Stay Sticky

Last night, just before I dropped off to sleep, the strangest object came to mind.  It was a pot of glue.  Well, not quite a pot.  A small plastic bottle with a brown slightly oval top, containing a slit through which glue would ooze out when the bottle was squeezed.  It was the glue we used at home when I was growing up.  Goodness knows how long that glue bottle lasted, but it's the one that I associate most strongly with projects at home.  Glue - stretchy sticky binding gloop - has been on my mind since I watched my sister getting married a few weeks ago.

When I was about to get married, my Gran told me that the most important part of being a wife was to be the glue that holds family life together.  Not just husband and wife, but inlaws, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, third cousins twice removed. Even family-friends-who-aren't-really-aunties-but-we-call-them-that-anyway.  It was advice that really (ahem,my apologies in advance) stuck with me.

It came to take on even more significance once we had children.  Not only did I desperately want my children to experience being part of a big noisy family (my sister and I don't have any cousins so we had to content ourselves with being a small noisy family), but also, I came to realise that my newly inherited inlaws, aunts and cousins were a truly precious additional source of support in the early baby months and beyond.  When we moved out of London and had our second son, the women of our new-found Church family appeared and helped to carry us through the newborn months.  They were incredible.  We'd attended this particular church twice before the baby arrived, and once Mr W's two week paternity leave ended, a rota appeared.  For two weeks, different women from the church would appear at 5.30pm to deliver dinner for us all.  It's a rota I've had the privilege of helping on for new mums since then, and I think it's one of the nicest things about being part of our church family.

That's the thing about family - and women, in particular, I think.  We stretch.  We think we're already at full capacity but then someone nearby stumbles and we shift our load to the other hip and help them up.  We patch up holes.  We see the disagreements within families or social circles, and set about filling in the gaps.  Armed usually with tea and hobnobs, we try a little emotional darning.  And frequently, we bend.  There have been many times when I've had to bite my tongue as someone says something patronising or dismissive that suggests they see me as 'just' a Mum, 'just' a housewife, 'just' Mrs W.  My ego is desperate to whip out my academic record, my career highlights, my grade 5 flute certificate, but instead I root around for a little grace.  I remind myself that I love what I'm doing, my kids are cool, and this life suits us all very well.  But acknowledging all that - without resorting to brandishing woodwind certification - requires bending, nonetheless. 

So as a fully paid up stretchy, patchy, bendy woman, I thought I'd take a moment to salute my fellow...erm...Gluers.  To my dear friends out there, probably not reading this, far too busy being glue yourselves, you are gorgeous, sparkly, shiny people and the world is a better place for having you in it.  Mwah.  Stay sticky.

Hula Hooping to Glory

                                              Me and my friends.  No, really...

I am now one week away from my bridesmaid dress fitting.  3 weeks away from my sister's wedding.  And starting to feel the burn on the body front.  Since reaching my original target weight, things have reached a plateau, which is perfectly fine and at least better than piling it on, but as the wedding date looms, I do feel as though I want to be at my best.  Of course, this renewed vigour has coincided with the start of the school holidays, thus rendering the Wii-Fit the only realistic option in terms of daily exercise.  Fitting meaningful exercise around children during the holidays is surely impossible.  A dear friend with a toddler and 3 month old told me yesterday that her doctor had suggested spending some time each morning "before everyone wakes up" to do her stomach exercises.  I think we can all agree that in a household with small children, there is no such time.  How we giggled at the doctor's advice.  As my friend put it, "It'll be hilarious until my stomach drops out of my a*se in a few years".  A sobering thought indeed, and I'm sure we'd have stopped giggling right there, had it not been for the fact that she had said it loudly in M&S and was now being stared at by startled bystanders.

Another friend happened across a quick half hour aerobics class in her local newspaper, and - buoyed by its brevity and accompanying lower price - immediately set off to make it her regular fix.  Except it transpired that it was only half an hour because it was high intensity.  7 minutes in, she was fairly sure she was going to be sick, and that was the point at which she was asked to get into a crab position, scuttle to one side of the church hall, drop a dozen press ups, and then scuttle back.  She made like a crustacean until she reached the door, and promptly escaped.

