Love by a thousand cuts - parenting teens

I haven't written on this blog in many years. I don't know if anyone will see this but I felt the need to write it and needed an outlet for it. 

If you see it, thank you for taking the time to read it. xx

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‘Want to go out for lunch?’ I asked my thirteen year old son, who was once again glued to the xbox. I noticed that he still hadn’t showered or washed his hair, despite me asking him repeatedly to do so for days.

Absorbed by what was happening on the screen, it took him a while to realise that I had even spoken. ‘Wha?’ he grunted without looking at me, when he realised I was there and waiting for an answer.

‘I said, would you like to go out for lunch? Your brother is out. Dad’s away. It’s just us and I could do with a break.’

‘Well if it’s out, yeah,’ as he continued to kill aliens on a screen.

‘So….do you want to get out of your pyjamas and come then,’ I said trying to quell my impatience.

‘Yeah. In a bit.’

I turned and left, breathing deeply. It’s always the same. I approach my teenager with a friendly suggestion and am greeted with indifference and disdain. I know that that’s what teens do. But it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.

Forty minutes later, after an argument about when exactly he was going to shower, we finally managed to leave the house. I suggested various lunch places. He wouldn’t entertain any of them. It was his choice otherwise he wasn’t interested. It was then that I should have turned around and suggested he have the 22p pot noodle that I’d bought from Aldi instead.

But I wanted to have this lunch with him. Despite being in the same house for most of the eight weeks of summer holidays, I had barely spent any time with him. Not for lack of trying on my part, but apparently hanging out with your mother is lame. And boring.

Over the course of the holidays I’d suggested going wild camping, indoor sky diving, doing an inflatable obstacle course on water, a soapbox rally, a trip to Portugal, the skate park, a puzzle room where you have to solve riddles to get out. They were all shot down in flames or done begrudgingly. Unless he had friends to do any of these things with, he wasn’t interested. And if I suggested we invite friends, he’d shrug or complain about which friends.

Even every day things - like having a family meal - is apparently the worst thing imaginable. He skulks over his food, his mouth millimetres from the plate, as though the effort of lifting a fork from plate to mouth is a taxing ordeal. If we attempt to engage in conversation, he scowls, grunts or snarls. It takes him about two minutes to hoover down a plate of food, at which point he will push the table away from him and he’ll slope off, back down to his lair. The years of instructing him to wait until everyone has finished eating, to ask permission to leave the table, to thank his mother for his meal seem to have vanished along with his ability to smile.

However, today I felt optimistic. We could have a meal out at the place he chose. Surely it would be good. Just the two of us. A chance to connect or catch up or simply have a laugh together.

Wrong.

I attempted to – you know – talk. About nothing really. Just a vain attempt to have a conversation.

‘Have your friends done anything interesting over the holidays?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Are you looking forward to catching up with all of them next week at school?’

Shrug.

‘Have you given any thought to what activities you might like to do this term?’

‘No.’

Silence. I gave him the opportunity to say something. Crickets.

I then attempted to inject some enthusiasm into the conversation by talking about some of the new sports activities that may be fun and asking him if any appeal.

‘I don’t know.’

I don’t know.  This is the answer I get to most things. On the strained conversation went. Followed by long silences during which I hoped he might spark up some chat. Nothing.

Trying a new tack, I decided to talk a bit about what I’d been up to.

Bored shrug.

Eventually, I couldn’t handle it anymore.

‘Could you just say something? I’m trying to make conversation but it takes two people to chat.’

‘Well what do you want me to say?’ he snarled.

‘Anything. Tell me about your day,’ I said.

‘I’ve not done anything so what am I meant to say.’

And that right there is the nub of it. He hasn’t done anything the entire holiday other than play on the xbox or been on the few sports camps I’ve arranged for him or hung out with friends at the shops.  He has nothing to say because he won’t try anything or do anything or engage with anyone.

‘Are you alright? Is anything the matter? Because I’m worried about you,’ I said gently. It has crossed my mind that his severe apathy may in fact be depression.

‘Argh. Why does something have to be wrong? Why can’t you just be normal like other parents? Why do you always have to get on my case?’

‘I’m simply trying to talk to you. You never seem to want to talk to anyone and I am worried that maybe something is bothering you. I just want you to know that I am here should you need to talk about anything,’ I said.

‘Nothing is bothering me except you. I have conversations with other people, just not you. INTERESTING people, people I want to talk to,’ he said with a withering glare.

And there it was. Just one of a million little cuts that sever the ties that bind child to mother. What no-one tells you is that each little cut makes your heart feel like it has been stabbed.

I know that this is what happens. It has to happen. Children need to place distance between themselves and their parents. I had expected it to hurt, I just hadn’t expected it to be so hurtful.

I wanted to cry. I looked down at the plate of food I didn’t really feel like eating but had agreed to because it was what he’d chosen, as that’s what parents do. They put their children first. They try to show them they love them in a million subtle ways, which children never notice, but parents keep doing because they can’t help themselves. They still love their children, even if their children give every signal that they in no way feel the same.

He continued his attack.

‘You don’t know anything about me or my life!’ he spat.

‘I know I don’t. That’s why I ask you about it. That’s why I try to have conversations with you. Every. Single. Day. But you never tell me anything.’

Deflecting that, he continued:

‘Other parents are normal. Why can’t you just be normal?’

I was just pleased that he was actually speaking, so asked him in what ways he wanted me to be ‘more normal’.

‘Well other parents let their kids have screens in their bedrooms. And other parents don’t ask whether there is swearing on a game. And other parents don’t check their children’s phones. And other parents don’t try to make their children do boring things like go for walks. And other parents do fun things.’

At this point I sighed.

‘And other parents don’t do that!’ he pointed at me.

I could have argued my case for each of these accusations. But there is little point. We’ve been over all of these about a million times before. I am a bad parent because I don’t give him complete freedom to do whatever he wants whenever he wants playing what he wants. I expect him to live by our pretty standard house rules and the deal for him having access to social media was that we could check up every now and then to ensure nothing untoward was going on.

