I've had two babies, one in my late twenties and the other in my late thirties. The second time I sat in a grubby antenatal clinic in a London hospital and stared at the chromosome chart on the opposite wall. After the age of 38 the line indicating the possibility of a chromosome disorder shoots up vertically, as though poked with an electrical stick. Whoooooo - up it goes - a salutary warning to anyone selfish enough to get pregnant after the allotted window of time (in between finding a father, your job, enough money) which seems to be between 20 and 25 ish. I was 39.
Later I spoke to a Man in a Suit. 'She's looking very well isn't she?' he said to the midwife. I was in the same room. And even later when he ascertained my advanced age and the fact I'd just had two miscarriages he added, 'I know it's not what you want to hear but the optimum time to have a baby is late teens or early twenties.' Transfixed by that chart I'd decided to have amniocentesis where a needle is injected into the womb to find out if your baby has Downs. 'But in my early twenties I was dating cold, critical arseholes' I bleated, deciding not to add, ' . . . just like you.'
They're at it again - the fertility timebomb. There is an epidemic of middle age pregnancy shrieks The Royal College of Obstetricians making it sound like a Pregnancy Plague. Yes I know you can't mess with biology. And yes some women (and men) are too cavalier about pregnancy and forget that it does get harder to get pregnant as you get older. BUT I also know how bad I was at parenting when I was in my twenties.
I had an easy pregnancy followed by a traumatic and terrible birth, two major operations and a period of post natal depression. In all the books I read, nobody told me that it really helps to have a secure sense of who you are before you start messing with another small, helpless life. My marriage crumbled under the stress of depression, and lack of money. Yes you can have a baby young but to be any kind of a parent you need stability, security, confidence.
I had my second baby after a couple of miscarriages. This time I was determined. I took my temperature, I knew when I would ovulate. Poor Husband was treated like a Porn Fluffer. 'Right - I'm ovulating! Get it up!' was the only foreplay he had. But I knew that I was running out of time. I also asked for and got Clomid a fertility drug that basically kicks your eggs up the arse. (Please don't ever order it on the Internet by the way and they won't give it to anyone with a history of ovarian cancer - it can overstimulate cells.)
Got pregnant ten years after the last one. Yes I was ten years older. But I was in a completely different place (uggh sorry about the LA jargon but it's true). I felt good, I was writing - we had more money - I had stopped smoking - did loads more exercise and most of all I felt CONFIDENT. And confidence is what makes for good parenting. I just ignored the advice and endless blah and got on with it.
To anyone who is over forty and wants to get pregnant, no it's not easy and my suggestion is - get your fertility checked out if you're thinking seriously about having a baby. You might have to get on with it on your own, but hey - if you want a baby that much, it's not the end of the world. There is help out there. And the women I know who want a baby a bit later - well they really really want one. It goes beyond a feeling that a baby is a right - it becomes a serious need. They really want to be a mother. And that can't be bad for a baby.
Showing posts with label The Husband. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Husband. Show all posts
Thursday, 18 June 2009
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
Inconsequentials
No - not my granny's term for underwear but the sheer amount of brain clogging stuff I seem to wade through on the domestic front before during and after any proper work can be achieved. Last week I sat through the numbing spectacle of a classful of five year olds muttering something inaudible about Farmer Duck. Despite my utterly brilliant Girl saving the show by muttering inadibly with her usual star quality, I sat, mind racing with all the crap that had to be done that day. Inconsequential crap. That nobody would notice. Unless it wasn't done.
1. Buy a green t-shirt for The Girl's Sports Day.
2. Run very fast past the School Office in case the long clawed arm of the PTA suddenly shot out. Remember those bits in the Hammer films when Christopher Lee shouts: Don't look into the eyes! PTA is just like that. You stop for a five minute chat and two seconds later you've been seconded into baking 200 cakes, directing the school panto for the next five years and supervising the school trip to Beijing. Any feeble protests about a full time job don't get you off the hook either.
3. Pick up half eaten worms off the kitchen floor. The cats have given up on offering live frogs and now feel my tastes extend to decomposing worms instead.
5. Pick up Husband's dry cleaning. I go to the dry cleaner's so often he actually smiles at me. Maybe he likes me! Husband perks up. Maybe he'll give you a discount.
6. Water the tomatoes. Wonder why they're not growing faster. Go back upstairs to office and wonder what that terrible smell is emanating from The Boy's bedroom.
7. Discover that the pillowcase I deliberately stuffed with The Boy's half-eaten apples and sandwiches that he left by the side of the bed (deciding to Show Him The Consequences of His Actions) - he has been peacefully sleeping on for the past week and the contents of said pillow are now green and pulpy. He hasn't even noticed! Resist squealing like a girl.
8. Look out of window and see next door's cat trying to have a poo on my tomatoes. Shout in rage and shake fist ineffectively. Cat looks at me then strolls off tail in the air in that fuck you manner that cats have down pat.
9. Sit down at computer. Get writer's block.
10. Get biscuit to help with writer's block. Decide to water the plants again with hose. See next door's cat on the shed roof. Deliberately turn the hose on the little shitter. Feel better.
11. Writer's block gone. Hurrah! Do some work.
12. Hear loud knock at door. Peep out of window and recognise old bag from No 42 and owner of probably very wet cat. Think about confronting her with her cat's tomato crapping habit and my just revenge.
13. Hide under the desk instead till she goes away.
14. Lunchtime!
It's all my fault. And it will be better tomorrow. But it feels so foolish when Producer rings and asks when the draft of script will be ready. Life keeps getting in the way. It sounds so feeble. It is. But it does.
