Today, I am seriously at peace with the world. Surprising really, as due to a series of unfortunate events I will be looking after my own kids this weekend instead of the planned palming-off-on-the-in-laws.
I have worked out that if I try and do most of the boring day-off shit on a Monday and a Wednesday, come Friday, I can eat, drink, and mainly not have to freeze on the school run in my running gear. Happy days.
So, at the beginning to the week I achieved my house-cleaning/Nana-visiting/MA reading/running. I am trying to ease my parents' burden slightly by doing an hour's Nana-visiting a week. It is definitely a duty rather than a pleasure I'm afraid to say. It is awful to think that I clock-watch whilst I'm there but I'm afraid I do somewhat. The moral dilemma comes though when one arrives to find the visitee otherwise engaged in the bathroom. As I tend to leave this visitation until the last hour before I have to pick the boys up, this means I have to deduct toilet-time from the allotted hour. Possibly a little harsh but I guess from both sides it is nigh on impossible to plan these things.
I don't want to be old. Even in the nicest (and seriously most expensive) nursing home in St. Albans, it is a miserable fucking existence. If there is any justice in this world I won't make old bones. I'm not sure the running and fruit n' veg intake in my thirties can undo the damage inflicted on my body in my twenties; however, my Dad is 73, and by rights, he should also fall under that rule. My maternal Grandmother was in her nineties when she died and Nana is still going strong at 99 so who knows. If I do ever get that old, I'm going to be permanently drunk and miserable. No change then.
I don't really understand why old people aren't shitfaced the entire time. There's nothing to lose then is there? There is one old boy in Verulam House who is a friend of my Dad's, (shock), who seems to get through a bottle of whiskey each day. There has got to be some merit in that. Who cares if you offend people, you'll most likely be dead before you see them next anyway!
I wonder if my Nana-visiting will provide me one day, through karma, a granddaughter that visits me in my dotage? My inkling last year that Sebi might be gay, and therefore although I had two boys I would still have someone to look after their poor old Mum, has gone away. My pink-loving dancer turned into a little thug as soon as he started school and had a dramatic haircut.
I have achieved an essay plan today. That's nearly an essay right? I'm such a knob. Even though I know it is me that is going to have to fathom my plan out next week when I write the actual essay, I write things like "All performance is haunted by death - I don't think I agree," and leave it as that. I don't bloody know why I don't agree but I just think I don't and can't be bothered yet to argue it out.
I suggested a pub lunch to my husband, then suggested he paid, then had to negotiate a large glass of wine instead of chips with my cheeseburger. Tightwad. (Thanks though Stu - was lovely - let's do it again soon.) Fridays also mean that we are allowed to just watch tele after school instead of any meaningful playing so Mummy can go and submerge with a large glass of wine in hot water for an hour in preparation for tonight. Maybe I could cope with living till 100 after all? I may well be submerging myself in wine by then though...
Friday, 22 November 2013
Friday, 15 November 2013
Pussy Passing
I didn't think when I started this blog that it would ever involve a cat obituary, but I guess you just have to roll with it sometimes...
I had Toby put down today. Anyone who has seen my relationship with my cat in the last few years will know that I sometimes got more than a little frustrated at his constant miaowing and clawing but I was surprised at how traumatised I was by his demise!
Through my tear-filled eyes at the vets, I was however impressed at the dignity and pain-free swiftness of feline euthanasia. I would be lying if I said it didn't flit through my mind that this could be a good option for Nana, although as she is so near 100, I think we should probably give her a couple of months.
I had to fill in a form first to give permission for the act. I would like to think that it will be the first and last death warrant I will sign, but I suppose we never know what is around the next corner... (Mwah, ha, ha.) There was a tick box for what I wanted to happen to Toby after the event. I went for (a) General Cremation. I was upset but I do have the perspective that he was, after all, just a cat. Option (b) was to take his ashes home with me but I had visions of them being found and duly eaten/rubbed in hair/scattered in the lounge by my sprogs. Option (c) was to take the body home with me. Erm, no thanks. We had a 'situation' when Shelley and I lived in the flat together where a pissed and well-meaning neighbour presented us with a dead ginger cat in a box and we all lamented over another bottle of wine until Toby walked jauntily through the cat flap. "Can anyone else see that cat?" said aforementioned intoxicated neighbour. I then had a dead cat in a box to deal with, so I don't want another one, thanks all the same.