It occurred to me that perhaps I should just give up. Let him do whatever he wants to do, watch what he likes including having screens in his room that he will watch until 3am and then not be able to function the next day. I should not raise the whole issue of personal hygiene or getting exercise or occasionally adding a piece of fruit or veg to his diet. I should let him have unfettered access to whatever social media he wants without any interference. I should stop trying to suggest he reads a book every now and then or remind him of his manners. I should give up asking him to do his few chores that he is required to do. I should absolutely just shut the door to his bedroom and let him live in filth. I should stop suggesting he gets involved in clubs or sports or activities or arrange to meet friends or take an interest in anything. I should let him put in zero effort in his school work. And in the name of all things holy, I should stop trying to engage in conversation.

After all, it’s his life. Me interfering is - I imagine - exceptionally boring and lame.

But that is the job of a parent. It’s a fine balancing act. Being the bad guy by forcing them to do things that are good for them. Or being the good guy and butting out. It’s about consistently giving out love even though your love is rejected multiple times a day.

We’re only at thirteen. The teens are stretching out ahead like a dark, gloomy tunnel. I fear my heart may break into a million pieces before they’re over.  But my job is to patch my heart and continue loving. And then do it all again and again, until one day he realises he loves me too.  

And even if he never does, I can know that I loved enough for both of us.

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Moving on - I have a new blog. Please read

Breaking News! I have a new blog.

To all the lovely people who stop by Home Office Mum - or HOM HOM HOM as it's latterly been known, please can I ask you to all redirect your RSS feeds, blog rolls and general visits to my new blog http://talkaboutyork.wordpress.com  as that is where my new blogging home will be.

Home Office Mum will probably always be my blogging name, but it's time for me to move on. My new blog - Talk About York - will track our imminent move to the North, life in a northern city, city living vs country living, reviews of places to go and things to do in York. I hope it will be a mix of my normal ramblings coupled with actual useful content for anyone wanting to visit the city.

Starting a new blog is hard and probably stupid as it means building followers from scratch but it was time. So please, please, please can you add my new blog to your blog rolls and come visit my new home on the web. Help me spread the word. I've even created a Facebook page for it (I know, get me) so you can like me on that too if you. I am still tinkering with and tweaking the new blog, so bare with me. But it's up and ready for readers.

Thanks to everyone who has followed HOM and posted comments over these last few years. You have been lovely.

And to my first ever little blog, thanks for all the evenings you kept me and a glass of wine company. You were a thing I could open my heart to. You didn't mind if I spoke nonsense. You didn't judge. You seemed perfectly content being neglected from time to time, always waiting for me when I was ready to return. You've been a friend I could turn to at times I felt alone. I'll come back and visit often. Because you hold so much of my history.

Write to remember

Something has happened to me over the last few days. I've wanted to write again. I went off blogging for a while. I'm not sure why. I just didn't feel like I had anything to say. Or rather I did, but I could compress it all into a Facebook status or Twitter update. I'm a sharer. I have thoughts and I share them. Not everyone is like this I've come to realise. I've also come to realise that just because I am, doesn't make it wrong. But I felt for a while that perhaps blogging was wrong. And it was time consuming. So I stopped.

Anyway I started writing this month. Nothing sexy. Just work stuff. But as I started to write, I felt the dust on the writing cogs start to waft up, spiderwebs softly easing away. 

I began to reread my blog. I realised how incredibly grateful I am that I have this amazingly thorough and emotional diary of such a specific time in my life. I began wishing, as I read it, that I had written down how I felt directly after the birth of my children, their baby years (which I cannot remember any of), pregnancy, life before parenthood (I recently found some old emails written from that time - how different and selfish it was), that period in my life before I met my husband when I was lost, the heartbreak of a first love break up, my first ever travels around the world with the wonder and awe that it brought on, the joy of freedom at leaving school and all the turmoil of teenage years and childhood. How insightful and useful it would be to read now what I was going through then. 

I then went to look at my sailing blog and discovered that it was gone. It was self-hosted rather than a free bloggger site and I'd stopped paying for hosting. I don't know if there's some way to get it back. But I felt heartbroken that it was gone. It captured all I felt at a very specific time of my life. And now it's lost to the ether, leaving me with what I think I felt, rather than what I actually felt.

I realised (belatedly) that I am going through a really big thing right now. We're moving. Again. I'm leaving behind all the friendships and networks that it's taken me six years to build up. I don't know if what we're doing is right but, us being us, we're doing it. I should be capturing how I feel, what I'm doing. My life right now is blog-fodder-tastic. And yet I've shied away from writing any of it. 

I don't even know if I will keep writing as voraciously as I did. But I do know that a blog is something worth cherishing. I want to find the time to write it, even if no-one in the world reads it. I say that, but it's someone else reading it that lead me to write this post. 

I received today an email from a lady who I don't know, but who read a blog post of mine from 2010. She took the time out of her day to email me to thank me for writing the post as it helped her. How awesome is that? She didn't need to do that. She could have read my blog, taking what she needed from it and gone on her way. But she didn't. She stopped to say thank you. And even though I don't know her, nor she me, I felt a connection with a complete stranger on the other side of the world. Perhaps I'm odd, but it's little things like that which fill me with an 'everything is all right with the world' feeling.

There was one other reason for writing this blog post. I have had a glass of wine (that's not the reason although may be the lubricating factor). I had the glass of wine in honour of a man I seldom think of because I never knew him. My grandfather. He would have been 100 years old today. Except he died when he was a lot younger than that. I want to say he was 43 but I'm probably wrong. He died when my father was a young boy. I've always thought about him as my father's father, my poor father who didn't have a father when he needed one. But I've rarely thought about him as my grandfather. Much less my children's great grandfather.  But today I want him remembered. Even if it's just on this tiny corner of the internet.  I want it noted and remembered in writing. Lest we forget. Here's to Arthur Charles Collier the 1st. 

And while I'm making toasts....here's to writing. 

  

A rolling stone gathers no moss

I can't promise I'm back in the blogosphere for long but I felt an update was long overdue. If you have followed my blog for some time, you will know that in Home Office Mum world, things seldom stay settled for long.

This time last year we were making a major decision about whether to move to Seattle. We decided against. We decided to bloom where we were planted and make the most of where we lived. So we did. We got stuck into all manner of local initiatives and events and good causes, from being cricket club treasurer to PTA fundraiser to allotment sub-committee member. Then I decided that I needed a new career. So I sold my PR business and went on a (brief) journey to decide what I wanted to do next.

And I chose a new career - buying a franchise covering the area in which we live. If anything was going to keep us rooted, that was. Right?

