The Mix Tape

Back in the late 80s to early 90s, I was young, and I dreamt of being allowed pierced ears, a Dynasty perm, and Blossom’s wardrobe.

I dreamt of being swept off my feet by either Philip Schofield (then in his gopher days), The Undertaker (a bit of early kink coming through), or possibly Kevin Costner from Robin Hood and/or WesTly from The Princess Bride.

(I also had a bit of a thing for Noel Edmonds, then hosting his House Party, which it’s best we don’t talk about. Or think about. Although I’m still very partial to a beard…)

Back then, True Love in its Real Life form was expressed in one way, and one way only – a way that perhaps remains to this day it’s very truest and purest manifestation:

The Mix Tape.

Being presented with a Mix Tape was a declaration of adoration akin to to a Knight presenting his Lady with a handkerchief. Or a head. Or something. Look, I’m not that hot on medieval; just know it was pretty damn hallowed.

It was a labour of love.

The maker of the Mix Tape would have to listen to the radio, ghetto blaster poised, ready to click record as their chosen song was played in the charts. It was a matter of pride and exquisite timing to be able to get the very beginning notes without them being sullied by the DJ’s voice.

Masters of the Mix Tape Art would slave over a playlist designed not only to the taste of the object of their love, but to weave a secret narrative through the words of pop, rock and early indie bands that would speak to them, only them, and bind them together forever.

Next they would practice their penmanship, another lost art, in the creation of the cassette tape case, listing the songs and artists. Possibly there was LETTERING.

I never received a Mix Tape. Lettered or otherwise.

This might have had something to do with the fact I was a speccy, spotty, swotty type, with social and coordination skills constantly vying for the bottom place of any list, pack, or anything with a bottom. Or slightly below that.

It may also have had to do with the fact that through some odd quirk of statistical fate, or just that open-minded (or in my case entirely oblivious) people tend to be spun together by pre-teen/teen social centrafugal forces, I was friends with the entire quota of lesbian, gay and bisexual persons from the GCSE class of 95.

As a heterosexual, romance just wasn’t on my radar. I was far too busy with tin-pot philosophy, ordinary pot, and quaffing Diamond White in the park to be very much bothered with any Noel Edmunds stirrings. I really didn’t miss it.

I did miss Mix Tapes though.

And then, I got my very first Mix Tape…

…a couple of weeks ago.

OK, so it was in the modern form of a Spotify playlist, but still. I’ll take what I can get.

It is called ‘My wardrobe is sill from the 90s’, and it was gifted to my by Boynotquiteonthenetheredge, so-called because the git is still basking in his mid thirties and we’re not rushing into anything.

This is not just a Mix Tape title but a commonly voiced opinion from the Boy, countered by me on the double grounds that a) I’m 40 and therefore dressing weird is no longer weird but ADORABLY ECCENTRIC, and b) combat trousers and crop tops ARE STILL COOL, DAMMIT.

Anyway, it is the soundtrack to my youth, and it’s basically the best thing anyone’s ever given me.

(Although he’s also got me at various points my favourite kind of pillow to keep at his house, a digital watch because I can’t tell the time, a book of clever word-play type poetry, a pile of stones from Scottish beaches and a voicemail pretending to be some sort of Russian contractor, just to cheer me up).

The point is that it’s a seriously brilliant present. Because it’s not grand or expensive, or a gesture that somehow says more about him than me, or boringly practical, or dutiful, or transactional, or 3 seconds to order off Amazon, or really actually for the children or house but justified as a large expenditure for my birthday- or in fact any of the gifts I’ve ever received before.

It’s something I’d always wanted but didn’t even know I’d always wanted.

It’s the fact he sat down and thought about what he knows about me and what music I like and how old I am and what was in the charts when I was young (and he was in nappies), and the mood and the FLOW of it.

It’s the fact it wasn’t even for an occasion – he just randomly did it.

It’s that he probably doesn’t even know why it means a lot to me and would be slightly perturbed I think it’s such a big deal. (No one tell him).

It’s that it’s quiet, and thoughtful, and teasing, and considerate, and KIND. And I’m still getting used to kind.

It’s the realisation, in physical (or at least audio) form, of something I’ve always known but haven’t always experienced – that real true love isn’t actually Things.

It isn’t words.
It isn’t even music.

Love is Actions… and not necessarily very big ones.

So this Valentine’s Day I hope you DON’T get diamonds.

I hope you don’t get roses (gold gilded or otherwise), or truffles, or God forbid some knobhead doing a dance routine marriage proposal – less in the hope you’ll marry them and more in the expectation of viral fame.

I hope you don’t get a last minute bunch of wilting flowers from the 24 hour garage, either.

I hope you get daffodils because they were all over your garden when you were a kid and you were just talking about it the other day.

I hope you get chocolate hobnobs because you’d really much rather eat them than the fancy posh stuff anyway – and I hope they come lavishly wrapped, with LETTERING.

I hope you get a Mix Tape.

I hope you give one.

In very Mixed Up times, perhaps it’s only little actions of thought and affection that can make sense of things. Perhaps they’re the only things that can really change the world for the better.

Although Alanis Morrisette, Ocean Colour Scene and The Goo Goo Dolls can probably help.

xxx

The Coil

I feel like I spent most of my 20s trying not to get pregnant.

Then I feel like I spent most of my 30s trying TO get pregnant. With varying degrees of success.

Now I’m entering my 40s I’m back on NOT, again, other than the odd womb pang when I see a small baby asleep – which usually disappears pretty fast when it wakes up.

The trouble with not wanting to be pregnant in your 40s is that there really aren’t any brilliant options.

First of all, my vagina is old. And grumpy. Possibly, you might say, CROTCH-ety.

To be fair, it’s been through some crap… Like children, which I suppose technically have been through it. Not in my case, obviously, because of the c-sections – but still.

All of this has left it with very little sympathy for womb pangs, and some Very Fixed Ideas.

Far from being loosened by the two pregnancies/children, for instance, it has now adopted a very strict shut-door policy to any lumps of dry cotton shoved up it from a cold standing start. Nope. Nopity nope nope nope.

This makes swimming on my period rather inconvenient, and I’ve tried explaining it nicely, but it doesn’t care. It feels much the same way about moon cups.

Another of its new and Very Fixed Ideas is that condoms are evil, and it will stage an unholy Thrush Protest if faced with one. This is also somewhat inconvenient to the mid-life dater.

It is also Over the pill. Nothing but break-through bleeding, cramps, and mood swings FROM MERRY RED HELL.

See? Definitely crotchety.

Not that the pill is now much of an option anyway….I’ve spent at least 25 years on the combination pill, on and off, but apparently when you hit your fourth decade it’s pretty much out of bounds – I think on the grounds of thrombosis/cancer/misc other horrifying side effects.

Your GP will of course offer you the MINI-pill.
This is in no way the same thing.

For a start, some of them come with a 3 hour window of pill-taking-opportunity, and if you miss it, you’re not covered. Now I got used to the 12 hour window of the combination pill, and the 7 day rule because I kept missing it, but 3 hours is TIGHT. Tighter than my lady bits faced with a tampon. Even now I’m old and boring and don’t actually go out partying, and even now there are mobile phones with alarms on, I still honestly couldn’t guarantee I’d take this reliably. And then if you have a dicky stomach or put on a few pounds, IT MIGHT NOT WORK ANYWAY.

Of course after that there’s then patches and implants and injections – but it’s all more hormones, isn’t it? Pretty much like the ones in the pill that aren’t good for me and my vag is throwing tantrums over.