I was actually too emotional in the vet's to pay. No honest! When I phoned up half an hour later to sort it out, the veterinary nurse was very, very gentle with me on the phone until I gave her by card number and she told me it was £99. "Ninety-nine quid!", I shouted, "I was only bloody there for five minutes!" The sympathy seemed to melt away quite quickly at that point.
Talking to the wonderfully sympathetic Anna on the phone a few minutes later, she gently enquired how I thought the boys would react. I explained that I'd decided I probably just wouldn't mention it and hope they didn't notice. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I realised that it didn't sound like the best thought-through plan. Zak, Sebi and I therefore had a lively discussion on the way home from school about the loveliness of Cat-Heaven. Tis amazing how inventive one's animal theology can become when put under pressure.
As I sit writing this, an enormous black cat has just nipped in through our cat flap and tried to get in the kitchen. Bloody cheek. How do they know?
"Word in the alley is guys that the old ginger one from number 12 has carked it. Anyone fancy a recky to see if there's any food left out still?" I bet Tobes turning in his cheap-mass-grave.
I had Toby put down today. Anyone who has seen my relationship with my cat in the last few years will know that I sometimes got more than a little frustrated at his constant miaowing and clawing but I was surprised at how traumatised I was by his demise!
Through my tear-filled eyes at the vets, I was however impressed at the dignity and pain-free swiftness of feline euthanasia. I would be lying if I said it didn't flit through my mind that this could be a good option for Nana, although as she is so near 100, I think we should probably give her a couple of months.
I had to fill in a form first to give permission for the act. I would like to think that it will be the first and last death warrant I will sign, but I suppose we never know what is around the next corner... (Mwah, ha, ha.) There was a tick box for what I wanted to happen to Toby after the event. I went for (a) General Cremation. I was upset but I do have the perspective that he was, after all, just a cat. Option (b) was to take his ashes home with me but I had visions of them being found and duly eaten/rubbed in hair/scattered in the lounge by my sprogs. Option (c) was to take the body home with me. Erm, no thanks. We had a 'situation' when Shelley and I lived in the flat together where a pissed and well-meaning neighbour presented us with a dead ginger cat in a box and we all lamented over another bottle of wine until Toby walked jauntily through the cat flap. "Can anyone else see that cat?" said aforementioned intoxicated neighbour. I then had a dead cat in a box to deal with, so I don't want another one, thanks all the same.
I was actually too emotional in the vet's to pay. No honest! When I phoned up half an hour later to sort it out, the veterinary nurse was very, very gentle with me on the phone until I gave her by card number and she told me it was £99. "Ninety-nine quid!", I shouted, "I was only bloody there for five minutes!" The sympathy seemed to melt away quite quickly at that point.
Talking to the wonderfully sympathetic Anna on the phone a few minutes later, she gently enquired how I thought the boys would react. I explained that I'd decided I probably just wouldn't mention it and hope they didn't notice. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I realised that it didn't sound like the best thought-through plan. Zak, Sebi and I therefore had a lively discussion on the way home from school about the loveliness of Cat-Heaven. Tis amazing how inventive one's animal theology can become when put under pressure.
As I sit writing this, an enormous black cat has just nipped in through our cat flap and tried to get in the kitchen. Bloody cheek. How do they know?
"Word in the alley is guys that the old ginger one from number 12 has carked it. Anyone fancy a recky to see if there's any food left out still?" I bet Tobes turning in his cheap-mass-grave.
Friday, 8 November 2013
I-Zakbot
The iPad is the centre of my eldest son's Universe and, quite often, the bane of my life.
Stu and I have often pondered on if we let Zak play it for as long as he wanted in a day, whether he would actually do anything else at all. The jury's out, but I reckon he would probably only stop a few times to eat.
We try to responsibly-parent when it comes to the iPad. They have to share, they are only allowed on it for a certain amount of time, before breakfast and after tea, and if it causes arguments it goes off. For a spontaneous Saturday-afternoon-shag those rules do however get occasionally broken.
The current game of choice is the intellectually named, 'Plant Vs. Zombies'. It does what it says on the tin. My latest issue has arrived in the fact that Stuart seems as zombified by the bloody game as the boys. In the kitchen the other day, I heard an argument starting over the iPad and entered the lounge ready to let heads roll when in fact I discovered that it was 'Daddy' who wasn't sharing. Seriously, what hope do they have? ;-) As I type this Stu is busily blasting zombies with overgrown virtual cabbages and I don't expect any conversation for the rest of the evening. At least it means that he is the one that will eagerly converse about the silly game with the children.