Then on Boxing Day, my husband and I went for a walk across the fields. We looked at the beautiful countryside and I commented that I absolutely loved it but it would never be home to me, as home is in South Africa. I asked my husband where home was for him. He's from Barnsley. Hardly the most appealing town in Britain. He was quick to reply that it wasn't Barnsley. But after a few more quiet strides over the bumpy tracks, he said: 'But Yorkshire is.'

We continued walking along mulling our own thoughts quietly in our heads.

A few days later we went for another walk. This time my husband announced that he'd been thinking about the idea of Yorkshire again and felt he'd actually really quite like to return there.

Seriously? Further North? Even colder? Not even by the sea? But when my husband gets a bee in his bonnet, he doesn't rest until the problem is sorted. By the second week of January we were visiting schools, strolling around suburbs and walking the city walls of York.

After one flying visit, we agreed, we shall follow in the footsteps of that Grand Old Duke and move to York. Within a month, our eldest son had written entrance exams for his selected school (and been accepted), our house put on the market and moving plans put in place. What I shall do workwise is still a bit of a quandary.

Come summer, we will be swapping the rural countryside of West Berkshire for bustling city living in York. At the time of making the decision it seemed like a good idea. It still does in theory.

But when you have a perfectly lovely life, walking away from it for something which is completely different is terrifying. I have to start from scratch making friends. I won't be able to walk out my door and be in beautiful countryside. My children won't be one of 40 kids in a school, they'll be one of 400. I'll have to start building business contacts from scratch. We'll live in a far smaller house, probably with no garden vs our lovely house we have now. I'll be living in the North where people say ey up and ta luv!

Yet we had a our reasons. We'd be closer to my husband's elderly mum. We get to live in a beautiful city, renowned for its friendly people, a trait many southerners seem to have lost. We can afford private schooling there and the school is great. It's two hours to London, two hours to Edinburgh, 45 minutes to the North Yorkshire Moors, 45 minutes to the sea.

Most importantly, we just couldn't see ourselves growing old where we live. I don't know why, but we've been restless since we got here. Maybe we will always be restless. Maybe we'll never put down roots - which flies in the face of my wanting a sense of belonging. But part of me loves that we have a new adventure, with new places to explore and new people to meet.

I imagine as this year rolls on and the decision becomes more real and we have to say farewell to friends and our home, rich with memories of our children turning from babies to boys, it's going to get tough. Possibly involving tears.

But life for us is not about sitting comfortably in a spectator seat watching as the view very gradually changes over time. It's about taking risks, making our own motion picture, so that by the time the end credits roll up, it's been some fascinating viewing.

Going quiet

I seem to have lost my blogging mojo. Again. I've also noticed that a number of the bloggers I follow have been posting less frequently. I've been reading fewer blogs. I've been getting fewer comments. And I've had less to say.

I've been in this place before. Ironically, almost as soon as I say that I'm taking a break from blogging, I get inspired to blog about something, which is why I'm not saying: 'Farewell forever'. I'm just saying: 'I'm off for a bit'. 

My new business is now getting up and running. You can watch this video to find out more about what I'm going to be doing. I did my first bit of outreach today to a potential (big) customer and got a really positive response - getting to meet them next week! That, together with all the pre-christmas fund-raising I've been doing for the school and local village hall etc etc etc (as blogged about here), is probably what has sapped my blogging energy. 

So I'm going to go quiet for a bit. In the immortal words of that 80s Glass Tiger classic 'Don't forget me when I'm gone...'

Black Tuesday

Pic from  TimesLive

In 2009 the Telegraph newspaper, using investigative journalism, uncovered a huge MP's expenses scandal. The results saw MPs resigning, being investigated, made to pay back money and in at least one case, imprisoned. 

Now let's imagine that instead of having the Freedom of Information Act which we have here in the UK, we have a brand new bill that has just been passed by South African MPs today - the The Protection of State Information Bill.  Under this bill, anyone possessing classified government documents can get up to 25 years in jail, with no defence of 'acting in the public interest'. 259 MPs voted in favour of the bill. Only 32 against.  As one commentator said:  'All those in favour of corruption:259. All those against:32'

Had we had this bill in the UK during the expenses scandal, the journalists uncovering the story would have been facing 25 year sentences instead of receiving journalism awards.

South Africa is the gateway to Africa, the country which, post apartheid, was meant to be a shining example to the rest of the continent on how to thrive. Yet with this single piece of legislation, the country is returning to the dark days of apartheid whereby it was illegal to speak out against the government. 

Wake up world. Wake up journalists. Take note. This is has severe implications for press freedom. Shouldn't more people outside of SA know about it?  As far as I can see, so far just the BBC have reported on this. 

Yes America might be anticipating Black Friday this week (the day after Thanksgiving when Americans begin their Christmas shopping in earnest). But personally, I think a few column inches could be given to South Africa's Black Tuesday instead.

PS - back to light-hearted flippancy shortly.

It's for charidee mate

It's that time of year. You know, when you spend a fortune on stuff for others. And no, I'm not talking about Christmas gifts for family and friends. I'm talking about cha-ri-dee mate (in the words of Smashy and Nicey).

Charity: (noun) The voluntary giving of help, typically money, to those in need.


Now, I'm not saying that any of the causes are not worthy. In fact I am a supporter of them all. But there comes a point where you think your pockets might just start presenting lint instead of pennies. 


Like this:


It started out slowly: about three weeks ago, we had to donate a pound so that the kids could go to school dressed as a hero. The pound went to Help for Heroes. 


A few days after that we had to empty our homes of old clothes to donate to bags2school.


Then of course it was poppy season so every time we went anywhere we donated again to collect an entire bunch of poppies because obviously I never remembered to wear the poppies I had and so always felt guilty about not having one on.


Then we needed to donate prizes for bingo and the Christmas Fair. In exchange the kids could go to school out of uniform. 


Then it was school bingo - spend your Friday night paying to win a prize which you have donated to the school. 


On Wednesday this week, I should have gone to a quiz night held by a local organisation to raise funds for a campaign against the installation of an incinerator. But I was away. But I'll be donating my time tonight to attend the committee meeting for this organisation, so that counts.


Similarly, on Friday we should be going to the quiz night at the local rugby club as they're trying to raise funds, but instead, we are going to a quiz evening on Saturday night to raise funds for our local village hall. That will cost us £20 for a babysitter, £10 in tickets and god knows what in alcohol.