And so it is that each morning, my children have the dubious pleasure of watching their mother huff and puff as she Hula Hoops and Virtual-Step Classes her way to glory.  <Pauses to giggle at the notion of this waistline being anything like glorious>.  As I puffed on this morning (curtains firmly closed as I was still in pyjamas to add to the indignity), I thought about how delighted everyone was that La-Middleton didn't try to hide her baby bump, 24 hours after giving birth, and the outrage stirred up by a magazine publishing "insights" into her post-baby weightloss plans.  I was reminded of something I read that described post-baby stretch marks as hard earned tiger stripes. I quite like that as an image.  Now I just need to craft something similarly poetic about bingo wings...

Good Luck Team Wales!

This week I've been thinking more than usual about the Duchess of Cambridge.  She's generally there as a sort of low level background presence in my musings, you know, in a "Sheesh, I wish I had a stylist like Kate's to help me tackle this heat frizz..." sort of way.  But this week, as the world awaits news of the royal baby, I feel for her in a way that's probably faintly ridiculous considering we've never met.

It just brings back so many memories of being pregnant, and then the Herculean effort that is labour.  To have to do it with such intense media scrutiny must be incredibly difficult.  I say that, of course the media only really gets to see the public moments - I suspect it's unlikely Team Wales will pop up on "One Born Every Minute" - but still, it must be daunting.

When I arrived at hospital to have my first baby, it was a cold November Sunday, but I was toastie warm with the first flushes of pain, and remember waddling out of the taxi in flip flops, clutching my pillow and assorted "essentials" that all first timers probably take in with them.  I cheerily ambled up to the desk and announced "Hello, I'm here to have my baby!"  They took one look at me and popped me into a room that might as well have been marked "In nowhere near enough pain".  Some hours later, when I'd quit the cheery banter and was at full moo, we all knew baby was finally coming.  Mind you, the good cheer returned immediately after I'd met the little man, as to Mr W's amazement and probable shame, I treated everyone to a round of the national anthem, honked through the gas & air pipe.  Except I realised at the end that something was amiss, roundly apologised ("I'm SO sorry everyone, that was the American one, wasn't it?  Here we go...") and then proceeded to honk God Save the Queen.  It's probably just as well that I couldn't see the stitches that were being done at the time - I can't imagine the nurse's hand was awfully steady as she shook with laughter.

Given Baby Wales's family, the above musical interlude might be something Kate would like to think about -  #justsaying and all that.

Feeling the Fear

At my friend's suggestion, I'm steering clear of singing Disney songs for a while - frankly it's getting ridiculous.


I've not had much luck with woodland folk of late.  Last week, a small bird plopped down our chimney (destroying our carpet with the accompanying soot and debris) and stared darkly at me for some considerable time before calmly flying out into the garden.  Then a few days ago, as I valiantly tackled some gardening while the children played, a frog (or was it a toad?) hopped on to my flip-flopped foot.  I screamed.  First because I thought it was a huge snail, and then again when it hopped off and I realised it had been something amphibious.  Eeeeuch.  I was on my own for the bird incident, but for Frog/Toadgate the boys were there to witness my reaction.  And what a reaction it was.  In that moment, I forgot I was a Mummy and reacted purely as me.  She who is afraid of spiders.  She who is a little afraid of the dark.  She who thinks frogs are slimey and yukky and...bleuurrrrrrggh.