There are a million studies out about how gaming rewires developing children's brains. Nobody can agree on how much is too much though, I guess that varies from child to child. I would like to think that my two are not into the danger zone but it does worry me how addicted Zak is to anything technological. He passed the iPad to Stu the other day and couldn't walk straight out of the room without physically swerving past it on the way out. At least I'll recognise the signs of dependency in him if I ever need to at later stages in his life!
When you ask Zak what he wants to do when he grows up he says that he wants to play the iPad all day. I translate this to people as "he wants to be a computer programmer, how clever!"; but I'm blatantly lying. He is a delightful child: polite, considerate, conversational, articulate and intelligent. It is however, all a complete façade. He is really wishing we would piss off and leave him zapping cacti to his little heart's content. The look of horror on his face when he saw my Mum with her newly acquired iPad the other day and she told him that there weren't any games on it. "But Granny, that is SUCH a waste!" Just imagine, someone owning their own iPad that they can play on any time they want to, with no restrictions, and them not availing themselves of it! Utterly bonkers.
Stu and I have often pondered on if we let Zak play it for as long as he wanted in a day, whether he would actually do anything else at all. The jury's out, but I reckon he would probably only stop a few times to eat.
We try to responsibly-parent when it comes to the iPad. They have to share, they are only allowed on it for a certain amount of time, before breakfast and after tea, and if it causes arguments it goes off. For a spontaneous Saturday-afternoon-shag those rules do however get occasionally broken.
The current game of choice is the intellectually named, 'Plant Vs. Zombies'. It does what it says on the tin. My latest issue has arrived in the fact that Stuart seems as zombified by the bloody game as the boys. In the kitchen the other day, I heard an argument starting over the iPad and entered the lounge ready to let heads roll when in fact I discovered that it was 'Daddy' who wasn't sharing. Seriously, what hope do they have? ;-) As I type this Stu is busily blasting zombies with overgrown virtual cabbages and I don't expect any conversation for the rest of the evening. At least it means that he is the one that will eagerly converse about the silly game with the children.
There are a million studies out about how gaming rewires developing children's brains. Nobody can agree on how much is too much though, I guess that varies from child to child. I would like to think that my two are not into the danger zone but it does worry me how addicted Zak is to anything technological. He passed the iPad to Stu the other day and couldn't walk straight out of the room without physically swerving past it on the way out. At least I'll recognise the signs of dependency in him if I ever need to at later stages in his life!
When you ask Zak what he wants to do when he grows up he says that he wants to play the iPad all day. I translate this to people as "he wants to be a computer programmer, how clever!"; but I'm blatantly lying. He is a delightful child: polite, considerate, conversational, articulate and intelligent. It is however, all a complete façade. He is really wishing we would piss off and leave him zapping cacti to his little heart's content. The look of horror on his face when he saw my Mum with her newly acquired iPad the other day and she told him that there weren't any games on it. "But Granny, that is SUCH a waste!" Just imagine, someone owning their own iPad that they can play on any time they want to, with no restrictions, and them not availing themselves of it! Utterly bonkers.
Sunday, 27 October 2013
Rugrat Respite
My children are currently on their way to Redditch to spend happy few days with my in-laws. They were meant to be going tomorrow morning but Stu's Mum suggested we brought it forward to today because of the impending storm and who am I to argue?
She is welcome to them. There is something about the thought of imminent separation from my boys that makes me immediately less tolerant, (and I'm not very tolerant at the best of times), and in a lovely, maternal, pink and fluffy way, absolutely desperate to get rid of them as soon as possible. We were making them do circuits out the front on their bike and scooter earlier trying to wear them out a little bit so they weren't completely as high as kites when Margaret received them. Sebi managed to pull his trousers and pants down one-handed, whilst scooting on one leg and waggle his willy to the slightly shocked looking more elderly members of the close. If I wasn't so mortified I may have been quite impressed with his skills. Naked exhibitionism is obviously another warped personality trait I have handed to down to my youngest; at least I know he will have grown out of it in approximately 29 years or so. Oh God.