The fact is I’ve had a LOT of artificial hormones in my life. Decades worth. And when I’m staring sweating and anxious down the barrel of pre-menopausal hormonal doo-lallyness, do I really want to carry on? Does my vagina? Don’t we deserve a… break? A bit of au naturale? All it really wants in life, after all, is nice comfortable cotton underwear, no harsh detergents, and regular orgasms. It doesn’t really seem like a lot to ask.

So next up on the list is the coil, the middle-aged woman’s contraception of choice. Well it was my choice, anyway.

You can rest assured that my vagina was really NOT happy about having a coil put in, although it relented on the second attempt. After being probed with a camera. And then a ruler. Don’t ask.

A very nice if rather blunt doctor explained to me that in this version there was still local hormones involved (as opposed to national ones), and that I could still expect significant cramping, weight gain, acne breakouts, and break-through bleeding for up to six months. Oh, and while he was in there he might perforate my womb and would I just sign this waver thingy?

I hand on heart honestly can’t imagine there being any health situation other than Women’s Things where this level of risk plus HALF A YEAR’S worth of side effects were considered normal and acceptable. It’s madness. But it didn’t really feel like there were any other good options that didn’t involve absitenance, which me, my vagina AND my womb all voted against in practically unprecedented unity.

Then I was told I had to periodically check it was in right, by feeling for the strings.

Now while it does seem to be a demonstrable fact that the length of arm between someone’s wrist and elbow is the exact same size as their foot, I can, after a brief survey of friends, inform you that there is not the same universal correlation between middle fingers and cervexis. Cervi? Who knows? Anyway, unless I am making friends with particularly digitally stunted people, it’s not possible to feel the bloody thing. So the coil is very much an act of faith as much as contraception. As indeed is all contraception…

I feel like I could now go on a very long feminist rant about women’s rights over their reproductive organs and how limited or rubbish the options are and why better options with less side effects aren’t a priority in modern medicine and why our pain and long term symptoms hormonal and otherwise are ignored or miniminsed – and don’t get me started on the menopause – or abortion – and the impact all that has not just on women’s physical health but mental health, on their families and on thier careers, and on workplaces and the whole bloody GDP – and this is in a first world country and just think about what women go through around the world – but time is short and January is depressing enough.

At the end of my appointment, Dr Blunt gave me a nice wee card, and cheerfully told me to come back in 5 years.

“We’ll whip this one out, pop another one in, and then that’s you done love.”

THAT’S YOU DONE, LOVE.

So I am now one coil away from the end of my child-bearing years.

I swear even my vagina thought that was a bit harsh.

Certainly it’s been crying blood ever since, trying to get used to the idea. Or to the coil. One or the other.

Be More Sid

This is Sid.

Sid is not my cat.

Sid likes to sleep on my landing.
And my sofa.
And my bed.
And the Big Small’s Bed.
And the Small Small’s Bed.
And Catonthenetheredge’s bed.

Mostly, Sid likes to eat Catonthenetheredge’s cat food.
It is apparently delicious and to be coveted above all things, and sought after at every opportunity.
It is from Aldi.

Sid’s name is in all probability NOT Sid.

We named him after the children’s classic ‘Six Dinner Sid’, a book about a cat which goes round the neighbourhood hanging out with different families to get his requisite six dinners.

I have tried to discourage Sid from illegally breaking and entering my house, largely out of respect for Catonthenetheredge.

I have thrown water on Sid.
I have banged pans at Sid.
I have hissed at Sid.
I have shouted at Sid.
I have set the Smallest Small on Sid to smother him in pent-up four-year-old affection, which cannot be unleashed on Catonthenetheredge for fear of losing an eye, or possibly a finger. (Let’s be generous and say she’s not much of a cuddler. If we were being less generous we’d say she’s a vicious little cow).

Sid just comes back.

In fact, most of the time he doesn’t even leave.

He sits just outside the catflap for about 30 seconds until he’s convinced himself we’ve either forgotten or forgiven him, and pops back in with good-natured cheer, like nothing’s happened.

He patiently endures the Small Small’s maulings, with an air of palpable and long-suffering indulgence, and goes straight back to the cat food when she’s finished with him. If Catonthenetheredge attacks he just hunkers down with his ears back and tries to look unassuming, whilst not moving one inch away from the aforementioned cat food.
Catonthenetheredge is so used to people screaming and fleeing her in abject terror she has absolutely no idea what to do with him. In the end I think she’s come to the same conclusion that we all have: Nothing.

You see, there’s just no real help for it but to LIKE Sid.
He now has his own bowl, and we got him his own catnip mouse for Christmas.

The only fault I’ve found in him is that he is definitely a Free Range Pussy Cat. On the two occasions he has been accidentally locked in the house he’s turned into some sort of freak Hulk Cat and battered his way out through a locked catflap. (And then come right back in again for a snack).

Hell, it’s got to the point where I don’t just like Sid, I ADMIRE him.

And as I head into 2020 with a spare cat, I can’t help but feel like he’s got a lot to teach us all (although possibly not the bit about going uninvited into strange houses).

Because JUST IMAGINE living your life like Sid.

Just imagine.

The audacity.
The tenacity.
The single minded focus on a goal.
The willingness to fail, again and again, and to try, again and again, undaunted.
The unfailing good humour in the face of adversity.
The sheer CONFIDENCE.

I wish I was more Sid, in lots of ways.
And the thing I admire in him most is his absolute, rock-solid, unshakeable conviction that people are going to like him. You know, eventually.

God, I wish I had that.
I have always worried, you see, if people like me.
I worry about what they think of me. How to make them accept me. What they want from me – what they need me to be in order to like me, and how I can change myself to give it to them.

And I do this with everyone. EVERYONE. From the damn postman to random shop assistants, work colleagues to school mums, even my long standing friends – even my own bloody kids. Even to the point where I lose my sense of myself when not defined by other people and what they think of me. And I question it constantly.

Do they like me?
Am I good enough?
Am I enough as I am?
What do I need to change?
What did I say wrong?
How do I fix it?
What if they find out the truth?
How do I keep them from finding it?
How do I make them like me MORE?
How do I make them like me over and over again every time I see them?

A month or so ago, something of this was caught by the Big Small.

We’d had a humdinger argument where she’d basically been a BRAT, and told me she hated me, that I was embarrassing, and the worst mother EVER (a recurring theme). And I was out of all energy to empathise, distract, appease, ignore or rise above anything. So I told her that you know what? Sometimes I don’t like myself very much either. Sometimes I don’t always say the right thing. Sometimes I don’t always DO the right things. Sometimes I don’t have any of the answers. But I always love her, and I’m trying my very best to be my very best for her and her sister.

The argument blew over, but I hadn’t realised that what I said had hit home quite so hard until I got The Christmas Card.

It is the best and the worst present I have ever received.

In it, she told me that I was the BEST mother ever, that she loved me, and that she knew it was hard doing everything on my own and that she thought I was very brave. And then she said, ‘I know you say you don’t like you. But I like you. I like you because you are lovely and kind and play with me and [Small Small]. I asked my friends to write down why they like you too.’

And four little girls aged between 7 and 8, with clearly far more emotional intelligence than I’ve gathered in 40 bloody years, wrote a sentence about what they liked about me.

They like that I’m funny.
They like that I’m kind.
They like that I love to play with slime.
They like that I make them laugh.

And I cried like a baby.

