So here's the thing. I'm not sure we can have it all. Having just returned to work full time full time I feel either completely manic and frazzled or completely manic and frazzled. Whilst just about everything in my life (that can be) is outsourced or delegated already, I'm either doing it wrong or something's going to have to give.
Everywhere you look there's best advice from either side of the working Mums debate. Which side, if you had to choose, should it be? Should we have to choose? Is this a sex issue (as in male or female, not are you getting any)? I'm not so sure.
Check out the 4 Hour WorkWeek by Tim Ferris...
Monday 22 November 2010
Monday 19 July 2010
man flu
Not sure where the last few weeks have gone. Mostly working, working and more working alongside seemingly endless kids parties. What is it about this time of year for never having a weekend (or spare minute for that matter) free?
All this chaos - and most probably the temperature drop of 15 degrees - have made me feel about 150, exhausted and with a hideous cold.
Given my complete inability to lie down in the day unless I really can't get out of bed (the last time was when I slipped discs in 2005) I took myself off to work today in the hope that the paracetamol/ ibroprufen (sp?)/ borocca (sp. again - probably ODd?)/ olbas/ tea/ soup routine would take effect. Infact, an innocent status update on Facebook led me to discover www.manflu.org.uk probably one of the funniest spoof sites/ blogs I've looked at in a while.
Check it out. The questionnaire itself is worth a look and it certainly makes you laugh more than being put on hold by NHS Direct and told to 'rest, drink lots & take it easy'.
All this chaos - and most probably the temperature drop of 15 degrees - have made me feel about 150, exhausted and with a hideous cold.
Given my complete inability to lie down in the day unless I really can't get out of bed (the last time was when I slipped discs in 2005) I took myself off to work today in the hope that the paracetamol/ ibroprufen (sp?)/ borocca (sp. again - probably ODd?)/ olbas/ tea/ soup routine would take effect. Infact, an innocent status update on Facebook led me to discover www.manflu.org.uk probably one of the funniest spoof sites/ blogs I've looked at in a while.
Check it out. The questionnaire itself is worth a look and it certainly makes you laugh more than being put on hold by NHS Direct and told to 'rest, drink lots & take it easy'.
Friday 4 June 2010
"Holiday"
Just back from holiday. 2 weeks on a sunny(ish) spanish island with plenty of sun, sea, sand. Food and wine aplenty and yep, not a lot of sleep or chilling out but definitely a holiday from life at home.
Tell people without kids that you're off on holiday and they feel you should come back nicely bronzed, very relaxed, looking at least 5 years younger, blah, blah, blah. Little do they realise that a 'holiday' with kids is fabulous but you'll feel none of the above during or after the break! I did look back on my old life a few times while on holiday, longing to have an afternoon on the sun lounger with just my book and a glass of wine but, you know, we got to do and see so much more with the kids. Getting up at the crack of dawn every day has its appeals too (always in hindsight, rarely at the time). We got to catch the markets as they opened and buy up the best of the fruit and veg as well as eat hot churros with hot chocolate and coffee with the locals before they disappeared to work and the tourists arrived (normally around midday day as the market's closing and the sun's blazing). This won lots of hearts of minds as the locals adored the kids and we were all made to feel very welcome.
We got to see the valley we were staying in come alive with bugs, birds and wildlife before they hide from the sun. We got to build sandcastles (you really can't get away with it after the age of 10). We got to buy icecream and use the loos at the very exclusive and otherwise private and snooty Hotel Formentor beach side cafe. The list goes on.
Time to plan the next one I reckon although even in hindsight I'm not sure either of us grown ups have the stamina for another flight with the baby. I can still hear her 2 and a half hours of yelling and the tutting from the miserable old busy boddies in the row in front...