The boys seemed quite bemused by it all.  My eldest stopped to enquire whether I was sure it was a frog (I had to admit I wasn't) and my youngest needed a wee, and wondered if he could possibly go al fresco.  It was a tiny reminder that actually us grown ups aren't always as interesting to our children as we might think.  Since becoming a Mummy, I have felt obliged to demonstrate fearlessness at all costs.  There's a huge spider in the bath?  Pah, not a problem!  In fact, isn't it a cute little thing? Look at all those hairy little legs.  Oooh, yes, he's a goodie, let's just pop a cup on him so that Daddy can see him when he gets home from work... (and yes, I do then watch the cup nervously out of the corner of my eye, to see if Spidey is moving it around with those aforementioned hairy little legs *shudder*)

I think it partly comes from a desire to avoid the trap of strong brave boys, and weedy Princessy girls.  I feel a sense of duty to raise young men who think women are awesome too.  Even if my youngest does add to my grey hairs regularly by delighting in telling me he only likes the naughty girls at nursery...

I think it's also partly because I feel the role demands it.  Being the only grown up on duty most days makes me feel as though I can't let the side down and rush around squealing - surely it's my job to make everyone feel safe?  Can I do that if they know I'm quaking in my Havaianas?

It was partly this thinking that led to the creation of Mummy's Adventure Board in the kitchen.  It features photos and souvenirs of me on assorted adventures.  My rule is that they have to be me in my own right, achieving some sort of goal or ambition.  As much as getting married and having these two gorgeous boys is a huge adventure, I want the board to depict other aspects of me, if that makes sense.  I'd say at this point it's about 50/50 between seeing the board as a way to inspire the boys and remind them that girls can do cool things too, and also as a reminder to myself that there is more to life than cooking a mean Bolognese.  I'm conscious that it's been a while since I've added to the board actually.  Time to think of some new adventures.  Mind you, if these woodland creatures keep turning up, I could be lassoing squirrels or riding muntjack before the week's out.

Path-finding

I do love a good present.  And last week I received a gorgeous one, in the form of the very beautiful header artwork proudly displayed at the top of this page.  A very dear and talented friend, Jo, created it for me as a gift.  If you're ever in need of inspiration, or just enjoy looking at beautiful things, check out http://www.atelierjoanafaria.com.

Jo is one of those fantastic bright sparkly people who make the world fabulous.  You'd love her.  Tumbling curls, huge smile, big impulsive Brazilian gestures.  I met her on my very first day in Adland.  Fresh from the tube (actually, can anyone ever be fresh from the tube?), nervously looking around at my fellow graduate trainees, it was a relief to see her friendly face.  We became great friends as we navigated the new landscape together.  A few years later, Jo changed from being an account man (liaising between clients, creatives and production) to being a creative herself.  Writing and art-directing her own work.  I really admired her bravery and determination to make something out of her creative instincts.  So often we stay on a path because it's one we know and are comfortable with, rather than because it's one in which we can truly flourish.

As I reflected earlier on Jo's change of path, I remembered the feeling I had at 19, when after nearly 10 years of planning to be a lawyer, I decided to change my own.  It was the summer after end of first year exams, and I was sitting in my car.  It struck me that if I was going to be a good lawyer, not just a competent one, I was going to have to work twice as hard as my peers.  Some might have seen this as the ultimate challenge.  I saw it as a total nightmare.  Why commit myself to a career of constantly playing catch up?  So I sat in my car and thought about what I was actually good at.  What sort of industry might I thrive in?  And gradually, it came to me.  Somewhere I could be involved in making things.  Negotiate with people, persuade them, be involved in creating something tangible.  Something I could show my family.  It was actually quite liberating.  A brief but glamorous summer placement at Saatchi's and I was hooked.  Advertising was the place for me.

Somewhat ridiculously, I didn't really see motherhood as another change in path.  I simply saw it as a sort of extension of the happy journey (ack, the X Factor has ruined that word for me) I was on with Mr W, and even though I knew it would involve a career change, it didn't seem that big a deal.  For a few years I was too busy slashing through the undergrowth to notice, but suddenly I can look around and see the beauty that's around me.  From being someone whose heel height (and, let's face it, laziness) dictated taking cabs for most journeys, I now squelch through muddy bogs in wellies.  After years of takeaway eating and cocktail drinking, I now possess a slow cooker.  I'll admit something here: I love my slow cooker so much I have actually given it a name.  Sven.  I figure Sven is the kind of capable, trusty second-in-command a girl can leave at home in charge of a bolognese while she gets on with the important business of puddle-splashing and bear-hunting.