Because people don’t really say nice things about me. And when they do I find it so easy to dismiss them or not to believe them. Have you ever noticed that? That the good stuff, the compliments just slide off you like water? But the bad stuff sticks? And if someone says the bad stuff to you often enough it becomes truer than true just by being consistent. And it’s so easy to believe… That I’m too intense. That I’m lazy. That I’m too much and doing too little and over emotional and being over sensitive and slightly stupid and not wired up right and never follow through, and I’m all talk and all of it, all of it, all of it. It’s all still there, not even buried deep.

But then four little girls in Year 3 sat down in their Christmas jumpers on Christmas party day at school and made me the most beautiful card I’ve ever had, and I feel like they pierced through all the bad stuff for the first time. Because for some reason they’re easy to believe. And I have never been more horrified or more grateful for anything.

I can’t work out whether it is a massive parenting fail that I’ve allowed my daughter to think I don’t like myself and set that example for her, or a massive parenting win that she’s just turned 8 and she’s done something so thoughtful and mature and kind.

What I do know is that she deserves for me to find my inner Sid this year.
She deserves to see someone who doesn’t need to be validated by anyone else, including her.
She deserves to see someone happy in their own skin.
She deserves to see someone who doesn’t constantly worry if people like her, if she’s said the wrong thing, made the wrong choice, who doesn’t second guess herself and who isn’t afraid to be who she is, always, in all ways, no matter what. No matter who’s looking.

And do you know what? I deserve that too, this year. In 2020 I deserve to see myself in 2020 vision – or at least how 7 and 8 year-olds see me. Because sometimes they see a lot of things a lot more clearly than we do.

I deserve to like myself.

And so do you.

So my New Year’s Resolution isn’t a complicated one. I’m just going to look at everything and think, What Would Sid Do?

Because Sid wouldn’t give up.
Sid wouldn’t care if people liked him – he’d know they would when they got to know him.
Sid wouldn’t be diminished by cold water, or derailed by loud pans, or depressed by failure.
Sid wouldn’t be hemmed in by other people’s rules or boundaries – he’d just break his way out.
Sid would just be Sid.
And then have a nap.

And that – that sounds like a resolution I can really get behind.

I highly recommend you do the same.

#BemoreSid
#WhatWouldSidDo?

By the way, if anyone lives in the Woodseats area of Sheffield and actually KNOWS Sid, I’d love to find out where he lives. And his real name. He’s literally an inspiration.

I AM SANTA

I AM SANTA.

This is the secret, silent scream in the hearts of women everywhere around this time of year.

Because towards the end of December we start to quietly resent the fact some overweight white bloke in a red suit and questionable facial hair comes swooping in to take the credit for all our hard work, blood, sweat, tears – and rather more money than we’d planned on spending. Again.

Yes, I know some men do pull their weight at Christmas, and some even go beyond reminding their wives to buy for their mother circa Xmas Eve, stringing up the outside lights like it’s an act of heroism, fetching the Christmas tree from the loft under heavy duress, and carving the damn turkey after a lot of unnecessary and self-important knife sharpening. That’s GREAT. Yay for transcending festive gender stereotypes! But let’s not pretend that’s what’s happening in most Great British households.

The mental load of family life falls to women, and it falls in drifts over Christmas.

We are the ones making the nativity costumes, keeping up with the non-uniform and Christmas jumper days and one-pounds-to-the-teacher and carol services and bake sales and moving the Elf around, and buying all the presents, even for his side of the family, and remembering not to re-gift the terrible smellies Auntie Carol got you last year, and thinking through what the Smalls want and orchestrating the Santa letters through a series of heavy hints so they match up with what you’ve brought, and co-ordinating relatives’ gifts and writing the Christmas cards and then bullying the Small people into writing 60 more bloody Christmas cards for the classes because it’s part of Small social engineering, and waiting up to get the Tesco delivery slot and then STILL having to do to an over-crowded supermarket with two kids in tow anyway for last minute bits on Christmas Eve, and decorating the tree and figuring out how to fit everything into the fridge and then the OVEN, and then WRAPPING all the presents and making sure the Father Christmas paper is kept special and hidden, and stuffing the presents into suitcases in the top or bottom of wardrobes at the dead of night so they’re not found, and thinking about who should sit where and that Grandad MUST have sprouts although everyone else hates them, and Cousin Sue’s gone Vegan, and making sure the kids open the matching presents at the same time to avoid arguments, and leaving out the mince pies and carrot for Santa and Rudolph and then eating/pretending to eat them and laying out footprints in flour/bicarbonate of soda, and then hoovering them up the next day, and taking the sellotape off the paper for recycling and remembering the festive recycling collection days and A MILLION AND ONE OTHER TINY THINGS THAT MAKE CHRISTMAS CHRISTMASSY.

It isn’t bloody Santa.
It isn’t the magic of Christmas.
It’s the magic of Mums.

If you’re starting to struggle with annual resentment, particularly around the fact that even a fictional fat fella gets more glory than you do, just remember you ARE Santa. The real Santa. In the ways that really matter.

And that’s how I’m going to try and explain Santa to the Smalls, when they come to the end of their belief, hopefully not too soon. Santa isn’t just one person – he’s lots of people. He’s YOU. And the magic is very real, it’s just not the magic you thought it was…

Too often, you see, when we give it is as much about us as about the person we give to. It’s a transaction – for thanks, for affection, for appreciation, for our sense of ourselves and who we want to be. Even when we make traditions, make memories, there is something of ourselves in there. We want to be remembered.

But Santa, Santa is the ultimate act of selflessness. It is an act of selflessness that as a collective we have all agreed to participate in EVERY YEAR.

If there is gratitude to be had, it is deferred by around 10 years until they KNOW, a good 30 years until they think to appreciate it, and definitely some time post their own parenthood before they actually GET IT.

At a time when a lot of us need our faith in humanity restoring – this is it. This is something we do, as human beings, together, that is kind of… amazing. We just all got too distracted by the anthropomorphisation bit to remember how amazing it is.

Because Santa isn’t a bloke in a red suit.
Spoiler alert: HE DOESN’T EXIST.

He is a concept.
A communal flight of whimsy:
A living, breathing fairy tale.

He is the best of us.

The existence of Santa is the existence of the only sort of magic that’s really real. It is a manifestation in a wildly avaricious and commercialised Western world of pure, unselfish love. Of giving without expectation of recognition, reward, or gratitude – just for the sheer beauty of it.

And that means Santa, in essence, IS a Mum. Or at least the essence of all Mums…

Because that, in a nutshell, is what motherhood is all about.
That’s what we do.

So Santas out there, I see you. I see you when the whole bloody point is not to be seen. I see you BECAUSE the whole bloody point is not to be seen.

I am Santa.

So are you.

And so one day, if we pass it on right, if we communicate it as the true magic that lies underneath all the exasperated threats, awkward knee-based encounters, half eaten mince pies, messy flour footprints and the piles of presents, it will be our children too.

It will become their privilege to be part of one of the only kinds of magic humanity is still capable of.

And that – THAT’S a gift worth giving.

It’s also a gift worth never being thanked for.

Merry Christmas.

PS. Facebook doesn’t show my posts to people unless I get likes and comments. So if you like this, please raise your hand and say ‘I am Santa’ in comments. I’ll wave back. #santasolidarity

ELF WARS

ELF WARS.

I blame America.

They bred the Elf on the Shelf. And they infected us. And now we face Elf segregation, Elf division, ELF WARS!

First there is the deep and deepening divide between parents who ELF and parents who, for the sake of their ‘elf, don’t ELF.

The first group hate the second group because a large number of them secretly sincerely regret making such a foolish month-long annual commitment of unsustainable creativity, but can’t say so, because the ‘magic of Christmas’.