This morning I drove in my pyjamas to the local shop to buy things for the Christmas Shoe Box appeal because having read the leaflet more closely, our second hand toys weren't going to cut it and they needed to be new. So I bought £14 worth of new tat toys, supplemented with newish looking old tat toys and had to buy gift wrap so that I could wrap the boxes, all done in a mad panic. 


This afternoon I have baked cupcakes for Children in Need activities at school tomorrow, printed off a bunch of pictures for a colouring competition and will be forking out another £1 per child to go to school out of uniform (again) and have to give them each 'some money (?)' to spend on the fundraising activities for Children in Need.


And then of course we have the school Christmas Fair. For this I have made 20 mini Christmas cakes (yet to be decorated), 10 jars of chutney, 10 bags of edible Christmas decorations (to be made still) and have bagged up heaps of our walnuts. All of the ingredients, jars and packaging has been paid for by me (Lakeland - I want a loyalty card). In addition, I will be  rummaging through the house for stuff to sell at the second hand stall, am calling a bunch of local companies to try rustle up some prizes for the raffle and will be spending the day of the fair setting up, manning stalls and spending money, buying back the stuff I donated no doubt.


Goodwill to all men and all that. But good grief it's expensive, not to mention exhausting. 


I fear I have donor fatigue. Come 1 December, I am going on strike. So is my wallet. 


Anyone else tired of all the giving when the season of giving hasn't officially started yet?

Wicked

As a mother, do you ever feel like the Wicked Witch of the West? Constantly the bad guy - insisting homework is done, rooms are tidied, vegetables eaten. We turn the beloved telly/wii off and suggest some outdoor play. We dole out punishments, drag them to hated swimming lessons and make them use a knife and fork when eating. In fact the line I hear most often from my children is 'You're so mean!'

Funnily, daddy isn't painted with the same brush. Perhaps that's because he isn't there every day. He forgets that they have to do homework, feels that pasta, pesto and peas is a perfectly well-balanced meal (even if it's served daily) and is more than happy to mooch on the sofa in front of kids cartoons for hours instead of getting wet outdoors. 

In the land of Oz, mothers are most certainly the Wicked Witch of the West and dads get to be the Good Witch Glinda, the popular one that everyone wants to hang out with.

But last night I was lucky enough to go see Wicked - The Musical. If you're not familiar with it, it's a prequel of sorts to The Wizard of Oz.  It tells the alternate story of the witches of Oz, of the unlikely friendship between two girls who meet at sorcery school. It turns the notion of what is good and what is bad on its head and makes you look at the story of Dorothy and her trip through Oz in a whole new light.

It brought home the message that just because you're painted as the Wicked Witch doesn't mean that you're wicked, you're simply trying to do good things that other people don't necessarily want you to do - like making children clean their teeth or in the case of the Wicked Witch, giving animals a voice.

There were parts of the storyline that I found a bit obvious and moralistic, but that's where my criticism ends. The costumes, set and actors were all spectacular, particularly given that most of the key roles where played by second understudies. The music and dance was amazing and it's easy to see why the show won the 2010 Olivier Award for Most Popular Show and 2010 and 2011 Whatsonstage.com Award for Best West End Show. 

Perhaps it was just having the chance to go out with some girlfriends in the big smoke, leaving Good Witch Glinda at home looking after the kids, but I left the show feeling as though I was defying gravity and more than happy to have the label of Wicked Witch in our house. After all, she's not really wicked, she just needs better PR. 

About the show

Wicked shows at the Apollo Theatre, Victoria, London - www.wickedthemusical.co.uk   

I imagine girls aged 8 plus would love this show - lots of pretty fairy dresses and make-overs. Boys will enjoy the baddies and everyone will enjoy how the characters fly around the stage. 

Warning: younger or more sensitive children might find some of it a bit scary - like the flying monkeys.

Note: I was given free tickets to see the show.

So mums, let me know if you ever feel like the Wicked Witch of the West and how you feel about being the misunderstood meanie.

Temper vs proximity of children graph

This look like anyone else's day or just mine?

(Click on the image to make it bigger)

Journey of discovery

Breaking news! I can stop searching for my 'next big thing'. 

I've found it! 

I don't really want to say what it is until I've signed on the dotted line but assuming it all goes to plan, I shall be buying a franchise and running a marketing related business in my local area shortly.

I'm really excited about it. I know it's going to be hard work and I know it's not THAT far removed from PR (in fact if I wanted to, I could do PR but I will be thinking long and hard about that).

It's been weird this little journey of self discovery. I sold my PR business and didn't have an inkling of an idea of what I wanted to do. In fact, I went onto BBC Radio Berkshire and spoke to Anne Diamond for a full hour about how I didn't know what I wanted to do. Anne was convinced I did know and was just hiding it from her. Possibly the most ridiculous radio interview of all time (well obviously not quite as ridiculous as the whale interview).

In the last 7 weeks I have considered many jobs, including:

• Trying out a different job every week for a year and then writing a book about the experience. I binned that idea because it was a huge amount of work for no money which didn't seem massively clever.
• Writing a novel. I binned that idea because I have started a novel and thought with all the time on my hands that the ideas would come flowing out. They didn't. In fact my creativity seemed to die altogether. What's more, every blogger and their dog wants to write a novel. Gazillions of novels are written every year and few ever even get published, much less make the author any real money. I realised that my desire to 'write a book' was purely ego based, so that I could say that I was a published author. It wasn't likely to make me any money. Perhaps one day I will when my story hits me. Until then, that idea will be shelved.
• Becoming a freelance writer. I very, very nearly signed up for a year long writing course and I have signed up for a photography course (which I'm doing over two weekends). But I realised that you don't make too much money being a freelance writer and what's more, I'd spend my life pitching story ideas to editors which was one of the reasons I wanted to leave PR in the first place. So that idea was dispensed with.
• Cookery - I looked at this three ways. 1) To run a cookery school franchise where you teach kids/young adults to cook. But those franchises claim to be family friendly - yet expect you to run your classes after school and in the holidays. So what are you meant to do with your own kids? 2) Train as a chef and then set up my own private cookery school. I thought about this seriously but the training alone cost £14k and then the set up cost of a school was even more. 3) Running a coffee shop. This is a long held dream. But I think it comes down to the fact that I like eating cake and drinking coffee with friends, rather than working every minute of every day and wondering if I'll make ends meet. So I shall save my cookery for home and not try to earn a wage from it.
• Set up an incredibly awesome website that would help more mothers to work flexibly around their children. It really annoys me that there is this wealth of talented women sitting at home wondering what to do with their lives/degrees/years of career experience when there are so few jobs that are suited to the demands of motherhood. This is still an area I believe passionately in and if I had a techy business partner who could front up A LOT of money to get the site developed, I still think it has legs. But there are challenges you take on because you know you can just about achieve them and challenges you don't because they are bigger than you. This was one of those. 
• Going back into employment. I looked at a huge range of jobs including PR jobs (god forbid) and even sent off a few emails for them. I signed up to various websites for freelance work too. But my heart just wasn't in any of it.
• I considered moving to the sea and buying a property with an annexe and running a B&B/holiday let. But that decision has a bit of an impact on the rest of the family and truthfully, I'm not sure it's right for me. Not now. Perhaps when the kids have left home and I can combine my baking/cooking/writing/yoga interests into some kind of holiday retreat for women who want to escape.
• I researched franchises. Lots of them.