Even if I couldn't see the changes immediately, my friends certainly did.  Apparently I look much brighter and shinier these days than I did before.  It's a shame that when you become a stay at home Mum, people tilt their heads sideways and ask if you're really satisfied, if it can possibly be enough for you.  In my case, it has turned out to be the most wonderful path of all.  It's given me the freedom to try things I'd never have made time for before (singing, writing, depicting assorted superheroes through the medium of cake), and most importantly, has given me the opportunity to watch my little people set off on their own paths.

So here's to those who seek their own paths.  Here's to gorgeous Jo.  Cheers.

Home remedies

I'm crying about almond oil.

Specifically, the memories evoked by popping a few gently warmed drops of it into my eldest's poorly ear.  It was one of my Grandma's trusty remedies for ear-ache.  I can't tell you the number of times I would go to her as a child, crying about an ear ache or sore throat or any of the usual childhood illnesses, and she would soothe it with a homespun remedy.  Almond oil for ears, cloves for throats, ginger ale for feeling sick. The latter never failed to make me throw up (I guess her intention was just to speed up the process and end that awful period when you know you're going to be sick?!) and I still feel a bit queasy now when I smell or taste it.  Of course, I had no idea while I was growing up that these remedies weren't the norm.  They weren't entirely wacky, and my folks were by no means against going to the doctor or using conventional medicine in addition, but for the everyday niggles that cause me to reach for Calpol, my Gran had other answers.

My sister and I had the privilege of growing up with a live-in Grandma.  When my parents needed her help with childcare so that my Mum could return to work, my Gran sold her house in Karachi and moved to the UK to live with us.  I wish I could remember the Karachi house.  I've been told so many great stories about it.  My favourite is that of my Gran potty training me, both of us sat underneath her mango tree.  Me on the potty, her on a little wooden stool, which I've now inherited.  I had sweet notions of sitting on the stool while I potty trained my own children, but the dear British weather and my lack of gardening skills could never quite recreate such grand settings (the above pic is A mango tree, not THE mango tree, sadly).  I can't tell you too much about Gran because I wouldn't know where to start, but she was wonderful.

We lost Grandma unexpectedly to a stroke, the week before my eldest was due.  She passed away a week later, my Mum calling to tell my husband just as he was calling to tell her that I was experiencing the very first twinges of labour.  You might call it beautiful.  Generally, I do.  But sometimes, I'm still caught by the rawness of that grief, the sense of being cheated out of an amazing source of wisdom and comfort just as I needed it most.  You never know how long you'll have someone for, and you never think to ask them for all their advice, remedies and wisdom upfront - how could you?  I remember asking my Gran for one of her recipes, and she duly described it all to me, right down to 'use this much chilli powder', indicating with her thumb against the tip of her forefinger.  I wish I'd at least taken a ruler out and measured how much forefinger!  I suppose that's the thing.  These days we have so much information at our fingertips, science has provided so many answers, overturned so many rules that our parents lived by.  She would find it hysterical that I want to know how many millimetres of chilli powder to use, or what temperature exactly I was supposed to warm the almond oil to.  Like the whole 'check the baby's bath water with your elbow' rule that has supposedly been 'bettered' by the invention of baby bath thermometers etc, it's all got a bit complicated, hasn't it?

Maybe that's why I struggled so much to feel what I thought was maternal instinct coming through at first.  I knew I had heaps of love, I just didn't know exactly how warm to make the milk.  I think I thought the latter was about instinct.  It's only now, with the benefit of dear old hindsight and his wonderful friend sleep, that I can see it didn't really matter, so long as no-one was getting scalded.  Our babies were loved and loved and loved - that was the instinct part.  At times they were wept over, puzzled over, and studied with a sweet bewilderment - we took it all very seriously.  But while we were taking it seriously, reading the books, swotting up on the milestones, our boys merrily did their own thing.  Ate, pooped, grew, became little people.  And it all became a little easier.  A little less dramatic.  I still have plenty of moments of wondering what on earth a grown up would do in a given situation, but I'm learning that on the whole, my instincts aren't steering our little team too far wrong.  So the almond oil is joining the Calpol in the medicine cabinet.  An addition which makes me feel oddly proud.  If my eldest's ears drop off overnight, I'll let you know.