The second group hate the first group because they have to explain to their children why their home DOESN’T have an Elf, while simultaneously maintaining the ‘magic of Christmas’, which essentially after infinity cyclical conversations with Smalls boils down to BECAUSE MUMMY HAS A BLOODY JOB.

Some within this group will secretly feel guilty: others militant: still more generally aggrieved, which is the British Way. The militant will talk at length to the generally aggrieved about the moral, ethical and consistency issues with telling one’s children a creepy toy-spy is watching them for good behaviour while simultaneously moving about the house at night and performing ‘hilariously’ naughty deeds. A few extreme crunchy outliers may even debate whether or not we should by lying to our offspring at ALL, about Santa, magic, Christmas, etc.

Within group 1 there will be the hardcore Pinterest Parents, who become evangelical about their cause and Competitive (big C) about it, often utilising the classic humblebrag and the medium of Facebook – or worse – the class WhatsApp group. “Oh Little Martin loves the Elf! This morning he made a hammock out of Mummy’s bra and put shaving foam all over the cat!” ENDLESS EMOJIS.

Somewhere a funny-man Dad will have put the Elf into a compromising position with Barbie, Oh the LOLS, What are we like? Monkey covering eyes, When Daddy’s left on Elf Duty, Etc.

Other Elfers will then be spurred to share their own Comedy Genius Elf Antics, thus putting up the backs of the Non-Elfers still further and inciting Non-Elf Extremism,

AND THE WHOLE OF PARENT SOCIETY CRUMBLES AND DESCENDS TO WAR.

Sooooo….

I have an Elf.

I try not to get competitive with it, or indeed particularly creative, or traumatise my children through it, or even judge/admire the non-Elfers.

I have an Elf for a very specific reason.

Two Octobers ago, my husband moved out. I had two very upset little girls (well okay, one pretty oblivious baby and one very upset little girl) and the days were dark with more than Daylight Saving Hours. I was desperate to do something for us, to bond our new smaller family, and to create a bit of light and sparkle for the Smalls. So my lovely sister suggested and then sent us an Elf.

We called it Elfie, like approximately 75% of all Elf on the Shelfs the country over, we put a Barbie skirt on her, and the Smalls were smitten.

Ours is not a naughty Elf, or a Santa-Espionage-Elf. She is a Kindness Elf. And through December she reminds the Smalls to be kind, to give to others, and to basically not be selfish greedy little boohoostards. This often isn’t inventive, because I’m tired. It can be simple as smiling at a stranger one day or giving someone a hug. There are definitely year-to-year repeats (I keep the notes). She also writes the girls a hello poem, with a poetry treasure hunt around the house to find her, simply because rhyming makes me happy and making them happy makes me happy.

Last year the Smalls found the Elf book in the summer, and missed Elfie so much she had to turn up to visit in August. IN AUGUST.

Elfing, you see, takes commitment, and energy, and frankly – desperation. That’s what Elfie was really born of. Desperation.

This year, there has been a new twist in our Elf journey.

The ex has now got an Elf.

It is called Snowy. It wrote them a poem. It introduced itself as being best friends with Elfie.

And I have Feelings.

I am now in my own internalised Elf-War.

One half of me thinks that it’s great he’s showing this level of interest in Christmas (he literally never even helped me decorate a tree). It’s great the kids get that at his end, and they love Snowy! And that should make me happy, right? I mean, I don’t own the Elf on the Shelf concept.

But.

This was… my thing. It was special. It was a bit of magic I created, that I carved out for us when there didn’t look like there would ever be magic again. I wanted to make my own Christmas tradition, and if feels like it’s been nicked. Or at least piggy-backed.

And now I’m dreading them coming back and telling me all the SO FUNNY things Snowy did, because he and she have a team and time and they’re not on their own at 11 o’ clock trying to think of something for it to do, and they’re not two years into Elf-fatigue, and I have to smile and say how lovely and keep up the pretence my Elf is best buds with theirs when really, really what my Elf wants to do is STUFF A CANDY CANE UP SNOWY’S TIGHT RED ARSE.

And that, my friends, is the Spirit of Christmas!

I hate myself. Although I think I’m having a pretty human response…
And I hate him, too. Which is also human.
And Elves. Who aren’t human. Or a sub-species. Look, no one really knows.

Particularly though, I hate having been dragged into the competitive Elfing world of the ELF WARS, which I never really wanted to be a part of.

Luckily, it’s nearly over.

In January all parents can negotiate a peace treaty and find other reasons to judge and compete with each other, and rouse ourselves to arbitrary indignation!

I can’t wait.

xxx

(PS. Now you know EXACTLY what Barbie is thinking about where the candy cane is going to end up in this picture. I like to think she’s taking revenge for all Barbies used and abused by Elves and Comedy Dads).

EDIT: For the last 2 years me and the Smalls have also done matching Xmas pjs. If even a hint of a picture of the four of them in matching pjs crosses my consciousness that candy cane will be REPURPOSED. Also I’ve had mulled wine. 😉

Topsy and Tim and the lost £@#!%

Sometimes, when the children aren’t around and the dibber is too far away I find myself watching Cbeebies alone.

Partly this is because I actually find myself caring about the plot of Molly and Me (Oops, I know), partly it’s because I have a girl crush on the mum from Waffle (we’d be friends) and partly because I am frozen in abject fear and horror of Moon and Me (Mr Onions is clearly a puppet serial killer, and HE COULD BE UNDER YOUR BED RIGHT NOW, and I defy you not to have to check this before you go to sleep).

Anyhoo, I think it’s a shame it ends at 7. I think parents, scratch that, MUMS, would get a lot out of the odd adult episode.

Here’s what I’m thinking.

1. BEDTIME STORY
First, Chris Evans reads us another bedtime story, but this time it’s extracts from Lady Chatterley’s Lover, there’s a roaring fire, and he’s forced to take his top off. For health reasons. More close ups of his eyes staring deep into the bleary eyes of sleep-deprived and sexually-underwhelmed viewers, like he knows our pain and is fully prepared to lick it away. You know. Personally.

2. ANDY’S DINOSAUR ADVENTURES
Andy can go on a Dinosaur adventure, but there must be actual peril, because frankly those CGI models are WASTED, and I’m gonna need more Jurassic Park and less stroll-in-the-park trying to get the baby to sleep.

I suggest he also takes his top off, or has it torn off by a Brontiraptorsaurasor. Possibly he has to dive into water to escape, a la Mr Darcy. I can’t decide whether I want him to have a skinny-lanky guy washboard and happy line going on, or a delicious dad-bod paunch. Either is good.

3. SWASHBUCKLE
Cook and Line are going in REAL green slime. We grew up with Noel’s House Party, dammit, and we want actual slippery slidiness not the fake bobbins they do on Swashbuckle – and also to not have to clean it up afterwards. Bliss!

They are fighting over something, not sure of the details: doesn’t really matter. I’m going for tops off again – purely for continuity, you understand. Line can keep the bandanna.

4. JUSTIN’S HOUSE
While we’re on the subject, I also want to see what’s under Robert the Robot’s outfit, and to have him clean MY house. No innuendo here. My actual house – it’s really dirty. Still no innuendo.

Right, that’s the sexy bit out of the way, I’m tired, if I can actually be bothered I can get myself off in minutes anyway because of the ever present danger of Small Person Intrusion, and now what I really want is a SOUL orgasm.

The rest of the Cbeebies team are therefore going to remake several episodes of our least favourite shows with an added dose of realism to make us all feel better about ourselves, our parenting, and our life choices!