Just as I was getting ready to resign myself to a life of Kept Womandom, I found a franchise that seemed to tick all my boxes. 

And strangely, it was the boxes that had been clarified on this journey of discovery. What did I actually want from life? What is most important to me? I thought ego and doing something I am passionate about were right up there. A need to feel as though I'm doing something great. I felt that doing something I really loved was going to be more important than making money as long as I felt it was making a difference in some way.

Actually, what I want is to earn a good amount of money, enough to let us send our children to private school if we choose to. Enough to allow me to fly around the world to see my family. Enough to make me feel that I was seriously contributing to the household pot. And that's where the ego box gets checked, not from fame or selfless goodwill.

Also what I want is to have the flexibility to work the hours I want to work and go on holiday when I want to go, not having to ask permission from someone if I can go watch my children's Christmas play or apologising that I'm off work again because of a sick child. I want the freedom to see my children after school. I don't want to commute for hours. And I don't want to live to work. I want to work to live.

I want to know that I'm making a difference but that difference doesn't need to be saving rain forests or starving children in Africa. That would be lovely, but I'm more pragmatic than worthy. I have skills that I know I can use to help other businesses out there. In my own small way, that is how I'll make a difference.

My destination is not that far from my starting point but I've travelled a broad loop of discovery to get there. It's been a journey worth making and I'm immensely grateful that I've had the luxury of being able to do it. 

More soon once I've signed pieces of paper.....

Marketing gone mad

Given that I'm a PR luvvy dahling (well ex now), I understand that the entire year is simply a series of marketing opportunities. What - you weren't aware of that? You thought life was actually about living? Bless. Let me educate you.

Christmas, New Year, Valentines Day, Mother's Day, April Fool's Day, Easter, Father's Day, Grandparents Day, Bank holiday Weekends, summer holidays, Back to School, Halloween, Bonfire Night - and those are just the biggies. Don't forget National Talk Like a Pirate Day, National Egg/baking/curry/meat/lentils/insert anything Week, World Book Day, Safety Awareness Week, International Make Up a Day Day. You get the point.

Marketers don't think like normal people. They live permanently a few months ahead of everyone else. While you might be washing the sand out of your sandals after that fab summer holiday thinking how lovely it was to spend time with your family, marketers are putting the finishing touches on their Christmas campaigns and are well into planning their New Year New You items and probably have Easter in the bag too.

I do understand that they can't exactly wake up on 1 December and suddenly think: 'Oh, there are just 24 shopping days till Christmas, perhaps we should have a chat about what products to make and then figure out how to package them and get them made and shipped to shops all before Christmas'. They have to work in advance.

But there is advance. And there's ADVANCE.

I took this picture in our local supermarket during the first week of September.

Are there actually people who buy their Christmas chocolates in the first week of September? Are these the same organised people who buy their 'back to school stuff' in June leaving the dregs for the rest of us who think their children will probably grow at least 10 inches over the summer? And let's not forget Easter eggs and hot cross buns being available right after Christmas. Because Lord knows we need another religious holiday to start stockpiling for months in advance, just in case the end of the world comes and we haven't got any Cadbury's cream eggs.

But it goes beyond how ridiculously far in advance they promote these 'marketing moments'. It's the extent to which marketers jump onto an idea (no matter how irrelevant it is to their business) and KTAOOI (that is an acronym I made up because I like the onomatopoeiac sound it makes - go on, say it out loud - it stands for Kick The Arse Out Of It).

There are many examples of this (all of which I'm now making up so that I don't get sued).

Things like: 'Sick of the nagging? With Christmas approaching, now's the time to get your divorce sorted out. Use Quickie Divorce and make every night a silent night.'

Or

'It's Back to School at your local car dealership. Read our great prices, do the maths and get an A+ car deal.'

Or

'It's pancake day. The perfect time to buy not just a frying pan, but an entire new kitchen. We'll throw in the free eggs.'

But today while I was out at the supermarket (again) I spotted what has to be my personal favourite completely irrelevant marketing link. Take a look:

Yes folks - that's Halloween-themed loo roll.

So, let me know what you think Andrex's thinking behind this innovation was:

a) Halloween party hosts pay attention to the finest details

b) It's a themed bog roll for 'wrap the mummy' games at halloween parties

c) It's part of a new campaign to celebrate special days. Because your bottom shouldn't be left out of the festivities. Wait for the Father Christmas and Easter bunny range to be pampering your bum soon.

d) For those phantom poos that you know you've done but cannot see in the toilet bowl

e) Halloween is so scary that you'll shit yourself

Go on, give me your pay off line. I might even buy the winning entry a pack of Halloween themed toilet paper.

PS - in case you're wondering, this is absolutely not a sponsored post.

Occupation: House person

I wish I had some news to report about what my Next Big Thing is going to be.

I don't.

However, last night I got to experience the full force of my newly unemployed status. I was on the phone to the bank trying to set up a joint bank account with my husband (so that I can steal his money when I run out of my own). The lady on the phone was going through my personal details.

Bank Lady: "Occupation? It says here that you're self employed. Is that correct?"