When I asked Zak what he wanted to do yesterday and gave him various options: zoo, park, play area etc, he said quite definitely, "pub please". Tempting as it was, we thought that at 10am on a Saturday morning it would have been pushing it somewhat, even by mine and Stu's standards. We compromised with Sunday lunch at the pub today with my parents. I had a little chat with the boys in the car on the way there about appropriate topics for lunchtime conversation with grandparents as they had mainly been discussing how much it would hurt to be shot somewhere in the body when you didn't die immediately but just poured out lots of blood until you got weaker and weaker and then died slowly. Lovely little chaps aren't they? Zak just spent the entire lunch drawing bombs, blood and dying soldiers instead. That's fine. It's art innit.
So I intend on spending the next few days in one of the following three states (a) drunk (b) asleep (c) stuffing my face. Possibly a combination of two of them at any one time is more likely. Dog with two dicks.
She is welcome to them. There is something about the thought of imminent separation from my boys that makes me immediately less tolerant, (and I'm not very tolerant at the best of times), and in a lovely, maternal, pink and fluffy way, absolutely desperate to get rid of them as soon as possible. We were making them do circuits out the front on their bike and scooter earlier trying to wear them out a little bit so they weren't completely as high as kites when Margaret received them. Sebi managed to pull his trousers and pants down one-handed, whilst scooting on one leg and waggle his willy to the slightly shocked looking more elderly members of the close. If I wasn't so mortified I may have been quite impressed with his skills. Naked exhibitionism is obviously another warped personality trait I have handed to down to my youngest; at least I know he will have grown out of it in approximately 29 years or so. Oh God.
When I asked Zak what he wanted to do yesterday and gave him various options: zoo, park, play area etc, he said quite definitely, "pub please". Tempting as it was, we thought that at 10am on a Saturday morning it would have been pushing it somewhat, even by mine and Stu's standards. We compromised with Sunday lunch at the pub today with my parents. I had a little chat with the boys in the car on the way there about appropriate topics for lunchtime conversation with grandparents as they had mainly been discussing how much it would hurt to be shot somewhere in the body when you didn't die immediately but just poured out lots of blood until you got weaker and weaker and then died slowly. Lovely little chaps aren't they? Zak just spent the entire lunch drawing bombs, blood and dying soldiers instead. That's fine. It's art innit.
So I intend on spending the next few days in one of the following three states (a) drunk (b) asleep (c) stuffing my face. Possibly a combination of two of them at any one time is more likely. Dog with two dicks.
Saturday, 19 October 2013
MAgic
I'm pretty convinced that my blog posts will become less frequent from now on as I started my MA today and have just found out about the 12000 words I need to write this year and the 20000 I will be writing next year. Wow.
My opening line of, "Did anyone else sign up to this pissed?", this morning went down a treat with my fellow academic students, as you can well imagine. I think I forget sometimes that other people might take me more seriously than I intend to be taken. Oh, who am I kidding? I don't give a flying fuck actually do I?
It was so good being back as the learner again instead of the teacher. I was so excited and bouncing around like an irritating over-sized puppy from the word go. There is something 'special' (and take that in whichever way you want) about a bunch of mature drama students. It is impossible to introduce yourself without jazz hands and within ten minutes of the course every single person in the room is going to be one of your best friends for life, even the ones you don't like. As I said, special.
I got a bit over-excited in our first still image and whilst clambering on to a guy's thigh to express my physicality of 'joy' I ended up kicking him in the bollocks. Oops. Would've been OK if I hadn't slammed a door in his face an hour later. I bet his blog post tonight isn't describing me as one of his new bezzies.
One of the third year students that I met today, (and boy were we in awe of them), I had examined for in last year's GCSE practical. Luckily she was happy with the marks she'd been awarded. That could've been a nasty, nasty situation if I was the newbie student and she was the old hand and she hated me to the core. The world of Drama teaching is dangerously small sometimes.
I loved it. Every single sweaty-footed-poncy-step of the wonderful day. I got so carried away with 'playing' that I found myself looking at a bloke going over and getting out a notebook and wondering what he was doing. Then I remembered. This wasn't a jolly, no matter how sugar-coated it is. I need to be able to write intelligently about this one day soon. I'm guessing this blog can't be submitted towards it? Probably not.