5. BING
Flop is going to lose his ever-lasting-sheet for a change, for instance when Bing BREAKS HIS BLOODY PHONE and throws it in the BIN. He’s going to scream, possibly cry, send Bing to his room, and randomly threaten to take away everything he owns ever.

Next episode. When he doesn’t get his turn on the swing, Bing is going to throw a proper on-the-floor-screaming-fit, and Flop is going to stand by trying to catch flailing limbs, alternately shouting and pleading, and receiving pitying looks from passers-by.

6. KATIE MORAG
In the same vein, Katie Morag is going to throw a giant tantrum over having to go to too many of her brother’s four year old birthday parties because she’s BORED, IT’S NOT FAIR, YOU LIKE HIM BETTER THAN ME, and I HATE YOU YOU’RE THE WORST MOTHER EVER. She’s going to slam doors, twat her brother, and burst into hysterical tears. Both Grannies will tut, say it wasn’t like this in their day, and make stupid suggestions of how to deal with the situation involving clips round the ear and behavioural therapy respectively.

Meanwhile the baby will be having serious reflux issues and screaming constantly, while Katie Morag’s mum sits in a corner weeping with cabbage leaves on her boobs.

7. TOPSY AND TIM
Next up: Topsy and Tim. Topsy is going to whine incessantly, and Tim is going to need to be told to get his hands out of his pants every two minutes. They are constantly bickering, so all Joy can hear is ‘Muuuuuuuuum’ ‘He hit me’ ‘Topsy called me a poo-poo face’ ‘He started it’ ‘But she kicked me first’.

We watch (with popcorn/pombears) as her indefatigable good nature is gradually eroded over the next 20 minutes, and she actually shouts ‘For Fox Sake’ when they throw the birthday cupcakes on the floor.

Joy goes on to burn the fishfingers for tea, has to make two emergency caveman costumes for a random Stone Age Day she’s only just found out about, and threatens to punch her joker of a husband in the face when he comes in and asks why the house is such a mess. Cut to nighttime, when Tim wakes up with an itchy bum, and Joy pulls out a WORM on a cotton bud. Montage of Joy calling into work ‘sick’ in order to deal with the 3 billion loads of washing, and disinfecting the house. Topsy screams blue murder as Little Moon Bunny comes out of the wash dyed an uneven greyish-pink by accident. Joy unearths her secret gin stash from behind the rabbit food, circa 3pm, and breaks the fourth wall with a silent ‘cheers’ to the screen.

WE FEEL YOUR PAIN, JOY.

And frankly it’s about bloody time.

Now for the FINALE!!!

I want some romance before I go to bed, and the satisfying completion of a story arc we’ve all been avidly, if perplexedly, following for some years…

8. IN THE NIGHT GARDEN
I have a theory that the entire of In The Night Garden is a drug-addled courtship between lady of the night Upsy Daisy and tortured Smurf/chicken lovechild Iggle Piggle. He wants to get Upsy her Night Garden, all right, and he’s even brought his own blanket. We finally see them lay to rest their inner demons (represented by the rest of the cast) and consummate their love on Upsy Daisy’s bed.

Turns out someone else IS allowed in Upsy Daisy’s bed.

Daisy DO.

Heartwarming.

Sniff. No YOU’RE crying.

Please let me know in comments what else you’d add to my Adult Cbeebies schedule, or any other ideas for the episodes you’d most like to see!

Xxxx

(PS. For those who care, the Haahoos represent Daisy’s bloated euphoria on a high, the Pontipines are the little voices of doubt and catastrophe always on the cusp of her hearing, Makka Pakka is Iggle’s OCD, and the Tombliboos his warped morality – a candy-striped manifestation of see on evil, hear no evil, speak [squeak?] no evil).

(PPS. I have a lot of free time on my brain).

Write on Bananas in Biro

So I’m halfway through my 40th year, and the other day someone asked me for some advice.

A large part of me wanted to pig-snort and spit out my tea, because I’m basically the least sorted person I know and with each passing year, if not month, I realise how ill prepared I am to deal with, well… pretty much anything. Adulthood, I suppose.

But another bit of me knew that I knew stuff.
I’ve been through stuff.
I’ve experienced stuff.
And this, this was something I could help with…

Unfortunately she wasn’t ready to hear it.

It’s back to the ol’ Grandmother Paradox I invented last mother’s day. The one where you can know so much but can’t pass it on to the next woman because they need to come to it by themselves. You can only watch, and listen, and be there if they’ll let you.

Every woman is the first woman to have a baby, to feel those new, old-as-time feelings.
Every woman is the first woman to suffer heartbreak.
Every woman is the Eve of her own life…

And every generation is silenced by and powerless under the Grandmother Paradox, watching helplessly from the sidelines as our daughters and our daughters’ daughters follow the same well-worn paths, without ever seeing our footprints in front of them.

This is not what I thought 40 would look like, back when I was, say, 20, starting out on that path.

And I wonder if there’s anything at all I could say to that woman, to me, that I’d have actually been able to listen to?

Weirdly, I fear we’d have very little in common. SingletoninCrookes was a very different creature. God, she was so naive.

She was so energetic.
She was so sure.
She was so well-rested…
She was so damn HAPPY.

Lordy I often feel I’ve lost the trick of that.

She – she knew everything, already. And she ignored the rest.

She was in her last year of University, fed up of studying and not doing enough of it, distracted by this AMAZING man she’d met the year before, her first real boyfriend, with a somewhat damaged past and a backstory that made her feel protective, proud, and probably a bit grown up.

There were some alarm bells. Bits that didn’t add up. Warnings from friends. Differences she told herself were strengths in the relationship rather than weaknesses…

Hindsight is a funny thing, isn’t it?

So is advice.

So here’s the bits I think I could say that maybe I could have heard. That maybe could soften some blows, or inform some better decisions or reactions… at least help 20 year old me develop some tools to deal better with the stuff coming down the line.

1. Always write on bananas in biro before you eat them

It’s a weirdly satisfying thing. Do it. Find a banana and do it now.

In fact, just take pleasure where it comes in all small things, and stop to appreciate them. Warm socks. Belly laughs. Purring. Spinning until you’re dizzy.

(Also, there may also be something coming called ‘Brexit’ that may or may not affect banana prices and supply. Enjoy them while you can).

2. Listen to your instincts

I know you think you’re instincts are sheet hot. Well they aren’t and they are. But only if you listen to them and don’t get lost in other people’s, well… advice.

But please keep reading.

Shut your eyes. Centre yourself. Find your strength, your energy, your core, and channel it at your choice.

You’re usually right.

3. Be your own person, not who you think you should be, or you think others want you to be.

You’re actually pretty cool.

Also, learn to take a compliment.

4. Stop worrying what other people think

Sorry love, not everyone is going to think you’re cool. Not everyone is going to like you. That’s okay. Let it go. (This will be a hit song!) Yes, I know you’re really nice. Yes, I know you get a buzz out of making people respond to you and creating harmony.

But it turns out harmony isn’t everything, and nor is being liked.

Defining yourself by other people doesn’t work. Define yourself from the inside out, not the outside in. As long as you like you, you’re #winningatlife. (This is a hashtag, useful for mini-blogging, coming soon!)

Just keep hold of the bits you like best, that make you you, and try not to lose them along the way.

5. Face conflict head on

Avoiding conflict is going to impact every relationship you will ever have, romanticly, professionally, platonically.

Sometimes people will behave towards you and others in ways you don’t like. Ignoring the problem, placating, pacifying, pretending it’s not that bad, looking the other way, all of these have a price.