Me: Mulls this over.... "Actually, technically I'm not. I did have a business and I sold it. And now I'm trying to figure out what to do next. I might get a job. Or I might start another business. Which would then make me self employed again. But I'm not too sure what that's going to be yet. It's really hard trying to figure it out you know. So no, I'm not really self employed any more. But I might get employed by someone else but I don't know in which career that is going to be yet. Which makes me sound a bit pathetic doesn't it? Gosh, I'm not really too sure how to answer that question."

Long suffering Bank Lady: "Shall we say 'House Person'?"

Me: "A what?"

Bank Lady: "A House Person. You know, someone who stays at home."

Me: "Er... yes, I guess that's exactly what I am."

How crushing. A House Person. Not even a House Wife or Mother. It would be politically incorrect to make either of those assumptions but they at least indicate that you might be helping to make the lives of some other people easier. Just a House Person. I guess that is better than being a Homeless Person. And I do like Houses. My pre-occupation with Right Move is testimony to that.

But House Person doesn't sound terrifically glamorous does it?

Luckily, as I've recently discovered in a marvellous book called Watching the English by Kate Fox, it is rude to ask what someone does for a living (unless you're a bank lady setting up a bank account). In a section titled The Guessing-Game Rule, Kate says: "It is not considered entirely polite, for example, to ask someone directly 'What do you do?'.....The guessing game, which is played at almost every middle-class social gathering where people are meeting each other for the first time, involves attempting to guess a person's occupation from 'clues' in remarks made about other matters." 

So in a dinner party situation where a high achieving individual is trying to winkle out what I do, I could quite legitimately say, "I'm a House Person". And according to Kate, "when two or three possible occupations are indicated, it is polite to name the highest-status one as a first guess". So their response would have to be something like: "A House Person. Fascinating - do you invest in property then? No. You're a property search consultant or an interior designer perhaps? Please don't tell me you're an estate agent?" (Kate has an entire chapter on why the English hate estate agents).

And I can just laugh and say, "Of course I'm not an estate agent!" and whisk off leaving them none the wiser that I actually spend my days loafing about trying to figure out what I want to be when I'm big.

Be somebody

My husband has been away for what feels like an eternity. But one good thing that comes of his trips abroad is that I get to watch a LOT of trash TV, stuff that wouldn't ordinarily be allowed to flicker across our screens.

While watching the X-Factor and Pushy Mums, I kept hearing the same sentence expressed over and over again:

'I want to be somebody'


This line was usually followed with words like:
"I can't go back to my old life of being a nobody."
 "Why would anybody want to be a nobody?"
"I want to be special"
"I want to be a somebody like Katie Price" (this last one is particularly worrying!)

I take no issue with people having ambition. But there are two things that sadden and worry me about the sentiment behind these words.

1. Firstly, these people view being famous as 'being somebody'. They don't want to be 'somebody' who can invent a cure for cancer or enable world peace or even simply be a really good singer for singing sake. 'Somebody' means having people recognising you in the street and screaming your name. They want the wealth, luxury, status and ego that goes with being 'somebody'.

Steve Jobs - he was a somebody. He invented products that have changed the way we as a society communicate, work and play. Now that's being somebody. Yet you don't get kids queuing up to be Britain's Best Inventor, bursting into floods of tears when their science experiments get the chop at boot camp (maybe ITV has this reality show in the pipeline - if not, perhaps I'll suggest it).

But would kids today think Steve Jobs was somebody? I asked my boys if they knew who Steve Jobs was. They didn't. I asked if they knew who the company was that made daddy's ipad. They said Apple. So they knew something. Intrigued about how much more they knew, I asked if they knew who the founder of Microsoft was. They asked: 'What's Microsoft?' A sign of the app-based times perhaps?

Isn't it a shame that children can name famous footballers and pop stars and actors but have barely heard of the great innovators in the world? I suppose they'd be ridiculed as geeks if they had posters of Bill Gates and Michael Dell and Steve Jobs and Richard Branson and James Dyson stuck on their walls. But imagine how different the world would be if kids believed that innovating and using your brain was cool instead of being able to warble a tune or kick a ball?

2. Secondly, what really, really saddened me is how so many of the people on these shows believe that without fame, they are nothing. A nobody.

Don't they realise that they are someone's child, someone's mum or dad, someone's brother/sister/teacher/work colleague/congregation member/member of society? Don't they realise that every single person has the potential to be something great and that greatness can be incredibly quiet and unassuming?

I know that secretly I would love to be able to achieve something extraordinary - no matter what that is - so that on my deathbed I could look back and feel proud that I made the most of my life. But it's highly likely that I won't invent the next big thing or become a world famous singer. I'll live an ordinary, unremarkable life. One that the people on those TV shows would describe as 'a nobody'.

But I know the truth. I am a somebody. To the people who matter the most. And that's what counts.

Love

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

I watch you sleep.

A quiet tongue-clicking noise. A flutter of lashes. A turn of head just a fraction to the left so that the light picks up the perfect lattice work of your skin. Hair tousled and slightly damp with sweat. Smooth, unlined forehead, not yet worried by life. Almond shaped eyes decorated with a curtain of curled lashes. A nose that dips away before gently sloping upwards to make a perfect button. Full lips slightly puckered, dehydrated from the air passing in and out. Smooth cheeks dotted with a collection of small freckles, nonchalantly scattered with perfect precision.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Your throat swallows, an angel sigh. My eyes follow the line down your long neck, spreading out to a soft expanse of virgin skin on your chest. Soft as butter on top, hard as wood beneath. Sinew and lean potential-packed muscle lie at rest while your chest subtly rises and falls. Rises and falls. Your arms are splayed, fingers curled into fists as though you're fighting an unseen foe.

I lightly touch your forehead with a finger tip. Sticky, soft and warm. I lean over and breathe in the smell of you. Sleep. Soap. Little boy. I kiss the tip of your nose. It wrinkles. I long to kiss you again but don't want to wake you. 

So I just watch instead. 

Breathe in. 

Breathe out.

What do SAHMs do all day?

SAHM (or Stay At Home Mums as they're known in the parenting biz) are often ever-so-slightly sneered at by WAHMs or WMs (that's Work At Home Mums or Working Mums - do keep up). 'Gosh, what do you do all day? I'd get so bored. I simply have to work.'

But by the same token SAHMs are very often quick to paint WMs as disinterested mums who put themselves before their children. I'm paraphrasing here. Just read the Daily Mail or go to Mumsnet to see the arguments in action.