My family survived without me today. I consciously did not comment on the fact that I was told excitedly that they had eaten gingerbread men AND biscuits AND lollipops through the course of the day. Similarly, the butter smears on the table mats/crumbs on the carpet/toys all over the house didn't matter. It killed me to shut the fuck up for once, (although technically I'm voicing the whinge now to a wider audience), but I think my long-suffering-husband deserves a lot of credit tonight for holding the fort and letting me freely indulge my passion.
Zak found it hilarious when I was talking about 'Ken' and he discovered that was Mummy's teacher. "But Mummy, YOU are the teacher", he patiently explained to me. It must be difficult for him having a mother that struggles to understand the basic concepts of her life.
A bottle of fizz tonight to celebrate the first day (really, any fucking excuse), then back on it for six hours tomorrow. The people who are travelling for three hours there and back to get here each day must love the fact that I come from down the road and am still managing to have a half-decent weekend by drinking and rolling out of bed at 9am. Not that I've mentioned it at all as you can well imagine. Not much.
My opening line of, "Did anyone else sign up to this pissed?", this morning went down a treat with my fellow academic students, as you can well imagine. I think I forget sometimes that other people might take me more seriously than I intend to be taken. Oh, who am I kidding? I don't give a flying fuck actually do I?
It was so good being back as the learner again instead of the teacher. I was so excited and bouncing around like an irritating over-sized puppy from the word go. There is something 'special' (and take that in whichever way you want) about a bunch of mature drama students. It is impossible to introduce yourself without jazz hands and within ten minutes of the course every single person in the room is going to be one of your best friends for life, even the ones you don't like. As I said, special.
I got a bit over-excited in our first still image and whilst clambering on to a guy's thigh to express my physicality of 'joy' I ended up kicking him in the bollocks. Oops. Would've been OK if I hadn't slammed a door in his face an hour later. I bet his blog post tonight isn't describing me as one of his new bezzies.
One of the third year students that I met today, (and boy were we in awe of them), I had examined for in last year's GCSE practical. Luckily she was happy with the marks she'd been awarded. That could've been a nasty, nasty situation if I was the newbie student and she was the old hand and she hated me to the core. The world of Drama teaching is dangerously small sometimes.
I loved it. Every single sweaty-footed-poncy-step of the wonderful day. I got so carried away with 'playing' that I found myself looking at a bloke going over and getting out a notebook and wondering what he was doing. Then I remembered. This wasn't a jolly, no matter how sugar-coated it is. I need to be able to write intelligently about this one day soon. I'm guessing this blog can't be submitted towards it? Probably not.
My family survived without me today. I consciously did not comment on the fact that I was told excitedly that they had eaten gingerbread men AND biscuits AND lollipops through the course of the day. Similarly, the butter smears on the table mats/crumbs on the carpet/toys all over the house didn't matter. It killed me to shut the fuck up for once, (although technically I'm voicing the whinge now to a wider audience), but I think my long-suffering-husband deserves a lot of credit tonight for holding the fort and letting me freely indulge my passion.
Zak found it hilarious when I was talking about 'Ken' and he discovered that was Mummy's teacher. "But Mummy, YOU are the teacher", he patiently explained to me. It must be difficult for him having a mother that struggles to understand the basic concepts of her life.
A bottle of fizz tonight to celebrate the first day (really, any fucking excuse), then back on it for six hours tomorrow. The people who are travelling for three hours there and back to get here each day must love the fact that I come from down the road and am still managing to have a half-decent weekend by drinking and rolling out of bed at 9am. Not that I've mentioned it at all as you can well imagine. Not much.
Sunday, 13 October 2013
BOOM!
Last running blog for a while I promise. In fact, last bit of running for a while. 10K done.
It is pissing down today. All the excitement that was building up inside me yesterday had done one this morning. I hate running in the rain even more than I hate running. My dear friend Anna offered to write me a sick-note yesterday when we saw the weather forecast but I thought that was probably taking the piss out of all the people that had sponsored me. My husband and bezzies gamely offered to come and support me this morning but I decided that there was no point at all in any more of us getting cold, wet and miserable than was completely necessary. I had a moment with a girl in the queue for the bogs before we started when we were trying to work out which was the more attractive option: doing the race in the pissing rain or hiding in the stinky portaloos for an hour instead? It was close.