Work out what your boundaries are.

There will be things that are best let go for the greater good or the bigger picture. There will also be things you need to stand up for, and to.

6. Don’t be afraid of anger

Feeling anger is okay. Expressing anger can be okay, too. It doesn’t make you a bad person. It doesn’t make you unstable, or volatile.

It makes you a person with feelings and the ability to process them. Congratulations!

7. Feel all the feelings

You know what? It’s not just anger. Feel ALL the feelings. Burying them will hurt you.

I know keeping emotionally steady feels safe for you. I know sometimes the big feelings come out in ways you don’t like and are trying to forget – in obsessive thoughts and routines and physical pain you inflict on yourself.

But choosing not to feel things, to self anaesthetise your emotions with bland routine and a veneer of normality (not to mention the drugs and alcohol), is masking what’s real.

And what’s real is beautiful as well as scary.

8. Ask questions

Keep curious. Don’t pretend you know what something is if you don’t. Everyone is making it up as they go along. No, they really, really are. Even the important people. Yes, even the Doctors. And the politicians.

Terrifying isn’t it?

Ask all of them questions. And ask questions of yourself. Keep asking even when you become annoying.

9. Keep learning and growing

Want to stop making things up as you go along? Know stuff. Follow the stuff that interests you. Read. Create. Expand.

Soon you’ll be able to do this on your phone! Using the interweb! Wherever you go!

10. Keep moving

I know you hate exercise. I know you’re traumatised by years of wearing industrial-strength-navy-blue-knickers and no sports bra and being forced to run (and consistently lose) stupid races round a track with all the boys in the middle fully clothed in cricket whites and staring.

But moving is good for you. It makes your body and mind feel great.

And running is good if you’re wearing a proper sports bra (invest in this!) and not doing it in giant humiliation pants. Honest.

11. Tend friendships

Connection is what connects you to everything, and tending friendships is key.

Look for the ones that you can show all your faces to. The ones that you don’t have to perform for. The ones who let you be more than one thing, have different moods, meet you in different guises, for different activities. The ones that show up at 3am if you’re lost. Physically or emotionally.

Don’t mistake colleagues or drink buddies for true friends. When the brown stuff hits the cooling device they won’t be there.

12. Look for people’s gaps

This is the real trick to identifying the true friends. Don’t let people tell you who they are, let them show you.

And if the two don’t match up, think about why, and what that means.

Look for your own gaps too. Be the person you want to be, and the friend you want to have. Show up. Keep you word.

13. Don’t forget family

You’re building your life. It’s exciting. There are so very many possibilities and opportunities. There are also dark times. When these come, your family (and a few of the really good friends) are the ones who will pick up your pieces.

Treasure them.

14. Keep up your hobbies

Find a way to do what you love, and don’t get distracted by the meaningless bells and whistles of life… or the damn TV.

Top tips: Give up soaps. There’s going to be a lot of random plane crashes/explosions/affairs/deaths that make literally no narrative sense. Meanwhile, watch out for the rise of the Super Series! Don’t watch ‘Lost’. Do watch ‘Game of Thrones’.

15. Remember you’re beautiful

No one is looking at your damn spots.

You’re not in the least bit fat and I can’t believe you’re worrying about it, because you’re gorgeous. Jesus, I wish I looked like you.

Wear the short skirt. Wear the crop top. Enjoy your body. It’s going to do AMAZING things. Try loving it.

16. Say yes

Say yes to the night out, the trip, the experience, the everything.

17. Say no

Learn to say no if you need to protect your boundaries. No isn’t a negative. It can be a strength.

18. Don’t save things for best

Look, stop saving stuff for best. It’s not the 1950s.

I don’t care if it’s evening wear, trust me, you soon won’t be going out as much, and you should just wear it everyday if you love it. No, it won’t wear out. That’s really not a thing. It’ll go out of fashion first. It’s just your Mum talking, because she is from the 1950s. She’s old, like, over 40, what does she know???

Apart from shoes. They do wear out. Get them reheeled and save yourself a fortune.

19. Be honest

Sometimes, you lie.

You lie to put people at ease, to create a relationship – sure I know that book/show/place. You lie because you don’t feel like you’re enough without embellishment. You lie to yourself because you can’t face feelings, conflict, pressure, decisions, even the truth.

You lie because you are hiding, from so much.

You don’t need to do this.

20. Check who you are

These are the questions you should be asking yourself. Are you someone you like? Are you someone you recognise? Are you being the best you, the very truest version of you?

Check in with yourself every now and again. And make changes if you can’t answer yes.

21. Expect the unexpected

There will be stuff. You can handle the stuff.

You are far, far stronger than you think you are.

22. Everything will be ok

Spoiler alert! It all works out in the end. Everything will be ok.

I promise.

Looking back at this list, BUGGER 20 year old me. That beeyatch can fend for herself!

All of this is the advice I need RIGHT NOW.

Maybe this is the year I’ll start to take it.
Maybe this is the year I’ll learn the lessons of half of a lifetime.
Maybe this is the year I’ll start to live them…

If you’ve got some advice to add to my list, I’d genuinely love to hear it.

I’m now officially old enough to try and transcend the Grandmother Paradox, and learn something from those who’ve gone before me.

I hope.

In two minds

So my Small Small goes to Big School next week.

Well. Not next week, obviously, when the Big Small goes back. That would be too simple a September Childcare Challenge for the Working Parent!

Instead there is a week’s wait, the dreaded Teacher Home Judgement Visit, and then an interesting series of several hours in and around not including and then including lunch, followed by half days and, in theory only, an ACTUAL start somewhere in mid-September, which may or may not exist as a moment in time. WHO CAN KNOW?

Gird.
Your.
Loins.
(And hoovers for the home visit).

But beyond Mild Exasperation/PANIC, there are a lot of other emotions churning under the surface as we reach what’s a heavy milestone for everyone, first or second time round.

In my case, the Small Small (as the name implies) is also the Last Baby.

And she got big far, far too quickly.

The start of school marks so many ends, so many lasts – and so many of them slipped past without me noticing them. Not really. Not enough.

The last Mummy/Small Small one-on-one day.
The last sling ride.
The last rendition of Row row row your boat (don’t forget to scream).
The last buggy trip.
The last playgroup.
The last pull-ups.
The last time I walk into a room to find her in her pants, half upside down with a leg stuck out at a funny angle, telling me “Mummy, this is one of my nastics”. (She says GYMnastics now).
The last day of nursery.
The last of the delicious, squidgy thighs.
The last of babyhood…

The last of being a Mum to really small Smalls – something that has defined me, changed me, broken me, and MADE me, over again, for 7 years.

And I am gut-wrenchingly empty at the thought of losing that, losing her, losing me, losing us.

I’m also filled with excitement.

I’m excited about what she’ll learn and do and bring home and observe and SAY.
I’m excited to see her grow and thrive and learn and read and write.
I’m excited to receive my first ‘I love you’ note – and my first ‘I hate you’ note.
I’m excited to have more hours to myself.
I’m excited about doing chores SOLO and EFFECTIVELY – without eating into evenings and weekends.
I’m excited about having more energy to be the parent I want to be.
I’m excited about taking time to write, and be, and SHOP AT ALDI.

I’m excited to become – magically and without conscious effort – that Mum who turns up at the school gate in full make-up and Active Leisure Wear, who drops off the perfectly turned out poppets ON TIME, and goes for a jog and possibly an Iced Latte, which I will suddenly like the taste of, as well as being able to actually run without sweating all the make-up off, and as well as suddenly owning actual items of lycra that were manufactured AFTER 2003.

