Mothers on the Dancefloor

Man, I love November.  The beautiful light in the mornings as bright sunshine cuts through crisp frosty air; fireworks bursting into a night sky; the switching-on of pretty Christmas lights, and general permission to start eating gorgeous festive food.  But much more than that, for me, it's Birthday Month.

I am one of those people who is mad about birthdays.  All birthdays are good with me, but most especially (of course) my own.  I wonder whether I'll hit an age where it's less exciting, but so far so good.  My excitement starts on November 1st, and continues for a good few weeks, until I eventually pop out of the birthday bubble somewhere around now, a little like wobbling off a rollercoaster and thinking "Wahoo!  I can't wait to do that again!  But first...a cup of tea and a sit down..."

This year, I was determined to see in my birthday whilst dancing the night away.  Much to my delight, my Mummy friends (wo)manfully agreed to accompany me to a suitably cheesy establishment. Babysitters were booked, arrangements were made.  That was when we hit our first low.  Having booked a booth online (yes, I booked a booth, we are too old for that standing around with all our stuff crap now), I then got a telephone call during the kids' bath time.  "Hi, this is Vicky from Chicago's...erm... you've booked a booth for 8.30pm but we don't actually open that early, so...if you'd like I can ask my Manager to open early for you?  Let me know."

Mortifying.  Still, I rallied, threw down Larry the Lobster, and called her back, explaining that we'd be more than happy to just come when the bar actually opened.

On the night itself, the kids were fed, bathed and popped into bed in record time, and beautifications took place with great excitement.  One of the Mummies is still breastfeeding her newborn, so kindly volunteered to drive everyone there.  Upon arrival, we realised we were still early, so in order to save ourselves the shame of queuing too keenly, we waited in the car.  5 glammed-up (but playing it cool) mummies packed into a Peugeot on a retail park in Stevenage, windows gradually steaming up as we all got the giggles, was funny enough, but at the appointed hour, when we decided to (still coolly) unfurl from the car, we discovered that of course the backdoors were childlocked.  Further faintly hysterical giggling ensued.

We strutted over to the bar, still playing it cool, and were met by the Manager, a very sweet girl who gave us a broad smile and said "Hi ladies, come this way, I've chosen you a table near the dancefloor and away from the doors so it's a bit warmer".

Of all the lows, this may have been the worst.

We soon recovered our spirits, sampling the bar's complimentary 'bubbles', mysterious bright green shots and assorted pitchers, and by midnight, as the music took off (by which I mean, turned into mainly songs I'd heard of), I was bursting with birthday spirit.  Smoke machine: Check.  Strobe lights: Check.  Birthday shout-out from the DJ: Checkity Check.  That's the thing about me, I'm pretty easily pleased.  I love feeling my heart soar as a familiar beat kicks in, everyone's arms go in the air, and it feels for that moment as though the whole place is completely alive.  Hey, I love my role as a mother and wife, but I also love the way music can completely strip everything away and I'm back to just being me.  Me at my very core.  Me at my cheesy-music-loving best.  It's actually better than dancing as a teenager or 20-something, because in those years there was so much self-consciousness, so much pre-occupation with looking good.  Now, it's just about me, having a ball.  Peering through the smoke at my Mummy friends, I sensed it was the same for them.  And I loved them all the more for it.  Happy November, ladies.  We're still cool!

Defying Gravity

Well, here we are again, dear friends.  It's been a while, but this time I've got a pretty good reason.  I hit a rich vein on the writing front and managed to properly put fingers to keyboard and get my TV script written.  Sure, it's still got a long way to go, but it exists.  It is a thing.  A thing that popped into my head around 2 years ago, and now exists on paper and on screen.  Well, on my laptop screen.  As for the TV screen, let's see.

I'll be honest with you, I was starting to worry that I'd never get anything written.  People would ask what I was doing while the kids were at nursery (because obviously keeping a house and 4 people clean, fed and supported is not enough) and I'd say "Actually, I'm trying to write something". And they'd nod and say something like "Wow, good for you..." and back slowly away from the crazy lady.  I get that.  It's a bit of a bold statement, I guess, to say, "I have an idea that I think is good enough to get made and be watched by lots of people".  But here's the thing: I really do think that.  And I really am going to try and make that happen.

Over the last few weeks I've worked through a range of emotions.  I was elated with the achievement of having a script that makes me laugh, frustrated at how long and cluttered the road ahead seems to be, uplifted by the positive feedback I've had from the 2 people I've shown it to (okay, fine, one of them was Mr W, but trust me, he's no pushover), and am now nervously excited as I await feedback from the next 2 people, one who actually knows how to screenwrite, and another who is an actress.  I'm expending nervous energy like a big ball of...nervous energy gas? I don't know, that one got away from me there.

I'm not really afraid of much in life (apart from sharks, but honestly, that's just common sense) but I must admit, I'm afraid of a few things on the writing front.  I'm afraid I'll turn out to not be very funny, which after 33 years of being 'the funny one', could be something of a blow.  I'm afraid that impatience will cause me to hit Send before it's completely brilliant, and blow my chances of getting it made.  I'm afraid that I'm just as much of a cliché as every other writer out there, convinced that they have the Best Idea Ever.

Thankfully, this is where being a peppy optimist really comes into its own, as I'm spending probably an equal amount of time wondering which designer's frock I'd most like to wear to the BAFTAs.  Seriously.  I googled Monique Lhuillier at one point.  A little part of me is flying, just from the thrill of actually trying.

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.