Much of the course is through fields so it was a mud bath. For the first kilometre or so I was running around the puddles doing the nearest thing to ballet that I have ever achieved I reckon. This was until I realised that I was probably doubling the distance that I was running by doing this so decided soggy feet and a muddy arse was doable for an hour or so. The first three kilometres were a dream. I was a dog with two dicks wondering why the hell I had been so worried about this and was already signing up in my head for the St. Albans Half Marathon next year. Then came the 4 - 5 km hill of death. I had no idea where I was as I had been too scared to look at the route map previously but I must say that I had never before realised that Harpenden was such a mountainous region!
It took a couple of km after that to get my equilibrium back but I think once you are halfway you realise that you probably are going to actually make it. One of Stu's bezzies, Parky, once said to me that your body can do anything and it is just your mind that stops you. I kept telling my mind this throughout and it seemed to work.
The crowds rocked up from about 6km and that improved things greatly. I do sometimes loathe running but my love of being stared at and clapped fully outweighs this so I was beaming away at people who were absolutely nothing to do with me.
I tried to think of the km milestones like labour. In labour you are striving for the magic 10cms dilation and here I was striving to finish at 10K. Each km that you pass you know that the pain is a little bit closer to ending, plus you don't have a newborn to deal with at the end of it! I missed the sign for 7km and that nearly finished me off but the joy of hitting 8km instead was indescribable.
Job done. No more sober Saturday nights for mefor a while, sorry, EVER. They should put some 10K events on Tuesdays, after No-Alcohol Mondays, for the serious boozer-runners.
What I don't understand is why, when I got out of the bath just now, my tummy is still flibbedy-flobbedy. Is Mother Nature not aware of what I have endured? I should be a lean, muscular being now without an inch of flab. Life just isn't fair sometimes.
It is pissing down today. All the excitement that was building up inside me yesterday had done one this morning. I hate running in the rain even more than I hate running. My dear friend Anna offered to write me a sick-note yesterday when we saw the weather forecast but I thought that was probably taking the piss out of all the people that had sponsored me. My husband and bezzies gamely offered to come and support me this morning but I decided that there was no point at all in any more of us getting cold, wet and miserable than was completely necessary. I had a moment with a girl in the queue for the bogs before we started when we were trying to work out which was the more attractive option: doing the race in the pissing rain or hiding in the stinky portaloos for an hour instead? It was close.
Much of the course is through fields so it was a mud bath. For the first kilometre or so I was running around the puddles doing the nearest thing to ballet that I have ever achieved I reckon. This was until I realised that I was probably doubling the distance that I was running by doing this so decided soggy feet and a muddy arse was doable for an hour or so. The first three kilometres were a dream. I was a dog with two dicks wondering why the hell I had been so worried about this and was already signing up in my head for the St. Albans Half Marathon next year. Then came the 4 - 5 km hill of death. I had no idea where I was as I had been too scared to look at the route map previously but I must say that I had never before realised that Harpenden was such a mountainous region!
It took a couple of km after that to get my equilibrium back but I think once you are halfway you realise that you probably are going to actually make it. One of Stu's bezzies, Parky, once said to me that your body can do anything and it is just your mind that stops you. I kept telling my mind this throughout and it seemed to work.
The crowds rocked up from about 6km and that improved things greatly. I do sometimes loathe running but my love of being stared at and clapped fully outweighs this so I was beaming away at people who were absolutely nothing to do with me.
I tried to think of the km milestones like labour. In labour you are striving for the magic 10cms dilation and here I was striving to finish at 10K. Each km that you pass you know that the pain is a little bit closer to ending, plus you don't have a newborn to deal with at the end of it! I missed the sign for 7km and that nearly finished me off but the joy of hitting 8km instead was indescribable.
Job done. No more sober Saturday nights for me
What I don't understand is why, when I got out of the bath just now, my tummy is still flibbedy-flobbedy. Is Mother Nature not aware of what I have endured? I should be a lean, muscular being now without an inch of flab. Life just isn't fair sometimes.
Thursday, 10 October 2013
All work and a Play.
I have always sat happily on the fence of the working Mum debate. As a part-time working Mum with a lot of good friends in both camps, I've felt that I can absolutely agree with all sides. I'm always amazed at what a passionate issue this is. I am carefully not naming names as I badly mis-quote all my nearest and dearest in the following few sentences. Working Mums can be militant about needing to do it for financial reasons. Nobody in the world can argue with that. For the non-financially stretched though it seems as if it is a right that should not be taken away. If a man can work with a family, why can't a woman? The Stay-at-Home Mums are equally as fervent with the knowledge that they are giving up the freedom of life at work that they could have, all for the sake of the welfare of their children. Both valid arguments, I think.