Until very recently I've been a WAHM, in my opinion, the best of both worlds. You work AND are there for your kids and you can whip up a casserole while taking a tea break. Which means you get to wear The Halo of Smugness.

Now that I've replaced the W with an S in my acronym, I am realising what SAHMs do all day. Take today for example:

I got up, had coffee, put on some laundry, made the kids pancakes and apple sauce, got their school clothes ironed, bags packed and walked them up to school. All of which I could have done as a WAHM, only I'd have been checking emails in between.

Then I joined two other members of the PTA for a two mile walk to plot out a family fun day. After that, I came home, hung up washing and then headed up to the school to join them for community lunch.  I've since come back and had a long chat on the phone to my husband who is abroad, arsed around on Facebook for a while, am writing this blog post and am then off to town to pick up dry cleaning and get some BBQ food to celebrate our very, very late summer.

Then it will be time to pick the kids up, do a bit of homework, feed them, get them off to Beavers, back home and into bed. I'll spend my evening doing the ironing pile (which still holds no appeal, regardless of having less work to do) and watching some rubbish on TV.

So there you have it - an average day in the life of a SAHM. I'm sure there are SAHMs who also clean the house vigorously (I don't) and who exercise (I do) and who meet up with friends for coffee (something I've done a couple of times). They might even do charity work. But trust me, the day goes by in the blink of an eye and you're left wondering how on earth you ever managed to fit work in.

And don't get me wrong, it is pleasant. You can enjoy the sunshine (like today) and not wake up with a feeling of dread, thinking: Urg, I've got to do that presentation today. You have the freedom (certainly if you have school aged kids) to do pretty much whatever you like during the day - browse galleries, go shopping, spend hours in the downward dog pose at yoga.

But something is missing in all of this for me. It's a purpose. It's a point. It's knowing that I have to get up and get on with things because lurking at the back of my mind is that fear that I might end up being one of those mums taking their kids to school still wearing their dressing gown before coming back to watch Jeremy Kyle.

When I used to work full time in an office, I always used to wonder what happened out in the world while I was chained to my desk. I felt as though I was missing out on life. Now I have 'life' in spades, but it's emptier that I expected. Literally. No-one is around because they're all at work. I can feel this energetic buzz just brimming over the horizon where people are working and creating things and fixing things and doing things. And I'm not.

There are sacrifices that come with working. There are sacrifices that come with staying at home. The challenge is trying to figure out which sacrifice you're prepared to make. Tricky. Very tricky.

Highly sensitive children - my lightbulb parenting moment

We're at a pub with friends for a Sunday lunch. Their baby is snoozing peacefully in his buggy. We're taking turns walking up and down, pat shushing, trying to settle our screaming baby. Again.

Toddler group. All the children are sitting on the floor singing the wheels on the bus, merrily making the actions. My son is sitting on my lap sobbing, trying to cover his ears.

We head off to a pre-school mini football class. The other children all shriek and run around after the balls having a whale of time. My son won't come out from behind my chair and when I finally manage to coax him out and get him to kick a ball to me, he cries if I take a step from his side.

It's his fourth birthday. We've hired a magician and he's got to dress up like a pirate. He doesn't want to be the magician's helper. He reluctantly joins in the party games. He cries when everyone sings happy birthday to him.

He's getting dressed for school. Or rather, he isn't. He's making a fuss and not putting his shirt on. Eventually I ask him why he won't put his shirt on. Apparently the badge on the shirt is scratchy. I get him a shirt without a badge on it. He puts it on happily.

It's the dreaded time of day - school drop off. I take him into the playground. He clings to me, like every other day for the last year. He cries. He says he feels sick. A teacher has to peel him off me. He screams and tries to escape. I have to just walk away and it breaks my heart. They assure me at pick up that he was fine once I left.

'Your son doesn't say much in class, but when he does, it is stunningly well thought out as though he has thought very deeply about the answer and is almost adult in his approach,' to quote his reception year teacher.

Monday afternoons, our worst day of the week. Swimming lessons. He shouts and yells that he isn't going. 'I hate it,' he screams. I get him in the pool, refusing to negotiate on this point. The swimming instructor tells off the little girl next to my son for not listening. My son bursts into tears, his lip wobbling for the rest of his lesson while his goggles fill with tears.

This is my son. I have written about him before:
What to do when you don't like your child
When we send him off to camp
School Battles

For seven years I have been at a loss to know what to do with him. Nothing seemed to work. I'd always known he was sensitive, but as he got older, it seemed to me that many really undesirable qualities were coming to the fore: selfishness, laziness, aggression, drama queen tendencies.

But last week I was in a book shop and saw a book called The Highly Sensitive Person. It just seemed to leap off the shelf at me. I didn't buy it but went home and googled Highly Sensitive Children. And hey presto, up popped a web site with a quiz in which you answered questions about whether you have a highly sensitive child. So I did it. And no surprises, but he ticked just about every box. I ordered the book - Highly Sensitive Children by Elaine Aron - immediately and have spent the last few days reading it cover to cover.

It made me weep. Genuine sobbing and an immense feeling of guilt. How could I not have seen this in my child? How is it that I'd never heard of this as an issue? How could I have made so many mistakes with him? I wished with all my heart that I could take back the years and do them over again.

In case you, like me, were not aware of Highly Sensitive Children (HSCs), they make up 15 to 20% of the population, too big a proportion for this to be so unknown. It's NOT a disorder. It is NOT aspergers or autism.  In short, a highly sensitive person absorbs more and processes everything more thoroughly. To quote the book:

"HSCs are born with a nervous system that causes them to prefer to observe all the subtleties in a situation and to process all of this information deeply before acting. As a result, HSCs tend to be highly reflective, intuitive and creative (having a strong sense of how things came to be how they are and what could happen next); conscientious and concerned about fairness and what others are feeling; and aware of subtle changes, details or 'what's missing in this picture'. The trait also causes them to be more easily overwhelmed and hurt, both physically and emotionally; slower to warm up or join in; and sometimes quiet and unwilling to speak (in groups).


They are more easily overwhelmed by 'high volume' or large quantities of input arriving at once. They try to avoid this and thus seem shy or timid or party poopers. When they cannot avoid overstimulation, they seem easily upset or 'too sensitive'."


