwards), your busy ball popper...and it is much harder than I ever thought these things can be.

It's not every day you move 3500 miles cross country. Ok...so we have done it twice in one year - well, why not, eh? Back to your Manhattan roots. It's all a big adventure and although financial necessity has forced us on this road, I like to think that we are thrifty (Portland) trailblazers moving the wrong way on the Oregon Trail. (Thank you, thank you...i'll be here some of this week).

So, we are selling everything and while my life is now in one smushed suitcase (no, really) - getting rid of your stuff seems, well, wrong. Now, this is not 'willy nilly' trashing. I'm storing anything that holds strong memories of you. Yesterday that was everything - this morning I was down to 4 boxes, well, plastic tubs, large plastic tubs. I can't help it. I started purging with anything blue, then yellow and was going to get to purple but thought better of it. However, as I just shed a tear over donating your first pair of converse - I realised how many items from my childhood I still have. Um, that would be none. I think my mum still has my baby teeth. Does that count? I'm sorry, darling, everything must go...except the sleep suit you came home from the hospital in. That and your blankets and the first hat your daddy bought you.

Easy? No. Emotional. Yes, yes, yes. Yet, as the last of the Craigslist buzzards arrive to take the couch, I am strangely liberated. Your fascination with Tupperware and a wooden spoon has me a changed woman.

Anyway, as you read this in 20 odd years time and you ask about your favorite toys and games, please know that I am capturing this memory and storing it here. Nothing you can touch, but something I hope you feel.

I'm going now - there's someone at the door coming to view your Boppy and Peanut Sling (who does that?)

Love, Mum

P.s. You have had an awful lot of fun bouncing on the air mattress these past two weeks.

Sisters Are Doing It For...Themselves

It’s no surprise that when a woman becomes a mother she changes. Your body changes, your attitude changes, your pee schedule certainly changes but perhaps most interesting of all is how you suddenly develop super powers. You become adept at identifying the smell of your own child's poop in a crowded room, you wake in the night anticipating your imminent baby's cry and in defecting to large knickers over the floss string thongs, well, then super hero status is of no question. Yet perhaps her most honed talent, the one that sets her apart, is her newfound skill of stabbing other women in the back.

I had a hunch when I entered the minefield of motherhood that suddenly the idea of sisterhood was lost, trampled somewhere between conception and the announcement of impending baby. It became stomped on and replaced with women feeling forced to defend their lifestyles and actions. It typically starts with comments on your bump. Wow - you are huge!! How pregnant are you? They must have your date wrong! Or, you are tiny - Are you not eating? Why can't we just tell a pregnant lady - she looks perfect - just beautiful? A flood of what I thought was well meant advice would infiltrate the forty weeks - on best vitamins, best classes, natural childbirth, Lamaze or Bradley, midwife or doula, induce with pitocin or wait and do it 'naturally' with sex and bouncing balls and curry can be overwhelming. The advice comes flooding in - emails, voicemails, text messages and Facebook posts from people you haven't spoken to since you were 5 offering "Try having sex. It worked for me." Thank you, oh perfect stranger.

Then after you give birth comes the real fun - the piece de resistance - they just come out of nowhere - literally clawing out of the woodwork. Before they are five feet into the door and handing you a casserole dish comes the question - "So...are you breast or bottle feeding?" The disappointment shown with a head tilt and scrunched face when you say formula is paralyzing. You'd think they had just started with a urinary tract infection or something and before you can even explain why, (which you never need to do) they have moved on to telling you that it will be better 'next time.' Next time? What? My stitches are still healing and my hemorrhoids are still hanging out. Two words that I wished had used (and please excuse my vehemence) - Screw You! (And my anger is directed at one woman who made a snide comment in a park that will forever hurt). Shame on any woman to put pressure on another - particularly a new mum. I spent months hiding away from these breastfeeding nazis for fear of being confronted or shunned in public about my nursing failure. I had tried, dear God I had tried, and had more milk in me than a cow at market but it didn't work out and I will not now, not ever bother to defend myself again as I spent doing months after. It is no surprise that this perceived failure led me to fall down the rabbit hole into post partum depression.