Anger Management

Last week, I got angry.  I knew it was coming.  After a week or so's worth of emails, texts and phone calls about a children's birthday party, of all things, I sensed the limits of my patience were in sight.  Dark clouds gathered.  I knew I was about to declare myself really rather cross.  And then Mr W called, with news of yet more changes to said birthday party plan.  The anger arrived, a big storm of indignation, a whirl of rage, where I physically shook like rattling windows in a hurricane, followed by raining tears...and then...a sense of calm...as we always say after a good summer thunderstorm "Ooof, we needed that".

I don't get angry often, but when I do it tends to arrive with fairly startling force.  I remember my Grandma as being the same.  She seemed to have vast reserves of patience and love, and then suddenly - too late - we'd realise we'd tapdanced on her very last nerve, and the storm was upon us.  Whenever I get angry with the children, and am inevitably reflecting on it later, racked with guilt, I take great comfort from the knowledge that I loved and admired my Gran hugely, even if she did occasionally unleash a little fury in our presence.

When I say I don't get angry often, I'm talking about moments of real rage, not the minor annoyances or irritations that can happen every day.  Pffft, there are plenty of those.  One of the worst offenders is the Facebook status updates of women (and I'm afraid it is usually women) essentially posting their to-do lists and telling us all how many loads of washing they've already cracked through that morning.  Believe me, I know there are times when you really would like a trophy for cleaning the shower, but it's just a thing that's got to be done, no?  Then there's the people who mistake being at home for being an airhead, and assume that because you've chosen to be home with your children, it must be because you couldn't cut it academically, or in your career.  Not so, mon frère, some of us just choose to put our energy into running around the common chasing small people in superhero suits, rather than climbing the career ladder.

See, even reading the above paragraph makes me feel a little disgruntled.  It's not so much a case of Hulk-style "You won't like me when I'm angry", it's more that I don't like me when I'm angry.  Angry me is negative, draining, faintly out of control.  I'm all for a little healthy repression.  At work I used to be encouraged to get angry.  It was good to have a little tension in the creative process, I was told, and it kinda made sense. It wasn't a strength of mine, but I can see why having someone constantly seeking to keep the peace wasn't always the best way to arrive at great creative work.

In motherhood, however, being angry seems to be a pretty definite no-no.  I remember thinking that potty training was like some form of unique torture.  Someone who you know is perfectly able to understand you, is going to wee and poo in their pants, on the stairs, at the dinner table, wherever they so please, and you must use your kind voice, wash said pants, disinfect said stairs, all whilst being encouraging and positive.  I think I lasted about a week with both boys before Mummy Got Tough.  And funnily enough, that seemed to work wonders for their understanding.

I think a distinction must be drawn between getting angry and completely losing one's temper.  Even at my most cross with the children, I have been keenly aware of my language and the commitment Mr W and I made to never smacking in temper.  I've been the angry Mum in Sainsbury's, and have felt the weighty stare of judgement upon me.  But as long as I am in control of that crossness, I can deal with it, and see it as part of bringing the boys up with discipline.

I have only had true red mist rage once.  It was at my first ad agency, shortly before I resigned (fortunately).  I worked for two fairly ridiculous bosses at the time.  One Friday afternoon, as I worked hard to finish a presentation that had to be sent out, and after much less-than-sober provocation from both of them, I felt a rushing sound in my ears, literally saw red mistiness in front of my eyes and heard myself screaming "I'LL F*CKING HAVE YOU!"  How mortifying to know that when really pushed, I'm more Peggy Mitchell than Bree Van de Kamp.