So my crying baby didn't have colic. There was just too much stimulation for him out and about.

My clingy toddler and pre-schooler wasn't being shy or wimpy, he couldn't take in all the noise and activity going on around him. He was hanging back to observe, process it and then venture forth (normally at about the time he had to leave which then caused him frustration and brought on massive tantrums).

My little boy wasn't being a party pooper when he cried at his party - he just couldn't take all of it in and couldn't stand the attention of everyone looking at him.

He doesn't hate swimming. He just hates the shock of the cold water, the splashing from multiple children, the gruffness of the instructor's tone.

Imagine it. Imagine that everytime you hear something, it sounds louder and you spend more time interpreting what that loud sound is. And imagine if every time you put on a scratchy jumper, it didn't just niggle you but really felt unbearable against your skin. And imagine if you didn't want to put that jumper on but your parents got annoyed with you for making another fuss and insisted on it. And imagine being forced to not wait and observe a brand new school with brand new people and lots of new rules and information, but being forced to go in because the bell is going and that's just what you have to do. Hell on earth.

Since reading this book I have looked at my son in an entirely different light. I can feel so much more empathy towards him now. I no longer feel that he is 'acting out' just because he's trying to wind me up. He is just a little boy trying to make sense of a very loud, overwhelming world that his nervous system battles to cope with.

In the last few days I have changed the way I am with him. I don't shout. I don't even raise my voice. I have lowered my expectations as to what to expect of him. I've helped him more. I've been infinitely more patient. I've explained why things have to happen simply and clearly. I've let go of the sense that he's trying to do things to get at me. I feel greater pride in the things he does do - like reading a poem in church for harvest festival. And the change has been phenomenal.

He is a completely different child. A happy child. Someone who is finally comfortable and able to deal with things because it's getting presented to him in the right way. Because he is super sensitive, he can feel the difference emanating from me. There's less frustration and disappointment and anger coming from his primary care giver. He is picking up on that positivity and literally blossoming in front of my eyes.

I know it's early days and it's going to require a great deal of patience to maintain the level of calm, fair parenting that a child like this needs. And it is going to be particularly hard trying to prepare him for a world that is quite simply not designed with sensitive people in mind - particularly for little boys who are viewed as cry babies or sissys instead of the macho role required by today's society. But I now know how I can help him and can see the utterly beautiful gifts his level of sensitivity brings.

I only wish I had known about this before. I hate myself for misinterpreting and misunderstanding him all these years, for not having the patience needed, for caring too much about what the rest of the world thought instead of doing what was right for him.

I promise to make it up to him by doing my very, very best to help him thrive in this busy, crazy world.

If you are the parent of a highly sensitive child, please share your stories with me.

Civic duty

Ah yes. We have reached that age. And it's all going to go downhill from here.

Let me back up and explain.

As a younger person with a sky-rocketing executive job, there isn't much time to think about the larger community. After all, there are rungs of career ladders to climb, business travel to enjoy and post work drinks to consume.

Then you have children and you start to get sucked into things that you didn't even know existed. Like toddler groups. Who need people to run them. Your role of sleep-deprived attendee making banal conversation about the colour of poo starts to take on a more substantial mantle as you get suckered into becoming assistant toy packer-away person, then co-chair and then chair. 

When you finally manage to sucker someone else into taking on the job, your children head off to pre-school and kazam! You innocently think joining the committee might be a good way to meet the other mums and before you know it, you're running the pre-school lucky dip stall at the village fete and helping arrange 70s style discos. It's all good fun though and after all, it will help buy some new mats for the little cherubs to sit on.

Before you know it, your little darling has entered the realms of big school. All new parents are of course invited to attend the PTA meetings, and being a stupid concerned individual, you once again fall for the honey trap of thinking it's a friendly thing to do. You even convince yourself that they may serve wine at PTA meetings. (They don't).

In the blink of an eye you go from being a bog standard PTA member to co-fund-raising organiser person, rustling up bingo prizes and stringing up bunting at barn dances. 

At this point, most of this 'social involvement' seems to land squarely on the women's shoulders. Men, somehow manage to keep their heads well below the line of fire. 

Until their wives, fed up of the inequality of it all, force suggest they might want to get involved. And so they do. They join the local cricket club and spend every Sunday playing cricket. All. Day. Sure he offers to coach the kids occasionally but mainly it's all about him and the fun he's having playing cricket for the first time since his uni days.

That's how it was in our house, until the cricket club asked me if I'd like to be treasurer. Oh how I laughed and chortled and frankly lay on the floor clutching my sides trying to picture it (accounts and I don't really see eye to eye). Not to mention that it was slightly unfair that my husband was going to get to play while I get to do the work. So I said no. Well done me. And my husband, deeply embarrassed by his cackling wife swiftly volunteered himself for the job.

But it doesn't end there. No sirree bob. Word got out that a new Parish counsellor was needed for our village. Husband, enjoying his new social responsibility cloak, put himself forward. 

I'm now proud to say that not only is he treasurer of the cricket club and a parish counsellor, but he's also  (and you have to say this in a nasal jobsworth type voice) 'the secretary of the allotment sub-committee'. Oh how the evenings fly by.

But wait, that's not all. A 'friend' has just volunteered my services to do some marketing for the school, while another has become chief fund-raiser for the village hall and has every intention of roping me in. 

Just when I thought we could comfortably sit back and polish our civic duty halos, I get a call. Someone has suggested that I might make the perfect village rep for a new initiative to fight Grundon from putting up a huge incinerator in our local area, an area of outstanding natural beauty (you can read about it here if you like - might as well start doing my new job now). So I shall now be leafleting the village and attending meetings to find out how we might thwart this plan going ahead. I feel I might wear a special super hero cape for these meetings. With a mask. And possibly carry a sword made of foam.

And that is how we find ourselves. I am going to make us some business cards. His will read:

Cricket Club Treasurer

Parish Counsellor

Allotment Sub-committee secretary

Sucker

Mine will read:

PTA Fund-raising second in command

Village Hall fund-raising second assistant

Village representative for the fight against giant smelly incinerator.

Fool

We have made the mistake of putting ourselves forward. We shall now spend the remainder of our lives trying to undo this error but no doubt becoming ensnared in the heady world of WI bake off judging, giant marrow contest measuring and church bazaar organisers. Just you wait and see if we don't.