Tell people without kids that you're off on holiday and they feel you should come back nicely bronzed, very relaxed, looking at least 5 years younger, blah, blah, blah. Little do they realise that a 'holiday' with kids is fabulous but you'll feel none of the above during or after the break! I did look back on my old life a few times while on holiday, longing to have an afternoon on the sun lounger with just my book and a glass of wine but, you know, we got to do and see so much more with the kids. Getting up at the crack of dawn every day has its appeals too (always in hindsight, rarely at the time). We got to catch the markets as they opened and buy up the best of the fruit and veg as well as eat hot churros with hot chocolate and coffee with the locals before they disappeared to work and the tourists arrived (normally around midday day as the market's closing and the sun's blazing). This won lots of hearts of minds as the locals adored the kids and we were all made to feel very welcome.
We got to see the valley we were staying in come alive with bugs, birds and wildlife before they hide from the sun. We got to build sandcastles (you really can't get away with it after the age of 10). We got to buy icecream and use the loos at the very exclusive and otherwise private and snooty Hotel Formentor beach side cafe. The list goes on.
Time to plan the next one I reckon although even in hindsight I'm not sure either of us grown ups have the stamina for another flight with the baby. I can still hear her 2 and a half hours of yelling and the tutting from the miserable old busy boddies in the row in front...
Monday 29 March 2010
(Un)domestic Goddess
Like all of us I like to try to be consistent and fair with my kids. When I say I'm going to do something, do it, that kind of thing. Problem is I have this annoying tendancy to overpromise and underdeliver in most areas of my life, particularly parenting, and last night was no different.
The preschooler had been begging to make biscuits for days and I'd promised (more bribed actually) on the way to pre-school on Friday that we'd do just that over the weekend.
Great plan. Husband away. Baby weaning and eating at bizarre times. Preschooler struggling with the clocks going forward. Let's bake at 6pm, that'll solve everything.
What was I thinking?
Baby fed, bathed & in bed early.
Preschooler fed healthy snack so as not to fill up on sugar before bed (ahem). Recipes from Annabel Karmel, Faye whatshername (from Cold Feet) & Jamie Oliver all consulted.
Now 6.30pm.
Problem. We don't have any weighing scales or measures. For crying out loud, why don't these people use a universal measure like a CUP or something in their recipes. We're only making biscuits not some michellin starred tulle.
I may have sworn at this point.
Time for a bit of bristol initiative and a cup is engaged in the task. Guestimate quantities of all ingredients, including the butter of which only about 1/3 remains and 2/3 (ish) is required.
Preschooler gorges on anything he can get his hands on and the method part of the recipe is ignored in favour of a more freestylie (Jamie, purlease) approach. It's now 7pm.
Shit, didn't preheat oven.
Oven on. Spoon dollops of mix onto an ungreased tray. Double shit.
Wack in the oven.
Preschooler bribed with a biscuit if he can get ready for bed in 10 minutes.
Preschooler loses focus and decides he needs a poo. Baby decides that now is a good time to have a yell too. Bum wiped. Baby settled. Pyjamas on.
Preschooler can smell something.
SHIT! THE BISCUITS!
Rescue some very interesting looking blackened biscuits out of the now smoking oven. Preschooler burns his finger in the excitement to try one. Both doused in cold water by the dodgy tap. Preschooler needs change of pyjamas. I just need a drink.
Take a sodding (sorry, sodden) biscuit (after scraping off the charred bits) and a glass of milk upstairs.
Preschooler announces, after one bite, that he doesn't like these biscuits nearly as much as as so-and-so's next door and doesn't want any more.
It's now 8pm.
Preschooler's book read, teeth brushed and final pee done in about 3 seconds
and put to bed.
I retire downstairs to a kitchen with no free sideboards, the sink overflowing with used bowls and utensils and the oven still smoking away on the few crumbs that escaped.
Turn oven off. Load the dishwasher with everything. Ignore the rest. Pour a nice cold glass of wine and grab the only bag of crisps I can find (salt free baby ones. wtf?) and retire to the sofa.