THIS WILL HAPPEN AUTOMATICALLY DAMMIT DON’T TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME.

I’m excited about the freedom, what I’ll gain;
I’m terrified about what I’ll lose, set adrift.

And this, this mixture of feelings, this double view, this dichotomy, is very much my experience of motherhood.

Too often, I am two.

I am in two minds, I am both at once, I am opposites.
I am desperate for this long, long summer holiday to be over so I can get some routine back, and yet so conscious I only get 17 or 18 of them, if I’m lucky, these summers, and now she’s 7 I’m nearly halfway through with the Big Small and there isn’t anywhere near enough time left. There never will be.

I am desperate to touch them and feel their bodies against mine, and I want to be left alone in my own skin without being mauled, just for a minute.

I am love, so deep I can’t feel the bottom, and I am rage, so huge and ugly and mindless it scares the bejeezus out of me.

I am exhausted to the marrow of my bones, craving sleep all day, and too het up, too wired to drop off, too afraid of the next one.

I am enthralled by my children and SO DAMN BORED of the grinding monotony of parenthood.

I am happier and more fulfilled than I’ve ever been, and more desperately, hollowingly, harrowingly sad.

I dream of time by myself, my old life, the old me – and I wouldn’t change a thing, never want to leave them for a second, and hate it when Daddy weekends roll round so quickly.

I am all of these all at once, all ways, always, all days.

And it’s not just being in two minds.

There is a general and constant duality to motherhood, with the emphasis on DUEL – an eternal, internal conflict, double-taking, second-guessing, checking and re-checking, umming and ahhing, vacillating, a madness of options and choices and what-ifs and fears, and highs and lows and inconsistencies I can’t separate and won’t be boxed or contained or ordered.

Once, this was not the case.

I had one mind and it was SURE.
I had one feeling, and I knew it was TRUE.

There was black and there was white. Now there is gray and there is haze…

Being BOTH like this makes me feel like I am less, like I am less than I was, like I am nothing.

Nothing whole.
Nothing solid.
Nothing substantial.

Like nothing I do or say or think or feel is right or certain.

And it feels like there is no path forwards, just twisting, concentric, confusing circles of smoke and mirrors.

But I’m trying to remember that both, by mathematical definition (as the Smalls starting school are soon to learn), is actually MORE.

By being and feeling and thinking everything all at once, I am more.

With my double vision and double heart I have more empathy, I can see more angles, find more solutions, create more patterns. Conceive more beauty.

Being both doesn’t make me nothing;
It makes me everything.

(Just possibly not Hyper Groomed Jogging Mum on the School Run).

Motherhood split me in two, twice, literally from the c-sections, and figuratively in so many other ways, so many other times.

And I am only just learning that this didn’t break me. It multiplied me. Like an amoeba – an aMUMba! And that is a type of success, a type of power. A type of immortality…

And as I am both again, in two minds over the Small Small’s school start, I also know I will continue to grow through this new division, and the next.

I CAN be both. It does not make me mad, or less, or stupid, or confused.

I can be EVERYTHING, at once.

I can divide, and conquer.

I am MORE than I was.

And so are you.

The Final Straw

Hi. I’m Mumonthenetheredge, and this – this is the Final Straw.

It was the final straw when my boiler started tweeting.

Turns out a baby bird fell from a nest in the soffits down the cavity wall behind it. Me and the emergency gas engineer could see it’s little beak and open mouth – a brick’s distance away through a gap by the pipe – but we couldn’t get to it. We had to block up the hole and I had to wait for it to die. It took longer for it’s mother to stop calling for it.

WHY IS THIS EVEN A THING???

It’s the sort of special Thing that seems like it only really happens to me. Oh, and it also cost me £100 call-out fee for the priveledge.

It was the last straw when Catonthenetheredge finally found her inner hunter – and bought me my first present. I’ve since had a two dead mice, a decapitated sparrow, and a real LIVE blackbird who could NOT be persuaded I was trying to help it.

I mean really, God, HAVE THE BIRDS OF NETHER EDGE NOT SUFFERED ENOUGH???

It was the final straw when, although on board with the lesson that one must always say thank you for presents even if you don’t really like them, both Smalls now refuse to go downstairs by themselves in case they get given a bird.

(I have not told them about the one rotting in the wall. They don’t need to know this is a thing. Hell, I don’t need to know this is a thing).

It was the final straw scraping the underside of car on the curb in the world’s most spectacular parallel park fail. That’s going to cost. And the gas engineer got this month’s contingency budget…

It was the final straw spilling cream under the massive fridge freezer at the end of a long, long day. Milk may not be worth crying over, turns out cream defo is.

It was the final straw to get the letter from the tax man to say I owed them a *SHED* load of money because essentially I’m stupid and can’t adult. Or at least add. Which it turns out is the first two very important letters of adulting – and you DO need to learn it at school after all. (You were right Mr Donnolly!)

It was the final straw to carefully make all the beds – the superking twice as it’s impossible to tell which way round the stupid duvet goes – and then shut Catonthenetheredge (practising hunter concealment techniques) in the room overnight. Where she used the bed as a litter tray. And weed through the pillow. And duvet. And mattress.

Ever tried to get a soiled superking duvet cleaned? Don’t.

It was the final straw trying to shift stuff online (including the superking bed) that won’t fit into the new house, and having an idiot turning up for the six foot trampoline with a tiny Ford Fiesta and an over abundance of optimism.

It was the final straw being trolled by some OTHER eejit because another item I was selling went to someone he reckoned was further down the list from him – and he continued to kick off despite the fact I no longer owned the item in question. Because I needed a LIFE LESSON.

It was the final straw when the cottage pie exploded all over the oven I just got cleaned.

It was the final straw doing the 824th tip trip.

It’s genuinely taken me A YEAR of every-other-weekends to collate and cull 20 years worth of stuff. So now I know how long it takes to undo a lifetime, and frankly I think I’d rather know about the decomposing bird carcass behind the boiler…

It was the final straw putting all the things into boxes all by myself. There have been a lot of lonely moments in the last 20 months. This has been one of the loneliest. (On the other hand, I have also learned you should pack your music system last, because doing it in silence makes it even worse. Another life lesson!)

It was the final straw to find the toy boxes unpacked. Thanks kids.

It was the final straw when in contrast, my ex cheerily told the kids on speakerphone how my ex in-laws were at his new place helping them upack and putting up curtains. Because they did that for me three times. And I don’t have family in Sheffield. And I don’t get that this time. And sometimes it’s hard to be reminded of it.

It was the final straw when, upon being offered first dibs on the trampoline, he told me about his and ***Jessica’s*** plans for their new garden. Because I needed to know that.

It was the final straw to be screamed at by Big Small for daring to forget her school bags one day, ruining her life, and then to be further berated by Small Small for having to return with them 20 minutes later. Why did you do that Mummy? You’re a bad Mummy.

(The ingratitude and lack of empathy sometimes really is breathtaking, isn’t it? And no matter how many straws you’re not allowed to howl at them about all the things you do and go through for them).

It was the final straw to start weeing blood and having to go to and fro with urine samples for the right antibiotics, which then weren’t in stock at any local chemist.

Also, WHY DO THEY MAKE SMALL POTS SO SMALL THESE DAYS? These are not circumstances where I feel particularly like practising the aim of my urethra!!!!

It was the final straw to find both sets of solicitors believing the other one owes them information, and sitting merrily in their offices doing nothing and refusing to talk to each other.