And then for me the most recent line that I have noticed drawn in the sand by women 'Stay at home mums' vs. 'working mums'. Instead of supporting one another’s choices - because that is what feminism gave us - the choice - we instead make slight comments, questioning remarks. So, which bee hid in my bonnet today? Sadly, it's my own fault - my guilty pleasure is an online tabloid that spouts celebrity gossip. However, today my quick fix was not nearly juicy enough to avert my eyes from the juvenile journalism that makes up this crappy newspaper. Lesson learnt! There lay an article celebrating the 'Return to Housewifery' and after torturing myself through the whole thing I was left feeling inadequate and attacked. I shook myself out of the stupor realizing I had been subjected to something on the reading level of an 8 year old. Nevertheless, in an effort to perhaps make you laugh or cry or both... I thought I would share some with you some of this stellar commentary... Brace yourself.

Kate, who is due to give birth to her second child in six weeks, adds: 'The idea of leaving him with someone far less qualified than me while I go out to work doesn't make any sense. 'My education wasn't for nothing. I use what I learnt to make learning fun for him. We do so much together - swimming, football , tennis, playgroups, music groups and pre-school clubs. 'I love it at night, when we snuggle up and read books together. Paul agrees that I've made the right choice for all of us. 'We don't have many meals out or designer clothes, but none of that is important to me. We live in a two-bedroom cottage, and we would love a bigger house, but we'll have to wait." How wonderful! How delightful. Gosh, what a selfless woman you are. And to survive in a two bedroom cottage wearing non designer clothes?- Goodness me, what a sacrifice!

Another interviewee, Poppy Pickles, simply became a Saint in my eyes with this glorious assumption... 'Children have really lost out by being parceled up into day care. Surveys show that young children thrive through getting one-to-one care from a loving adult. Mums are best placed to do that.' English graduate Poppy Pickles is another highly- educated young mother who is adamant that she doesn't want anyone else looking after her children Daniel, five, and Rosanna, three. She says: 'I worked hard at school and I enjoyed university but I never saw myself as having a high-flying-career, leaving my children to be looked after by someone else. 'The best person to look after my children is me. They are both very secure, very loved children, and they take me entirely for granted - which is what I want. 'They know Mummy is always here, and always at home for them.'

Wow Poppy Pickles, (now there's a good working class name) who we later discover used to work at Sothebys - thanks for making us other mothers whose children have to go to day care feel really good about our 'choice'. Incidentally, those surveys that showed that "children thrive getting one-to-one care from a loving adult" - are they the same surveys that suggested that only children delivered naturally, exclusively breastfed and fed entirely organic produce would emerge as scholars and global leaders? Thought so.

Poppy who obviously feels she has a voice for the unheard generation adds: 'I don't feel as if feminism has passed me by - surely it is every woman's right to choose. I choose to be at home. (Absolutely right, Poppy, we do have a choice- now leave it at that) - "I want to see my children's first steps, hear their first words, and be there to take them to school and pick them up. Those tiny moments in the day are so valuable to children, and you can never get them back."

Oops, nope, instead of balancing your argument or throwing in a "but that's just my choice" you just had to throw a knife in the heart or back of every mother who doesn't follow your example or hasn't a choice in this. The article continued to voice the opinions of several other women - although none with such a perfect name. For me - it served only to reaffirm the thinking that when women become mothers they feel so under scrutiny and fearful of making a 'wrong' decision that they go on the attack to defend whatever 'choices' they make. Sadly, it ends up being something like - It's your choice - we all have a choice - except you are making the wrong choice. Even more frustrating is that it is just the women doing this to each other! We wonder why men don't struggle with the worry that their children will transfer the love that they have for them onto someone else during daycare. No - we claim that 'society puts such pressure on us' - but who in society? This is solely put on mothers shoulders...by other mothers.

If we choose to go work, the argument is that we are 'failing' our family. We might be championing ourselves or affording our family a better life but we can never quite escape the mud that is thrown our way by the homemakers, the domestic goddesses, the SAHM's that we are somehow denying our children and ourselves the most primal instinct. If we stay at home we are so fearful of appearing dumb or without drive by the 'career women' that we fight back claiming that our children will know their mother and as a mother we will never miss a thing. Why on earth are we so intent to pull each other down?