Normally, I work two days a week. It's creeping up however now that my kids are both in school. I've recently been promoted up the examining ladder and my masters degree is starting in ten days time. Someone has decided to pay me £100 an hour; NO, not for that, you dirty Mo-Fos, but for some professional training and I would be lying if it said it hadn't gone to my head somewhat. Let's hope the powers that be never read this blog; my invitation would be removed before you could say "Who on earth would waste a ton on this Fuckwit?"
This week is Harvest Festival at school and I am in work every day. To the Working Mums there is no need to even make a big deal of this "Why would you not be?" and I can feel the Stay-at-Home Mums rightly worrying about the state of my house and the state of my children. My family runs beautifully like a military operation and we are at the point now where I can be absent in the mornings or after school and the kids still eat and are bathed/teeth are still cleaned and spellings are still learnt. It is easy to get sucked into the idea that your domestic life can function perfectly well without you in it. Not so much. I've said before that it is impossible to be simultaneously a good Mother/Wife/Employee and Daughter and I stand by that. My Dad was telling me the same thing, that I needed to put my kids first at all times; as we stood in the pub together this evening. This was after I had picked the kids from after-school club, bollocked Seb for losing his fleece, chucked the boys at Stu and legged it back out the door to go to the boozer. Something wrong there.
I spent a few minutes encouraging a lovely Year 2 boy at work today who was worried about his performance tomorrow and we had a bit of a moment as I realised I had made his day better and he was feeling good about the play now. I thought on my way back from the pub this evening that I hadn't spent that much time talking one-on-one to either of my own children today. Luckily, I was in time to remedy this and found out stuff about Zak and Sebi's day that would have been lost forever if I hadn't had that revelation. There were things that happened to them yesterday that I will never know about now.
Forgive the twee-ness. Unusual I know. I'm a nasty creature when I'm bored but maybe I need to learn to constantly re-evaluate my work-life balance. My babies aren't my babies any more but they need me as much today, in different ways, as they did when they were tiny. Poor old Stuart has accepted that he is nearly at the bottom of the pile and pretty much fends for himself. At least as long as the cat is alive he has a slightly more elevated status in the household...
Normally, I work two days a week. It's creeping up however now that my kids are both in school. I've recently been promoted up the examining ladder and my masters degree is starting in ten days time. Someone has decided to pay me £100 an hour; NO, not for that, you dirty Mo-Fos, but for some professional training and I would be lying if it said it hadn't gone to my head somewhat. Let's hope the powers that be never read this blog; my invitation would be removed before you could say "Who on earth would waste a ton on this Fuckwit?"
This week is Harvest Festival at school and I am in work every day. To the Working Mums there is no need to even make a big deal of this "Why would you not be?" and I can feel the Stay-at-Home Mums rightly worrying about the state of my house and the state of my children. My family runs beautifully like a military operation and we are at the point now where I can be absent in the mornings or after school and the kids still eat and are bathed/teeth are still cleaned and spellings are still learnt. It is easy to get sucked into the idea that your domestic life can function perfectly well without you in it. Not so much. I've said before that it is impossible to be simultaneously a good Mother/Wife/Employee and Daughter and I stand by that. My Dad was telling me the same thing, that I needed to put my kids first at all times; as we stood in the pub together this evening. This was after I had picked the kids from after-school club, bollocked Seb for losing his fleece, chucked the boys at Stu and legged it back out the door to go to the boozer. Something wrong there.
I spent a few minutes encouraging a lovely Year 2 boy at work today who was worried about his performance tomorrow and we had a bit of a moment as I realised I had made his day better and he was feeling good about the play now. I thought on my way back from the pub this evening that I hadn't spent that much time talking one-on-one to either of my own children today. Luckily, I was in time to remedy this and found out stuff about Zak and Sebi's day that would have been lost forever if I hadn't had that revelation. There were things that happened to them yesterday that I will never know about now.
Forgive the twee-ness. Unusual I know. I'm a nasty creature when I'm bored but maybe I need to learn to constantly re-evaluate my work-life balance. My babies aren't my babies any more but they need me as much today, in different ways, as they did when they were tiny. Poor old Stuart has accepted that he is nearly at the bottom of the pile and pretty much fends for himself. At least as long as the cat is alive he has a slightly more elevated status in the household...
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