1. Buy a green t-shirt for The Girl's Sports Day.
2. Run very fast past the School Office in case the long clawed arm of the PTA suddenly shot out. Remember those bits in the Hammer films when Christopher Lee shouts: Don't look into the eyes! PTA is just like that. You stop for a five minute chat and two seconds later you've been seconded into baking 200 cakes, directing the school panto for the next five years and supervising the school trip to Beijing. Any feeble protests about a full time job don't get you off the hook either.
3. Pick up half eaten worms off the kitchen floor. The cats have given up on offering live frogs and now feel my tastes extend to decomposing worms instead.
5. Pick up Husband's dry cleaning. I go to the dry cleaner's so often he actually smiles at me. Maybe he likes me! Husband perks up. Maybe he'll give you a discount.
6. Water the tomatoes. Wonder why they're not growing faster. Go back upstairs to office and wonder what that terrible smell is emanating from The Boy's bedroom.
7. Discover that the pillowcase I deliberately stuffed with The Boy's half-eaten apples and sandwiches that he left by the side of the bed (deciding to Show Him The Consequences of His Actions) - he has been peacefully sleeping on for the past week and the contents of said pillow are now green and pulpy. He hasn't even noticed! Resist squealing like a girl.
8. Look out of window and see next door's cat trying to have a poo on my tomatoes. Shout in rage and shake fist ineffectively. Cat looks at me then strolls off tail in the air in that fuck you manner that cats have down pat.
9. Sit down at computer. Get writer's block.
10. Get biscuit to help with writer's block. Decide to water the plants again with hose. See next door's cat on the shed roof. Deliberately turn the hose on the little shitter. Feel better.
11. Writer's block gone. Hurrah! Do some work.
12. Hear loud knock at door. Peep out of window and recognise old bag from No 42 and owner of probably very wet cat. Think about confronting her with her cat's tomato crapping habit and my just revenge.
13. Hide under the desk instead till she goes away.
14. Lunchtime!
It's all my fault. And it will be better tomorrow. But it feels so foolish when Producer rings and asks when the draft of script will be ready. Life keeps getting in the way. It sounds so feeble. It is. But it does.
Thursday, 14 May 2009
Waxing as Work Avoidance
I've just rewritten a sitcom for the seventh time and it's sort of getting there, in the way that you stuff a duvet into a duvet case and after much pulling, tugging, shaking and swearing realise that it's sort of ending up with the corners matching but you're getting in a sweat about it and you won't know until you give it all a good shake and let it settle.
I've let it settle because I'm a believer in letting writing marinate a little and then going back to it when you've gained a little perspective. Sadly the perspective is often likely to be a crushing realisation that what you've written needs to be rewritten. So to avoid this pain, I decided to get a good waxing done. It was my birthday yesterday and Husband was in Hong Kong on business (huh - the things he does to avoid getting me a present) - and the children were at school so I nipped off to the local beauty salon.
"I don't know why people make such a fuss about this," I squeaked at the Australian girl who was slapping boiling wax over my tender parts. "Just one quick rip and I'll have all the hair off" she said cheerfully. Then she yanked and waited till I peeled myself off the ceiling. "Do you know you have a hair sticking out your belly button?" No I didn't. "We'll get that little beauty out then!" And she hauled that maverick bit of hair out too while I tried to catch up on all the orange celebrities explaining how the recently deceased Jade was their best friend and brought so much joy into everyone's life. It was difficult as my eyes kept filling up with tears (of pain). "Men don't have to go through this" I moaned. My waxer disagreed. "Oh they do. Some guys come in and they want it all off." What including the back bits? "No - I don't do arseholes" she said. I decided to leave the conversation there. Then I went home feeling very smooth and groomed if a year older, and had a few hours to myself before the children came home. After that a dear friend cooked me steak and chips with proper Bearnaise sauce, and poured the sort of red wine that has an old, slightly grubby aftertaste but in a good way. Just like me really.
I've let it settle because I'm a believer in letting writing marinate a little and then going back to it when you've gained a little perspective. Sadly the perspective is often likely to be a crushing realisation that what you've written needs to be rewritten. So to avoid this pain, I decided to get a good waxing done. It was my birthday yesterday and Husband was in Hong Kong on business (huh - the things he does to avoid getting me a present) - and the children were at school so I nipped off to the local beauty salon.
"I don't know why people make such a fuss about this," I squeaked at the Australian girl who was slapping boiling wax over my tender parts. "Just one quick rip and I'll have all the hair off" she said cheerfully. Then she yanked and waited till I peeled myself off the ceiling. "Do you know you have a hair sticking out your belly button?" No I didn't. "We'll get that little beauty out then!" And she hauled that maverick bit of hair out too while I tried to catch up on all the orange celebrities explaining how the recently deceased Jade was their best friend and brought so much joy into everyone's life. It was difficult as my eyes kept filling up with tears (of pain). "Men don't have to go through this" I moaned. My waxer disagreed. "Oh they do. Some guys come in and they want it all off." What including the back bits? "No - I don't do arseholes" she said. I decided to leave the conversation there. Then I went home feeling very smooth and groomed if a year older, and had a few hours to myself before the children came home. After that a dear friend cooked me steak and chips with proper Bearnaise sauce, and poured the sort of red wine that has an old, slightly grubby aftertaste but in a good way. Just like me really.
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
Pets for Tea!
Nobody does fake moral outrage like The Sun. Well maybe The Mail but they're infinitely more spiteful about it. The Sun is like a fat, drunken uncle rambling on in a xenophobic yet vaguely amusing manner while The Mail is a lemon lipped mean spirited auntie who hates everyone and writes poison pen letters on her day off.