And then there are the mums that don't have a choice? That have to work for their families to survive. Whose belts are already tightened with both of them working and yes, they have crunched the numbers to know that 'one of us not working isn't a better financial choice than having a child in child care'.

One woman in the article actually addressed this - "it all comes down to having the right priorities. It is entirely possible to survive on one income - but you have to be prepared to live a far simpler life. 'We have very little money,' she says. We live on my husband's salary in a two-up, two-down, terraced house and there is nothing left over for any extras. None of us has had new clothes for ages. We drive one car, a Ford Focus, and we allow ourselves one meal out a month.'

adly, giving up new clothes or a trip to The Cheesecake Factory is often not enough and please don't suggest that our priorities are not in order. Food on the table and a roof over heads will always trump staying home, and that's not choice but necessity talking. However, the funny thing is - for the women that have no choice - they are perhaps least attacked. They are not a threat to their 'mother' friends and make no comment on their peers' choices. In fact, perhaps given that they have fewer friends to bemoan or compare themselves to at the end of the day they probably have more time spent focused on their children. Ah, it's a cruel irony.

We women fought so hard to have a choice and now we have to question each other by suggesting what exactly the right choice is. Of course I have no answer and even if i thought I did i wouldn't offer it to anyone else. That's because in all honestly I don't believe there is any one right choice. Not for the children. Not for the parents. Not for any of us. There is only what works for each of us.

So women, (and if I was Oprah I'd have you sign a petition) how about we try and do the following:

1) When a pregnant friend tells you that she plans to give birth naturally no matter what your thoughts - you respond positively, ignoring every urge to tell a horror story, or even worse throw a flippant remark like, "That's what we all say." Wacka wacka...

2) When you visit your friend that has just given birth, you do not need to ask her if she is nursing. If you stay more than an hour you will know and if you can't stay that long you probably don't need to know. If she is bottle feeding - NEVER tell her that it might be better next time. It might be but it might not and either way her nipples are never your concern.

3) When a new mother tells you that she is either going back to work or staying at home, you just say "good for you". That's it. If it's her choice it will make her make her feel good and if it is not her choice it will make her feel less anxious.

I've come to the conclusion that when offering unsolicited advice to a woman on motherhood, less truly is more. It's funny but the word sisterhood sounds so inclusive, yet motherhood can often feel terribly lonely. It shouldn't.

To view the article in full: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1294231/How-latest-generation-graduates-choosing-time-motherhood-high-flying-careers.html

When Love and Hate Collide

This weekend was another example of how far a mother's love will take her. On Saturday I went for a hike. To be fair it was just a walk in nature - but I gather that that is described as a hike. I was excited to view the waterfall I had been promised and it did not disappoint but then we were to continue on a trail. Just typing it makes me weak. I can't stand walking somewhere if I don't know the route. I dislike not knowing the 'turn around' spot. It evokes a sort of fear in me. Before I go on, it is perhaps important to know that I grew up on a farm and spent weekends gathering eggs from the hen house, mucking out the goose hut and throwing corn at ducks. I truly tried to embrace it and would grab my grandfather's walking stick and pretend to be a member of the royal family viewing the gardens of Balmoral Castle. I would walk into the woods, taking newspapers to sit on and would read a chapter of my book before heading home. I gave it a fair trial. Yet sadly, after drama club ended on a Saturday morning I would dread the rest of the weekend without the promise of a sleepover or a birthday party to escape to.

I believe this is why Summer has always been my least favorite season. It undoubtedly places the expectation that one should be outdoors. Rubbish. I have red hair and fair skin for one reason and one reason only. To be excused from direct sunlight and fresh air.

I digress.

Before we started our nature trail, I needed the toilet. In an effort to pep up my spirits, I had drunk the face off an iced coffee and now because I couldn't gauge the length of this 'hike' I had to do a security pee. I swung open the door to a vile stench. I'm always terrified that a snake will just pop up me when I pee, so I habitually check every toilet I use. Every toilet. This is an irrational fear that has no origin.