Take the first sip and nearly jump out of my skin to the bloody smoke alarm going off. The smoke alarm that hasn't raised the alarm despite almost weekly cooking disasters, indoor fire crackers, incense, candles etc etc. for over a year.
Run to the alarm and attempt to bash it with an umbrella. Futile. Climb onto stool, bash it with hand. Useless. Phone neighbour (Mr Fixit next door) to find he's gone out for the first time in 10 years. Climb back onto stool. Bash it very hard. It shudders but continues to alarm.
I definitely swore at this point.
Find the battery and, with a corkscrew, prize it from the casing.
Peace at last.
Preschooler bellows down the stairs - "what's that noise?". Baby starts to yell.
Settle them both.It's now 9pm. Husband phones to 'see how we've all been'. Put the phone down. Down the rest of the glass of wine and call him back.
Fortunately neither Nigella nor that annoying Ms Dahl were on the telly when I finally switched it on.
The preschooler had been begging to make biscuits for days and I'd promised (more bribed actually) on the way to pre-school on Friday that we'd do just that over the weekend.
Great plan. Husband away. Baby weaning and eating at bizarre times. Preschooler struggling with the clocks going forward. Let's bake at 6pm, that'll solve everything.
What was I thinking?
Baby fed, bathed & in bed early.
Preschooler fed healthy snack so as not to fill up on sugar before bed (ahem). Recipes from Annabel Karmel, Faye whatshername (from Cold Feet) & Jamie Oliver all consulted.
Now 6.30pm.
Problem. We don't have any weighing scales or measures. For crying out loud, why don't these people use a universal measure like a CUP or something in their recipes. We're only making biscuits not some michellin starred tulle.
I may have sworn at this point.
Time for a bit of bristol initiative and a cup is engaged in the task. Guestimate quantities of all ingredients, including the butter of which only about 1/3 remains and 2/3 (ish) is required.
Preschooler gorges on anything he can get his hands on and the method part of the recipe is ignored in favour of a more freestylie (Jamie, purlease) approach. It's now 7pm.
Shit, didn't preheat oven.
Oven on. Spoon dollops of mix onto an ungreased tray. Double shit.
Wack in the oven.
Preschooler bribed with a biscuit if he can get ready for bed in 10 minutes.
Preschooler loses focus and decides he needs a poo. Baby decides that now is a good time to have a yell too. Bum wiped. Baby settled. Pyjamas on.
Preschooler can smell something.
SHIT! THE BISCUITS!
Rescue some very interesting looking blackened biscuits out of the now smoking oven. Preschooler burns his finger in the excitement to try one. Both doused in cold water by the dodgy tap. Preschooler needs change of pyjamas. I just need a drink.
Take a sodding (sorry, sodden) biscuit (after scraping off the charred bits) and a glass of milk upstairs.
Preschooler announces, after one bite, that he doesn't like these biscuits nearly as much as as so-and-so's next door and doesn't want any more.
It's now 8pm.
Preschooler's book read, teeth brushed and final pee done in about 3 seconds
and put to bed.
I retire downstairs to a kitchen with no free sideboards, the sink overflowing with used bowls and utensils and the oven still smoking away on the few crumbs that escaped.
Turn oven off. Load the dishwasher with everything. Ignore the rest. Pour a nice cold glass of wine and grab the only bag of crisps I can find (salt free baby ones. wtf?) and retire to the sofa.
Take the first sip and nearly jump out of my skin to the bloody smoke alarm going off. The smoke alarm that hasn't raised the alarm despite almost weekly cooking disasters, indoor fire crackers, incense, candles etc etc. for over a year.
Run to the alarm and attempt to bash it with an umbrella. Futile. Climb onto stool, bash it with hand. Useless. Phone neighbour (Mr Fixit next door) to find he's gone out for the first time in 10 years. Climb back onto stool. Bash it very hard. It shudders but continues to alarm.
I definitely swore at this point.
Find the battery and, with a corkscrew, prize it from the casing.
Peace at last.
Preschooler bellows down the stairs - "what's that noise?". Baby starts to yell.