ANYWAY - the Sun ran a story spluttering in outrage over Pets for Tea. Apparently a primary school which won an award for healthy eating is breeding animals and letting the children help run an organic farm to show children where their meat comes from. Sounds laudable to me. Then one day, the pet piggies disappeared, only to reappear as (gasp!) sausages at 3.25 a pack. One mother has suggested this might be insensitive. Meanwhile the Headmaster cheerfully admits that he ate the back leg of a pig named Ginger for Sunday lunch. And The Sun has turned it into Piggygate.
Personally I think children are far less squeamish than we give them credit for and it's brilliant that more schools are taking children to farms and trying to reconnect between animals and the shrink wrapped meat we pick up in supermarkets. And without being too hippy dippy about it, I wonder why we're so bothered teaching or even exposing children to the idea of death. I remember clearly being in floods of tears while we had out old cat put down, but The Girl stood by quite calmly. No we didn't eat the cat. The Husband is still complaining about back twinges after digging a hole big enough to bury his enormous furry body. And we left a little memorial reading:
Here lies Sydney, the favorite cat. He was old and very very fat.
(The Girl insisted on the second line) And then a few weeks later I overheard her saying to a neighbour: 'We have a cat called Sydney. But he's dead.' One day she'll say that about me, I thought. Or maybe by then I'll be turned into sausages too.
ANYWAY - the Sun ran a story spluttering in outrage over Pets for Tea. Apparently a primary school which won an award for healthy eating is breeding animals and letting the children help run an organic farm to show children where their meat comes from. Sounds laudable to me. Then one day, the pet piggies disappeared, only to reappear as (gasp!) sausages at 3.25 a pack. One mother has suggested this might be insensitive. Meanwhile the Headmaster cheerfully admits that he ate the back leg of a pig named Ginger for Sunday lunch. And The Sun has turned it into Piggygate.
Personally I think children are far less squeamish than we give them credit for and it's brilliant that more schools are taking children to farms and trying to reconnect between animals and the shrink wrapped meat we pick up in supermarkets. And without being too hippy dippy about it, I wonder why we're so bothered teaching or even exposing children to the idea of death. I remember clearly being in floods of tears while we had out old cat put down, but The Girl stood by quite calmly. No we didn't eat the cat. The Husband is still complaining about back twinges after digging a hole big enough to bury his enormous furry body. And we left a little memorial reading:
Here lies Sydney, the favorite cat. He was old and very very fat.
(The Girl insisted on the second line) And then a few weeks later I overheard her saying to a neighbour: 'We have a cat called Sydney. But he's dead.' One day she'll say that about me, I thought. Or maybe by then I'll be turned into sausages too.
Monday, 4 May 2009
Those Precious Family Moments
I am so lazy that I can't be bothered to go for a wee. Now that's lazy. Told you I was lazy. I will in a minute but first I have to tell you how we're spending our precious Bank Holiday Monday. Woke up and it was raining. Of course it was raining. It's Bank Holiday. Fretted about some work I have to do. Got up and found Husband cooking sausages. Checked to see that neither of our cats Charlie, nor Lola had brought in any more amphibians, like they did again last night. They've got a thing about offering us dead frogs as gifts. Charlie, the ginger one is a bit clumsy and awkward, scrambling up walls, while his would-be prey are always long gone (I swear I've seen squirrels giving him the finger) but Lola, his sister is an absolute stalking, silent killer. She's the feline version of the girl who has ariel fights, whisking through trees in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. I know it's an act of cat love but I've made sure her neck bell is extra loud, to try and give the poor little creatures she stalks, a chance to get away.
Lola was getting all frisky and excited, and after a quick check we discovered another frog playing dead behind The Girl's toy box. Carrying out Frog Rescue was particularly annoying because Husband and I were watching Lust/Caution and we were waaaaay past the caution part and onto some majorly fierce sex scenes. 'He'd have to have a nine inch penis to get into that position' said Husband. I digress. We rescued the frog, put it outside and watched the rest of the film. It's brilliant by the way and makes you realise how oddly vanilla and blandy bland most mainstream Hollywood films are. They don't seem to use grown up people and any sex scenes always look like they've been directed for MTV by someone called Chuck who is 35 and wears a backwards baseball cap.
So today we promised The Girl we'd help her ride her bike. Took off the stabilisers and after some shrieking and comedy wobbling, she set off round the park, yelling and cycling. It was one of those seminal moments. Watching your child learn to ride a bike. Something we can look back on as a little glowing moment amidst the rows and boredom and washing up. Possibly excepting the part she ran over Husband's sandalled feet and he shouted "FUCK!" very loudly.
Back home and now The Girl is downstairs watching Husband play Grand Theft Sweary Auto. Yes, not good, but it's quite funny hearing The Girl piping 'You've just crashed that stolen car again daddy' and 'Why did you shooted that man when he didn't do nothing?' rapidly followed by 'You're dead daddy.' Like having a little Jiminy Cricket type conscience rattling away when all you want to do is play a nihilistic computer game set in a morally dead universe. Husband, fed up with her running commentary and wanting to get on with killing people has sent her upstairs to bother me now. She trotted in announcing that 'Daddy has been shot by a big ass pimp.' Followed by the question, 'What's a pimp?' I sent her back to Husband. He plays the game he can explain it.
Lola was getting all frisky and excited, and after a quick check we discovered another frog playing dead behind The Girl's toy box. Carrying out Frog Rescue was particularly annoying because Husband and I were watching Lust/Caution and we were waaaaay past the caution part and onto some majorly fierce sex scenes. 'He'd have to have a nine inch penis to get into that position' said Husband. I digress. We rescued the frog, put it outside and watched the rest of the film. It's brilliant by the way and makes you realise how oddly vanilla and blandy bland most mainstream Hollywood films are. They don't seem to use grown up people and any sex scenes always look like they've been directed for MTV by someone called Chuck who is 35 and wears a backwards baseball cap.