However, instead of a beast, I found an abyss of poop. I gagged and held on to the rail whilst hovering above death. My security pee turned out to be the longest pee I had ever done in my entire life. Legs shaking, I ripped a couple of pieces of the roll holder that would not roll. Did a quick wipe and threw it. Whipped up my shorts and scarpered. As I pulled the door I noticed that the toilet paper had missed the gateway to hell but I couldn't go back. I feel bad about that. I do.

So, as we continued past the waterfall and my daughter joyfully walked toward bushes and leaves and other green things, my eyes were peeled for dirty, rotten snakes. I knew I shouldn't look but I did. No sooner had the sight of twigs made me twitchy I felt the most irritating touch known to man. That of a mosquito. I am subsequently aware that I should have doused in "Off" or something but I hadn't expected a tropical pest to be in the high desert of Central Oregon. I thought they lived in swamps and poo and Africa. I was mistaken.

It was over for me. I was bitten. Now, it would be of interest for you to understand that all this was internal conflict. I was trying desperately hard to be a 'good sport'. It was sunny and there was a waterfall. My sister and brother in law seemed enthused. Tom loves that stuff and dear Lord, Olive was properly giddy and waving at trees and dogs and every child that crossed our path...all of whom were headed in the other direction.

So, I am just smiling and trying to pretend that this is wonderful, but when the second mosquito bit my neck I just blew. Just as my panic escalated so did the intensity of the attack. They were literally everywhere and not even hiding. Blatant feasting on human flesh. I think that this is what you might call 'beyond a joke'.

In my defence I offer a visit to Spain when I was about 8 years old. It was a hot sticky night on the Iberian coast and I awoke to my face itching like I'd had an allergic reaction to an epidural. I had been bitten about seven times on my face and had mumps like lumps all over. I tried to rub them with my wrist rather than scratch them but fearing a further attack I pulled the covers up over my head. I was sharing a bed with my sister at the time and somehow the West Nile virus had failed to pierce her olive skin and infiltrate her blood. In true sibling irritant fashion, she pulled the covers down, I pulled them up, she pulled them down. For the record, this wasn't nearly as much fun as when we threw our knickers at the ceiling fan and watched them whizz round before flying off around the wall. No - this was serious. This was literally a matter of life and death. Sadly, being four years younger and afflicted with the pain of a face blowing up like the Elephant Man, I never stood a chance. In my delirium at being bitten alive I climbed into a suitcase and pulled the flimsy lid on top of me in the hopes of shelter. I lasted about a minute before my father came in and told me to get back into bed. At that point in my life, had he told me to drink the Spanish tap water I would have obeyed.

Seeing my daughter on that nature trail brought it all back. She was too young to run for shelter and there was no haven in this mess of dirt and shrubbery. When I saw one land on the back of her neck, I exploded. I grabbed her and ran. I must have looked like a loon but I didn't care. I wrapped her tight into me and covered any bare skin with my hands. This was survival of the fittest. I was wearing short denim shorts and a pair of white converse and knew this slippery trail laden with tree roots was designed to make me stumble. Yet it was no match for me. Until Olive started to cry that is. Now, this is not the point where I tell you that I relented and went back for more for the love of my child. I merely embraced my sprint as a game and started whooping and woohing my way downhill. Before long she was loving the escape and oohing and giggling her way to safety.

Now I'll admit, I did feel a bit like an idiot. As my other family members sauntered back prematurely, I did wish to have been more 'baby in a sling' relaxed. I just don't like surprises and nature is just bursting to show you new things unexpectedly.

There is no moral to this nor change in store for me. No feel good ending to this tale. In fact, to further fuel my fire, my initial bug bite became so swollen that I have decided that a spider bit me when I was in poop grotto. I believe he saw his opportunity while I was holding onto the railing in avoidance of the rim of danger.

To conclude, I stand by protecting my daughter from such misery. As the great Meatloaf once sang, I would do anything for love...but I won't do that.

All I am is just a...

I was asked last week, "so are you just a mum these days"? Somewhat dumbstruck I fumbled to give a response. I don't remember what i said except that it was far too long and far too nice. I have since spent hours trying to conjure up a response that was neither insulted nor defensive.

What I wished i could have done is grabbed a microphone, nodded to a pianist and sang the following. I would have sang loud and proud and hoped that every word sprang saliva into her pity ridden eyes.