It was the final straw to find a last minute covenant saying I couldn’t work from home from my new home, when I WORK FROM HOME FOR A LIVING.

(I know this is traditionally SUPPOSED to be one of the most stressful times of your life, but I can’t help thinking our archaic legal system and the ego of individual legal folks ISN’T BLOODY HELPING).

It was the final straw to be told my ex and **Jessica** have decided it’s now time for her to start attending school events.

It was the final straw seeing my Dad for the first time in months, suffering the side effects of chemo, looking older and iller than I’ve ever seen him.

It was the final straw hearing my Mum talk about what she’d do when he was gone.

It was the final straw watching Titanic for the first time ever, and thinking about what love ought to look like.

(I held out until bloody Celene started up at the end. Emotionally manipulative COWBAG).

And then every work email, every phone call, every text, every mishap, every chore, every DAY really starts to feel like the final straw – the one that broke the camel’s back.

As a child, I used to think that’s why camels had humps. That the straw had created the indent in between the two… And actually – that’s sort of how I feel. Like my back is bowing in the middle under hundreds of pressures little and big.

(Or that could just be the water infection reaching my kidneys – who can really tell?)

The thing is, that whatever flavour of brown stuff hits the fan – in big splats or tiny nuggets – it turns out I am not, after all, anything like a Barbie doll.

I’m a Weeble.

Because every time I get knocked – and there have been A LOT of knocks in recent times, going way beyond my current list of straws – I get back up again.

I reel, and I roll, and I’m as surprised as anyone to find myself popping back up, rocking to find my balance, going dizzily through the motions, steadying, readying to take the next hit.

And get back up after that one, too.

My superpower isn’t flying or invisibility or super strength – it’s better than that.

It’s endurance.

Increasingly, it’s resilience.

The straws don’t break me – even when I expect them to.

Instead, I am learning to take them and use them to build a new nest. A place of safety and nurture that starts inside MYSELF. One that will grow on the outside to create our new home, should we ever (please God) get into it. (Which we should, as we have now sacrificed enough birds).

It’s the nest on my inside that cushions each fall, and that provides ballast for the storms. It’s what means that when I wobble, I don’t stay down.

I’ll just have to be super-sure not to put it in the soffits above anyone’s boiler…

The Alt To Do List

Last weekend, I went to a GIG.

The last time I went to see someone play live it was probably Placebo, or Crowded House, back in their (and my) heyday.
Don’t judge me.

I’d genuinely forgotten how exhilarating live music is.

The beat through your feet, up into your heart, pounding in your head and ringing in your ears, the atmosphere of the crowd, the movement and mood created by lots of people in one space – none of them under 3 foot and demanding sole possession of the Ikea pink plastic cup.

For the first time in a long time, I felt ALIVE.

While NOT HAVING SEX.

Because actually, that’s something I struggle with.
(Remembering I’m alive – not not having sex).

There are very few moments in my life, right now, that are truly mine.

And I often find it hard to BE in them, when they come along.

There is always so much to be done, so many deadlines, so many responsibilities, so many interdependencies, that I end up living in a constantly ticking-over To Do list.

You’ve probably got your own List.

And sometimes, sometimes it takes over.

For me, when The List gets out of hand, it means my eye is always on what’s next, what’s got to happen before the next thing can happen, what adulting I need to tick off right now before someone starts yelling at me – from my boss, to the school office, to people who need their bills paid, to the children who need their tea/playdate/project/insert-random-Small-Person-goal-here.

Boy, adulting is TOUGH. And The List is relentless…

It’s particularly gruelling living under The List at the moment, because I’m trying to sell my house, and sift through 20 years of rubbish to downsize to a new one. It’s adulting on acid. And I DON’T KNOW if there’s drains or wires crossing the property. I CAN’T REMEMBER when we had the damn windows done, and if I have to make another tip trip halfway across the city I’m going to SCREAM. (Also if I meet any more mahoosive spiders in the garage).

There is also always washing to sort, bags to pack, forms to fill in, errands to run, chores to do, and places to be by certain times, hurry up, put your shoes on, WE’RE GOING TO BE LATE.

If I stop, The List just keeps piling up ready to break in at 3am, and whirl endlessly around my head.

Sometimes writing The List down can tame it.
Other times, it just confirms that it’s a really, really TWONKINGLY LONG LIST.

Right now, it’s like I am always on a countdown trajectory to bedtime, theirs and mine, going through The List of what needs to be done to get to the next day without getting into deep or difficult waters, and then starting all over again from the top. And never, ever reaching the end.

The trouble is, that in the thunder of doing, in my enslavement to The List, I miss out on LIVING.

I am too focussed on the next moment and the path to it, to enjoy the one I’m in. And even the nice stuff ends up feeling like things I’ve just got to tick off and move on from.

Watching the Dropkick Murphys gave me no choice but to be there and to FEEL.

The noise, heat, life, beat filled me up and pushed out everything else, buoyed me up, so I could just… be.

There was no room for The List.

And that’s something I need more of.

So this week I’ve been trying to remember the things that fill me up, that allow me to feel present, and happy, and ALIVE. All the things that transcend The List. And then to do more of them.

So here’s my ALTERNATIVE To Do List:

1. Listen to music
I don’t use it enough to change my mood and our mood as a family – and it’s right there on tap in my house. Yay Spotify! And when the roller coaster of TO DO is about to tip me over the edge, I’m going to use it.

2. Dance
I love to dance. At the moment I still have a big living room. I can PHYSICALLY shake off the weights pulling me away from the ‘moments’ I should be savouring. And I can teach the Smalls how to use it to do the same.

3. Have sex
Recently my go to solution for remembering I’m alive. 😉

4. Talk to friends
I forget so easily how much I enjoy being with other people. When The List gets too long I batan down the hatches and attempt to power through, go to bed and try and get enough rest in to tackle it the next day. I don’t go out, brainstorm, ask for help, or take respite in others’ company or experiences. I get such a buzz from connection, I just need to remember to… connect.

5. Writing
I’ve struggled to write in recent weeks. I’ve got so much to say, things I can’t say, thoughts I can’t form, and other things that just seem to take priority. Like packing.
But look, here I am getting over myself and just doing it without creating imaginary barriers!!! Go me. And it DOES make me feel more present.

6. Playing
I love to play. I’m probably the only person over 35 in the whole world who genuinely LOVES PLAY CENTRES.
Don’t judge me again.
But when there’s so damn much to do, playing too often goes to the very bottom of The List – if it makes it on there at all. Playing takes energy, and when all that’s going on the adulting, accessing your inner kid is HARD.
This week though, I spent an entire day with the Small Small getting ‘stuck’ speaking in nonsense every other time she kissed me. With a lot of wild gesticulation – and a LOT of laughing.

And that – that’s LIVING.

Not existing. Not listing – sideways, about to capsize.

The thing is, with The List, you see, is there ISN’T an end.
It’s a trick, to drown you.
And it LIES.

It helps perpetuate that nagging sense I’m not enough, not doing enough, not being enough, not achieving enough…

But when I get out from under it – when you get out from under yours – when you’re really present and really alive and really yourself, when you remember to let yourself fill up, and let that anchor you in the moment – you ARE enough.

And this last week I actually felt it – in Rose Tattoo in Birmingham, in a 4 year-olds laugh in the car, and in dancing to ‘Holding out for a Hero’ in the living room.

I felt it, and it felt wonderful.

So if you have currently lost yourself in a List, if you are sinking under its weight, try making a new one…

I’d love to hear what’s on it.