So today we promised The Girl we'd help her ride her bike. Took off the stabilisers and after some shrieking and comedy wobbling, she set off round the park, yelling and cycling. It was one of those seminal moments. Watching your child learn to ride a bike. Something we can look back on as a little glowing moment amidst the rows and boredom and washing up. Possibly excepting the part she ran over Husband's sandalled feet and he shouted "FUCK!" very loudly.
Back home and now The Girl is downstairs watching Husband play Grand Theft Sweary Auto. Yes, not good, but it's quite funny hearing The Girl piping 'You've just crashed that stolen car again daddy' and 'Why did you shooted that man when he didn't do nothing?' rapidly followed by 'You're dead daddy.' Like having a little Jiminy Cricket type conscience rattling away when all you want to do is play a nihilistic computer game set in a morally dead universe. Husband, fed up with her running commentary and wanting to get on with killing people has sent her upstairs to bother me now. She trotted in announcing that 'Daddy has been shot by a big ass pimp.' Followed by the question, 'What's a pimp?' I sent her back to Husband. He plays the game he can explain it.
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
My Productive Morning
Today is Tuesday. It started well with me going for a run round the park as Husband was dropping The Girl off at school. So he had the joy of listening to her surreal monologues about umbrellas and what are clouds made of daddy and can I have a muffin and do we have raspberry jam because I don't like strawberry jam but my best friend Shaniyah likes it and it's amazing she never draws breath but she doesn't . . .
Ran round the park. Came back to quiet house. Cleared up sticky, jammy kitchen feeling slightly huffy. Took shower. Ate breakfast. At some point, got dressed and watched a few minutes of The Wright Stuff where they were arguing about whether or not same sex relationships should be taught in school. Taught? The Daily Mail are full of righteous fury about this of course. One of the panellists, Jodi Picoult said that every single US teenage shooter had been called 'gay' at school, so perhaps teaching tolerance might be a good thing? Found myself nodding like an old car accessory.
Still good. Went to computer, logged on, faffed about answering emails. Posted something about swine flu. Draft five of script hovering over me like a badly written fart. Looked at notes given to me by kind producer. Sighed. Checked my online account instead. A cheque has not been paid in. The curse of the freelancer - forever chasing money and trying not to feel annoyed by it. Chased cheque. Why is it that BILLS never seem to suffer from postal problems? Spent tedious twenty minutes checking that BACS details are correct. They are. It turns out that cheque payer who swore blind that he paid into my account on a certain date made a mistake. Now he has definitely paid it today. So I can expect it in my account sometime in 2021. Sat and huffed about this.
Coffee!
Opened script. Read it. Thought of joke. Added it in. Realised this takes script over the designated 26 minutes. Took joke out. Re-read script thinking about how to incorporate a helicopter. Unbelievably, it's cheaper to film a helicopter on telly than film someone travelling by underground. Script now about as funny as a heart bypass. Phone rings. Thank God! Crackle crackle. Sounds far away. Aha. A person from South East Asia wishes to speak to me. 'Hello . . Ms Par . . cel. How are you today?' I actually say 'fine thank you' because the alternative ie putting the phone down and getting on with the script is too painful.
Look at the cats washing each other. Lola is seductively licking Charlie behind the ears. He wriggles and purrs like a male cat with both bollocks, instead of the ginger spay he is. Then he pats Lola's paw. She takes exception to this and wallops him round the head hissing. It's like watching Den and Angie on Eastenders.
It's now 12.28 and I haven't rewritten the script. Guilt and self-disgust are swirling in my stomach. Oh and hunger. Must go and put on a potato to bake.
Ran round the park. Came back to quiet house. Cleared up sticky, jammy kitchen feeling slightly huffy. Took shower. Ate breakfast. At some point, got dressed and watched a few minutes of The Wright Stuff where they were arguing about whether or not same sex relationships should be taught in school. Taught? The Daily Mail are full of righteous fury about this of course. One of the panellists, Jodi Picoult said that every single US teenage shooter had been called 'gay' at school, so perhaps teaching tolerance might be a good thing? Found myself nodding like an old car accessory.
Still good. Went to computer, logged on, faffed about answering emails. Posted something about swine flu. Draft five of script hovering over me like a badly written fart. Looked at notes given to me by kind producer. Sighed. Checked my online account instead. A cheque has not been paid in. The curse of the freelancer - forever chasing money and trying not to feel annoyed by it. Chased cheque. Why is it that BILLS never seem to suffer from postal problems? Spent tedious twenty minutes checking that BACS details are correct. They are. It turns out that cheque payer who swore blind that he paid into my account on a certain date made a mistake. Now he has definitely paid it today. So I can expect it in my account sometime in 2021. Sat and huffed about this.
Coffee!
Opened script. Read it. Thought of joke. Added it in. Realised this takes script over the designated 26 minutes. Took joke out. Re-read script thinking about how to incorporate a helicopter. Unbelievably, it's cheaper to film a helicopter on telly than film someone travelling by underground. Script now about as funny as a heart bypass. Phone rings. Thank God! Crackle crackle. Sounds far away. Aha. A person from South East Asia wishes to speak to me. 'Hello . . Ms Par . . cel. How are you today?' I actually say 'fine thank you' because the alternative ie putting the phone down and getting on with the script is too painful.
Look at the cats washing each other. Lola is seductively licking Charlie behind the ears. He wriggles and purrs like a male cat with both bollocks, instead of the ginger spay he is. Then he pats Lola's paw. She takes exception to this and wallops him round the head hissing. It's like watching Den and Angie on Eastenders.
It's now 12.28 and I haven't rewritten the script. Guilt and self-disgust are swirling in my stomach. Oh and hunger. Must go and put on a potato to bake.