Role Over

Dear God, please forgive me for directly quoting from People magazine. Amen.


"Every single day I second guess myself as a mother...it's frustrating because I feel like i'm failing on both ends". Naomi Watts - on juggling a movie career and motherhood.


Not exactly Gandhi - however, as I was perusing the pages of People magazine in the grocery store last week, i read this quote and my nose began to run as i struggled not to cry. I know, how embarrassing - i'll be quoting Kate Gosselin next. However, somewhere in me it hit a nerve. She had articulated in two lines what i had been feeling for months.

Later that week my meltdown escalated into a full on dissolution of mind, body and soul. No nose sniffing could stop these mammoth tears of literally monsooning my face.

I came home late from work. I had a warm dinner waiting, my house was clean and my laundry folded. Olive was bathed and in bed. I should have been kicking my heels off and singing (quietly) some Lionel Richie. Instead i found myself literally destroyed.

I tried to reason with myself to understand why I was lying on the bathroom floor bawling my eyes out and gasping for air. I was one phonecall away from being sectioned when i picked myself up and looked in the mirror knowing the shock of seeing a blotchy, freckled panda would scare me into silence. The tears stopped and were quickly replaced with rage. At the world. At everything. But mostly at myself. I was furious with myself and i couldn't figure out why. I just sat on my bed for what seemed like an eternity revisiting the past 30 years - random memories flooded my brain, of running to catch my school bus, a dance teacher straightening my arms, of showering in flipflops, of olive, of tom, of new york. Of new york. I knew I had no reason to be sad and every reason to be thankful but in that moment - that one moment - I wanted to scream to the world - my life is a compromise. There, I said it.

I'm sweating as i type.

In my tiny mind all I could see was that I'm not around to look after my daughter during the day, I hadn't cooked my family dinner, I had left my house a mess and I had left my laundry in the drier. I can't even call my day job a success because it used to be my career that defined me and now it hurts to even think of that. I felt utterly redundant as a mother and a wife. I had never cared about this before. At least I never thought that I cared. But in that moment I did. I do. It wasn't about wanting to slave behind an oven, nor sing to the sound of my vaccuum or even play with tea sets and teddies all day. Now, these duties are not expected of me - i was met with no disappointment. In fact, nobody could understand what was up with me. It's just that those roles have become a part of me and much of being a mother and a wife seems to come out of being needed. Subsequently, in that moment, I felt unnecessary. And guess what? It's downright painful to fail at something you became by default.

Of course we all give up things when we become parents. Sleep, impromptu showers, dreams. Rarely begrudgingly. It's all worth it when you see the love you have shining back at you. It's tough when you miss that. If only for a day.
The reality is that something has to give. If you are on the fast track in your career then maybe the payoff is affording your family a better life. If you are a stay at home mum then you do perhaps lust for your career but rest easy in knowing that you can give 100% to your child. For me, I fall somewhere inbetween and so I have become precious over what is under my jurisdiction and the desire to do it well.

And yes, I know, I do, that I am a lucky lady if my biggest problem is coming home to a clean house, a warm dinner, folded towels and a loving family. However, this is a confessional (I know, - get a journal) but I have to believe that there are other people that feel this way. And so I go back to quoting a movie star (was she the one in King Kong?) and agree that sometimes I feel like I am failing on both ends.

The tears stopped. The day ended. My headache passed and after letting it all out I felt a bit daft but I refuse to dismiss that meltdown as anything less than real. That night I found myself consumed with the thought that I'm not the mother that I thought I would be. Over and over I ran this through my head. From vowing never to use pacifiers, to insisting that my child will cry it out, and of course the cardinal sin - never having a child sleep in bed with me. There I was, lying in bed, wide awake at 3am with Olive uncomfortably nestled in my armpit and I couldn't understand where I had gone wrong.


The following day I blurted this out to a friend over a toilet stall. "I'm not the mother I thought I'd be."
As if to add insult to injury i had to repeat myself because of an unexpected flush from another stall. - Yet over the rustle of toilet paper my fears were allayed. "None of us are. You're the mother you need to be."


That works. I'll take that. Right now that's enough.