Settle them both.It's now 9pm. Husband phones to 'see how we've all been'. Put the phone down. Down the rest of the glass of wine and call him back.
Fortunately neither Nigella nor that annoying Ms Dahl were on the telly when I finally switched it on.
Sunday 28 March 2010
Would it hurt to smile?
Just had a great morning at St Werburghs City Farm. Not quite marred by the most miserable waitress/ bar tender I've ever encountered and I've met quite a few. I'm talking SERIOUSLY miserable. As in, blanking us despite beaming grins, lots of thank yous etc etc. Actually the cheerful routine probably pissed her off a bit thinking about it now. And she was probably just hungover...lucky cow! BUT, not sure someone so cool should really be customer facing let alone in such an otherwise great, kid friendly place but there we go.
Maybe I should cut her some slack, maybe we came across badly or maybe she just didn't realise the effect she had. Horrible either way and if the food hadn't been so great (even though she messed up our order) I wouldn't go back to be treated like that again. Grrr.
My mind being as odd as it is refocused to something a bit more interesting in an attempt to put such a petty experience into perspective. To some it really does hurt to smile. Check out www.smiletrain.org for some extraordinarily touching stories. Truly inspiring.
Maybe I should cut her some slack, maybe we came across badly or maybe she just didn't realise the effect she had. Horrible either way and if the food hadn't been so great (even though she messed up our order) I wouldn't go back to be treated like that again. Grrr.
My mind being as odd as it is refocused to something a bit more interesting in an attempt to put such a petty experience into perspective. To some it really does hurt to smile. Check out www.smiletrain.org for some extraordinarily touching stories. Truly inspiring.
Saturday 27 March 2010
Role models
Ok, so now I'm thinking about role models. I'm sure the whole concept of role models has changed since we entered the 'era of celebrity' but I'm not sure I can think of many celebrities, or people in the public eye for that matter, who inspire or motivate me. Actually, that's made me a laugh a bit trying to think of someone 'famous' who does it for me in the role model stakes. No. No-one.
Most of my role models are women and quite a few are working mums, including my own. They motivate and inspire me to try again or better when things are tough and I usually turn to them when I need back up or reinforcement. Sometimes just the reassurance that it's ok to be a bit crap sometimes and have 'off' days is all I need.
Here's to being role models for each other and supporting all those mums who need a bit of a helping hand.
Most of my role models are women and quite a few are working mums, including my own. They motivate and inspire me to try again or better when things are tough and I usually turn to them when I need back up or reinforcement. Sometimes just the reassurance that it's ok to be a bit crap sometimes and have 'off' days is all I need.
Here's to being role models for each other and supporting all those mums who need a bit of a helping hand.
Friday 26 March 2010
Identity
So here I am, first post on a new blog. Unsure whether this is an ego trip to bring me selfishly to understand what identity (if any) I still have outside of being my lovely (at times) little peoples' mum.
With all that time for navel gazing (!) I've been thinking a lot lately about roles. I guess we all have so many. And I'm unsure whether doing so much is, again, more to do with proving to myself (and others?) that I can or whether I really need and want such a crazily manic life.
Jack of all trades and master of none? Is this really moving me to a state of mediocrity or is 'multitasking' (god, I hate that word) really the way ahead? Is it just women who go for portfolio-ising (is that a word?) their lives?
So a bit of food for thought. Or probably just ramblings about being a parent, work and life in general.
With all that time for navel gazing (!) I've been thinking a lot lately about roles. I guess we all have so many. And I'm unsure whether doing so much is, again, more to do with proving to myself (and others?) that I can or whether I really need and want such a crazily manic life.
Jack of all trades and master of none? Is this really moving me to a state of mediocrity or is 'multitasking' (god, I hate that word) really the way ahead? Is it just women who go for portfolio-ising (is that a word?) their lives?
So a bit of food for thought. Or probably just ramblings about being a parent, work and life in general.
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