Peppa Pig Flu!
No it's not funny at all. (Peppa Pig is great though - for anyone with small children. Daddy Pig is actually quite sexy. Yes I should get out more.) And here's a very good link from the esteemed Guardian with absolutely no rubbish puns about being 'pig sick' or 'oinkment' or a 'hamdemic' Right - I'm going to stop now. Husband and I sat and listened to some grave voiced Radio 4 presenter telling us what we could do to protect ourselves. 'It's like Protect and Survive' said Husband. You remember Protect and Survive, narrated by Patrick (Danish Bacon and now Big Brother - Allen?) If you think you haven't - if you've ever heard 'Two Tribes' by Frankie Goes to Hollywood, you'll have heard Patrick Allen's sonorous tones telling us what to do in the event of a nuclear attack. It was absolutely terrifying:
It was also a complete waste of time. Particular scorn was pouted on the part about the fallout being announced by 'three gongs, or three whistles'. Rung or blown by whom? And who did we ring to complain if nobody was around to bang the gongs? There was also a bit about if you were caught outside just before a nuclear attack. You were advised to 'lie down and put your coat over your head'. If only they'd thought of that in Hiroshima.
But with the mounting fears of swine flu, echoes of Protect and Survive ran round my head. We need to feel there is something we can do to protect ourselves, and our children. But apart from washing our hands, wearing masks, glaring at anyone who sneezes on the tube, and handling knobs carefully (see I didn't rise to the bait), there is nothing more we can do. 'We'd better keep an eye on The Girl' said Husband. Again - yeees I see what he means - sort of. But what do we actually do? Keep her clean? Feed her properly? Make sure she washes her hands? Yes - all that. And get on with our lives. In my case, getting back to the book. Wrote a page yesterday. Crossed it all out today. One step forward three steps back.
Wednesday, 22 April 2009
Starting a book
Oh it's such a beautiful day. So why am I sitting on the bed, laptop in front of me, fingers poised and frozen above the keyboard? Not literally of course - I'm typing this, which is much more fun than Starting A Book. How do real writers do this? I've had this idea fermenting for months now, made notes, wrote a few scripts in between, shouted at the children, examined my split ends and now I can't put it off any more. I have to get started. The words have to come out of my head *she says pretentiously* It's like editorial laxatives.
*Long Pause while I stare at the screen and it mocks me back*
Husband has just walked in and starts ironing his shirt. "Do you know this ironing board is older than either of our children?" I consider this. "Yes and it's a bloody sight more useful too." Knowing our luck, The Boy will still be sitting in his room among an ever growing pile of crusty pants and sticky crockery when he's 50.
Ok. I've got the title.
Coffee Break!
Don't like the title.
Anyone got any tips?
*Long Pause while I stare at the screen and it mocks me back*
Husband has just walked in and starts ironing his shirt. "Do you know this ironing board is older than either of our children?" I consider this. "Yes and it's a bloody sight more useful too." Knowing our luck, The Boy will still be sitting in his room among an ever growing pile of crusty pants and sticky crockery when he's 50.
Ok. I've got the title.
Coffee Break!
Don't like the title.
Anyone got any tips?
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
Princess Party Hell
Actually I’m being dramatic (she says dramatically) as The Girl’s party wasn’t hellish, although it was tooth rottingly, bone achingly Princessy. And although I’ve read that the real hell can be other parents, who ignore the bit on the invitation that reads: Parents Fuck Off, and sidle their way in, so you have to get them drunk too, they all seemed happy to drop their children on us and run.
So it kicked off with The Girl already being hopelessly excited by 5am (the party began at 2pm) and The Husband enquiring if it were possible to get Valium to put in her milk. Anything to stop her rushing round the living room bursting balloons and giving heart attacks to the cats. I finally got up and took her out for a walk, while he made piles of sandwiches. I discovered we might need extra bowls for the pudding. We had to get plastic bowls for the multicoloured fruit jelly I’d made. You actually worry about these things when you plan children’s parties. The Girl and I then trotted off to the party shop. Do you know that those poxy branded throwaway bowls that probably cost 0.2p to make cost 3.50 EACH when you have a Disney Princess on the front? Luckily The Girl was too busy having a tantrum trying to get me to buy Disney Princess napkins at £5 a bunch to notice.
Home again to find Husband had cut up lots of carrots and cucumbers in the hope of providing one thing on the tea table that wouldn’t immediately cause Type 2 Diabetes. I worried about whether I'd put decent presents in between the layers of the parcel, in Pass the Parcel. It's not Done to just let the children fight and sulk while they unwrap; you have to provide in-between presents now! A phone call to a veteran parent on emergency games only resulted in the advice: "Send them out to the park and give £10 to the child who comes back last." Great. Almost as good as his adult party game. "Two people each drink a whole bottle of whisky, then one of them goes outside and knocks on the door. The other person has to guess who it is." Anyway 1.30 arrived and our Professional Princess showed up, with a music system. The poor woman was barely in the door before The Girl, pink with hysteria started bombarding her with questions. But Tara (her real name) was brilliant, keeping 14 little girls wrapped up in the Princess fantasy -complete with jug eared Prince, numerous affairs, and high speed death in a Parisian tunnel - yes yes I'm kidding. It was all Disney Princess Lore, far healthier as role models. All The Husband had to do was take pictures. There was one bad moment when a little girl arrived and started to cry. “I want to go home!” And the mother just managed to get her foot over the door before I picked up the girl and said in my best bossy PE teacher voice: “She’ll be fine!” and lugged the wailing child into the living room where I plied her with sweets and cuddles.
There was a fair bit of nose picking and knicker showing but no vomiting or pooing and thanks to Tara, they all had a fantastic time. At one point, remembering primary school and weeing myself because I was too shy to ask to go to the loo, I shouted the location of our bathroom above the din, which prompted a Mass Girly Toilet Visit. Fourteen little girls thundered up the stairs at once. The Husband started worrying about taking pictures of little girls. I told him to get rid of the one of the sweet little blonde girl showing her knickers and grinning broadly. It’s a shame the things we have to worry about these days. She obviously had a great time. As did The Girl. Which was the main thing. As Frances Hodgson Burnett says in 'A Little Princess' - "All little girls are Princesses!" They are. Happy birthday my little Princess.
So it kicked off with The Girl already being hopelessly excited by 5am (the party began at 2pm) and The Husband enquiring if it were possible to get Valium to put in her milk. Anything to stop her rushing round the living room bursting balloons and giving heart attacks to the cats. I finally got up and took her out for a walk, while he made piles of sandwiches. I discovered we might need extra bowls for the pudding. We had to get plastic bowls for the multicoloured fruit jelly I’d made. You actually worry about these things when you plan children’s parties. The Girl and I then trotted off to the party shop. Do you know that those poxy branded throwaway bowls that probably cost 0.2p to make cost 3.50 EACH when you have a Disney Princess on the front? Luckily The Girl was too busy having a tantrum trying to get me to buy Disney Princess napkins at £5 a bunch to notice.
Home again to find Husband had cut up lots of carrots and cucumbers in the hope of providing one thing on the tea table that wouldn’t immediately cause Type 2 Diabetes. I worried about whether I'd put decent presents in between the layers of the parcel, in Pass the Parcel. It's not Done to just let the children fight and sulk while they unwrap; you have to provide in-between presents now! A phone call to a veteran parent on emergency games only resulted in the advice: "Send them out to the park and give £10 to the child who comes back last." Great. Almost as good as his adult party game. "Two people each drink a whole bottle of whisky, then one of them goes outside and knocks on the door. The other person has to guess who it is." Anyway 1.30 arrived and our Professional Princess showed up, with a music system. The poor woman was barely in the door before The Girl, pink with hysteria started bombarding her with questions. But Tara (her real name) was brilliant, keeping 14 little girls wrapped up in the Princess fantasy -complete with jug eared Prince, numerous affairs, and high speed death in a Parisian tunnel - yes yes I'm kidding. It was all Disney Princess Lore, far healthier as role models. All The Husband had to do was take pictures. There was one bad moment when a little girl arrived and started to cry. “I want to go home!” And the mother just managed to get her foot over the door before I picked up the girl and said in my best bossy PE teacher voice: “She’ll be fine!” and lugged the wailing child into the living room where I plied her with sweets and cuddles.
There was a fair bit of nose picking and knicker showing but no vomiting or pooing and thanks to Tara, they all had a fantastic time. At one point, remembering primary school and weeing myself because I was too shy to ask to go to the loo, I shouted the location of our bathroom above the din, which prompted a Mass Girly Toilet Visit. Fourteen little girls thundered up the stairs at once. The Husband started worrying about taking pictures of little girls. I told him to get rid of the one of the sweet little blonde girl showing her knickers and grinning broadly. It’s a shame the things we have to worry about these days. She obviously had a great time. As did The Girl. Which was the main thing. As Frances Hodgson Burnett says in 'A Little Princess' - "All little girls are Princesses!" They are. Happy birthday my little Princess.
Friday, 20 March 2009
Princess Party
A panic last night as The Girl suddenly announced she had to 'dress up for school'. I was struggling to get her out of the bath at the time, and said 'mmm' in that awful way you do when you're not really paying attention and are not thinking that one day your child will grow up to be one of those insufferable people who Never Stop Talking, because they weren't listened to as a child. But as I was drying her, she repeated that she had to 'dress up'. So I rang a proper mother, one who actually reads the school newsletter and turns up with homemade chutney to the School Fayre instead of a bought jar with the label steamed off. "Oh yes, the children have to go dressed as a book character" she told me." Fuck.
I ran through The Girl's wardrobe. There was a Chinese costume her dad had brought back from Hong Kong. "How about you going as Chairman Mao?" "NO!" Come to think of it, was there a book called Chairman Mao? Probably. But The Girl seemed curiously unwilling to dress up as a communist dictator. Tch! After a long series of rejections, she finally settled on Lola from the Charlie and Lola books. All I had to do was part her hair in the middle and stick in two clips and put her in a dress. Phew!
And now I'm up to my eyes in making jellies and cakes for her party tomorrow. A Princess Party. Our house will be swarming with sixteen sugar crazed little girls. Wish me luck . . . . .
I ran through The Girl's wardrobe. There was a Chinese costume her dad had brought back from Hong Kong. "How about you going as Chairman Mao?" "NO!" Come to think of it, was there a book called Chairman Mao? Probably. But The Girl seemed curiously unwilling to dress up as a communist dictator. Tch! After a long series of rejections, she finally settled on Lola from the Charlie and Lola books. All I had to do was part her hair in the middle and stick in two clips and put her in a dress. Phew!
And now I'm up to my eyes in making jellies and cakes for her party tomorrow. A Princess Party. Our house will be swarming with sixteen sugar crazed little girls. Wish me luck . . . . .
Saturday, 14 March 2009
My so called life
It being Saturday means that The Girl has to be escorted to yet another of her f***king parties (that child has a better social life than Paris Hilton) and The Boy is planning to go to Kingston to "buy some doughnuts". And speaking of better social lives, I had a phone call from a neighbour telling me that "Charlie and Lola visit quite a lot and Lola left her collar behind". Lola is my recently spayed and sulky cat. I went round to see my neighbour. "Oh yes" he said - "Charlie and Lola pop in quite a lot. Lola grabs some biscuits, hisses at Charlie and rushes out, and Charlie just sits in a patch of sunlight. They're quite friendly with our two." These are cats we're talking about. I also learned that Lola has been "waggling her arse at the male cats". The little slapper. We clearly got her spayed just in time. I also discovered that the black and white one who I named Mrs Robinson on account of her advanced years and the fact that our male cat Charlie seems to quite fancy her, is in fact a male cat called Freddie. Shows you how much I know about cats. Come to think of it, does this mean that Charlie is a metrosexual cat? Gay? Or just deeply dim? I fear it is the latter. Whenever I put him out of the kitchen to stop him eating Lola's food as well as his own, he just sits, staring in the wrong direction, for a minute before realising he is no longer in the kitchen.
The Husband and I have no social life at the moment but our children and pets obviously do so that's all right. Oh and five minutes ago I asked The Boy to help me with some housework. "I just flushed the toilet!" he shouted with the wounded air of one who had just vacuumed the house from top to bottom.
The Husband and I have no social life at the moment but our children and pets obviously do so that's all right. Oh and five minutes ago I asked The Boy to help me with some housework. "I just flushed the toilet!" he shouted with the wounded air of one who had just vacuumed the house from top to bottom.
Thursday, 5 March 2009
Plundering your life
The novelist Julie Myerson is in a whole load of trouble for using her son Jake's drug troubles in her new book. She pleads that old chestnut about doing it to 'help' other parents who can't understand what happened to their ordinarily grumpy teenager and have suddenly been landed with a smacked up extra from Trainspotting.
This all happened three years ago. Jake is now 20 and brands his mother 'insane'. She claims he became violent and abusive while on cannabis, and after several warnings, she and her husband changed the locks and threw him out. But whether or not the book is a success, or whether it helps other middle-class parents, it's unlikely that her relationship with her son will ever be properly repaired. It's not just the writing about the drugs - she used some of his poetry. Teenage poetry. I'd never live that one down.
To be fair to Myerson it must have been hellish to deal with an angry stoner. She says it "hit us out of nowhere" and being a writer you deal with it, by writing.
This mining your family - well, a lot of people do it. Including me. I put a spin on the essentially mundane; blither about the various doings of The Boy, The Husband and The Girl. And all writers dig about in the cesspit of their psyche. I'm writing something now about adolescence precisely because its a time that we never forget. It shapes us like red hot metal in a furnace. Adolescence brands us. I don't think I'd want my teenage idiocies (and there were many of them) forever emblazoned in print. But I was watching telly this morning as a friend of mine, Stephanie Calman who has written a book about her difficult relationship with her mother, called How (Not) to Murder Your Mother was appearing with another mother who had set up a website to deal with the misery of her son's skunk addiction.
Stephanie pointed out that we all have our own reality, and Jake's reality may have been very different from his mother's. The other mother spoke movingly of her utter despair at her son's change of personality, and her total isolation and inability to help him. (She used pseudonyms to avoid recognition). But what struck me was that both Stephanie and the other woman were both upfront about what they were writing; it was factual. Whereas with Myerson, the story of Jake crept in to a novel she was already writing and began to take over. Fact and fiction can oh so easily blur and other people's lives become mere grist to your literary mill.
There is also the uncomfortable question of writerly arrogance. If you're a really good writer, and Julie Myerson is, it's again very easy to assume that any hurt you're inflicting is transcended by your talent. That old chestnut - the talented don't have to abide by rules and can trample in a cavalier fashion over others.
I don't know what the answer is. If The Boy suddenly developed a skunk habit, would I blog about it? And if I were offered a publishing contract to write about it, would I?
This all happened three years ago. Jake is now 20 and brands his mother 'insane'. She claims he became violent and abusive while on cannabis, and after several warnings, she and her husband changed the locks and threw him out. But whether or not the book is a success, or whether it helps other middle-class parents, it's unlikely that her relationship with her son will ever be properly repaired. It's not just the writing about the drugs - she used some of his poetry. Teenage poetry. I'd never live that one down.
To be fair to Myerson it must have been hellish to deal with an angry stoner. She says it "hit us out of nowhere" and being a writer you deal with it, by writing.
This mining your family - well, a lot of people do it. Including me. I put a spin on the essentially mundane; blither about the various doings of The Boy, The Husband and The Girl. And all writers dig about in the cesspit of their psyche. I'm writing something now about adolescence precisely because its a time that we never forget. It shapes us like red hot metal in a furnace. Adolescence brands us. I don't think I'd want my teenage idiocies (and there were many of them) forever emblazoned in print. But I was watching telly this morning as a friend of mine, Stephanie Calman who has written a book about her difficult relationship with her mother, called How (Not) to Murder Your Mother was appearing with another mother who had set up a website to deal with the misery of her son's skunk addiction.
Stephanie pointed out that we all have our own reality, and Jake's reality may have been very different from his mother's. The other mother spoke movingly of her utter despair at her son's change of personality, and her total isolation and inability to help him. (She used pseudonyms to avoid recognition). But what struck me was that both Stephanie and the other woman were both upfront about what they were writing; it was factual. Whereas with Myerson, the story of Jake crept in to a novel she was already writing and began to take over. Fact and fiction can oh so easily blur and other people's lives become mere grist to your literary mill.
There is also the uncomfortable question of writerly arrogance. If you're a really good writer, and Julie Myerson is, it's again very easy to assume that any hurt you're inflicting is transcended by your talent. That old chestnut - the talented don't have to abide by rules and can trample in a cavalier fashion over others.
I don't know what the answer is. If The Boy suddenly developed a skunk habit, would I blog about it? And if I were offered a publishing contract to write about it, would I?
Monday, 9 February 2009
Black Dog in the Corner
A smiling lady handed me a leaflet yesterday. It had a picture of two smiling people, surrounded by baskets of apples and inexplicably in the background, a large (unsmiling) moose. The headline was: All Suffering Soon to End, immediately followed, less cheerfully by When the End of the World Comes, Who will Survive? Who indeed? Cockroaches? Minor celebrities with firearms? Rats? No – only Jehovah Witnesses apparently.
I was feeling slightly gloomy which brings me out a really sexy combination of anger and tearfulness so I asked the lady: “Didn’t you think the world was coming to an end before? And you all sold your belongings and went to sit at the top of a hill, only unfortunately the world carried on as normal?” Her smile retained its full wattage: “Oh yes” she said. “It was known as The Great Disappointment.”
I’ve had a rather grey few weeks. Not Great Disappointments, just a succession of too much not-fun work, endless slush, the bitter and irrevocable realisation that cheese gives me spots, and an indecipherable contract.
Have you ever found yourself reading through a contract, seemingly written in English but so thick with clauses, sub clauses and indemnity blah that you can feel your brain sliding off the page? But after someone I knew got into terrible professional trouble for not paying attention to some tiddly widdly sub-clause in a sub-section, I have always given my contracts to someone else with big red rings round the bits I don’t understand ie everything except Sign Here. Luckily Husband is a) a contracts expert and b) deeply and generally suspicious. So when he started frowning and mugging and re-reading bits of it over and over again and still frowning and mugging, I felt my heart plummet. Because I knew I would have to contact the company and ask questions.
“Don’t worry,” says Husband. “Just tell them you want a bit of clarification on x y and z.” So I write a very polite email asking them to explain what subsection 6 means, all the while thinking that I will never hear from them again, and I really should get an agent to deal with this stuff and why can’t I understand contracts and why am I so stupid?
“Contracts are designed to be confusing,” says Husband comfortingly. “Nobody can understand them. Except me and a few other very clever people.” He is sweet and kind and right.
I’m blithering on about this because the exact moment I send the email asking for some clarity on a contract, I can feel a dark, spectral mist wrap itself round me and I know it’s back. He's back. No warning. No warning at all and the black dog slinks silently into the room and sits in the far corner. The thing is, I don’t know where he’s come from. Or why. And I thought if you’ve ever been through it, you get a warning. I know what the signs are – a slowing up, a lassitude, and a grey heaviness. Or was the vague gloom I’ve been feeling the last few weeks the sign? I’ve been moving around a lot today to try and shake it off. Going for walks, breathing in rain and air, stroking the various animals who wander in for a free feed, sniffing The Girl, trying to soak up her artless joy. The Boy knows – he always does. When he was a baby I was crushed with PND, and ever since I’ve been sodden with guilt at his sidelong glances and “Are you ok mum’s?” I make the most of his bony hugs, keep moving and hope it will pass soon.
The moving about is because the writer and psychologist Dorothy Rowe once suggested that it helped to think about what your depression looked like and I thought of mine as cold inertia. So maybe I should call it Black Ice, rather than Black Dog.
I was feeling slightly gloomy which brings me out a really sexy combination of anger and tearfulness so I asked the lady: “Didn’t you think the world was coming to an end before? And you all sold your belongings and went to sit at the top of a hill, only unfortunately the world carried on as normal?” Her smile retained its full wattage: “Oh yes” she said. “It was known as The Great Disappointment.”
I’ve had a rather grey few weeks. Not Great Disappointments, just a succession of too much not-fun work, endless slush, the bitter and irrevocable realisation that cheese gives me spots, and an indecipherable contract.
Have you ever found yourself reading through a contract, seemingly written in English but so thick with clauses, sub clauses and indemnity blah that you can feel your brain sliding off the page? But after someone I knew got into terrible professional trouble for not paying attention to some tiddly widdly sub-clause in a sub-section, I have always given my contracts to someone else with big red rings round the bits I don’t understand ie everything except Sign Here. Luckily Husband is a) a contracts expert and b) deeply and generally suspicious. So when he started frowning and mugging and re-reading bits of it over and over again and still frowning and mugging, I felt my heart plummet. Because I knew I would have to contact the company and ask questions.
“Don’t worry,” says Husband. “Just tell them you want a bit of clarification on x y and z.” So I write a very polite email asking them to explain what subsection 6 means, all the while thinking that I will never hear from them again, and I really should get an agent to deal with this stuff and why can’t I understand contracts and why am I so stupid?
“Contracts are designed to be confusing,” says Husband comfortingly. “Nobody can understand them. Except me and a few other very clever people.” He is sweet and kind and right.
I’m blithering on about this because the exact moment I send the email asking for some clarity on a contract, I can feel a dark, spectral mist wrap itself round me and I know it’s back. He's back. No warning. No warning at all and the black dog slinks silently into the room and sits in the far corner. The thing is, I don’t know where he’s come from. Or why. And I thought if you’ve ever been through it, you get a warning. I know what the signs are – a slowing up, a lassitude, and a grey heaviness. Or was the vague gloom I’ve been feeling the last few weeks the sign? I’ve been moving around a lot today to try and shake it off. Going for walks, breathing in rain and air, stroking the various animals who wander in for a free feed, sniffing The Girl, trying to soak up her artless joy. The Boy knows – he always does. When he was a baby I was crushed with PND, and ever since I’ve been sodden with guilt at his sidelong glances and “Are you ok mum’s?” I make the most of his bony hugs, keep moving and hope it will pass soon.
The moving about is because the writer and psychologist Dorothy Rowe once suggested that it helped to think about what your depression looked like and I thought of mine as cold inertia. So maybe I should call it Black Ice, rather than Black Dog.
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