Saturday 28 August 2010
Thursday 26 August 2010
Keep Calm & Carry On
I know that this is one of life's basic eternal questions but...
How come some days, life seems so easy... and other days so difficult??
This question trots around in my mind as we enter day 4 of my week at home with the two boys.
I am embarrassed to admit it (after all, millions of strong women breeze through this childcare lark for far longer than 4 days without so much as a cross word), but what is a blog for if not for truthfulness?: it's been (not quite) 4 days, and I am already feeling shaky.
On Monday, it was easy. I relished being here with them. I was creative and enthusiastic and chatty... and I showed admirable patience when it came to coaxing a few bites of non-sweet food down BB's throat.
By mid-afternoon, I was feeling so serene I actually started to wonder whether the decision to pursue my career might not have been the wrong one. After all, I was GOOD at being a mother! Just look at my happy, clean, fulfilled little guys! Yup, I was on top of things.
On Tuesday, there was the birthday party and the shopping and the victory of forward planning over potential tantrums. Again, I felt pretty damned chuffed with myself.
On Tuesday night, LB decided that lone sleeping was no longer for him, and screamed until we caved in, shuffled up to the edges of our bed, and let him occupy the middle zone.
I notched up around 2 hours sleep (off and on), before my little bed-friend decided it was time for the day's activities to begin.
Wednesday, I cannot even claim as my own, since FH had the day off work, and the four of us headed to the beach to spend a fun day with my uncle, aunt and cousins.
And now, it's Thursday. My attempt to shower and wash my hair turned into a military operation, restricted somewhat by the handicap of having one child clamped to my leg and another poking at my wet head and asking (in an increasingly shrieking tone): But WHY are you washing your hair, Maman??
It's 37° (did I ever moan about the cold? Me? No....), and the attempt to push the mega buggy to the bakery and buy a baguette (really, my objectives are modest) ends in sweat and tears.
I stick them in front of a DVD and hope to god they won't get sick of it too quickly.
Their constant demands for attention, their absolute and all-encompassing need for me to be right there, right now ALL THE TIME is starting to make my head throb.
As I seriously contemplate piling them into the car, driving over to FH's office and dumping them both on the threshold... the old fear creeps back: what if I'm not actually cut out for this??
I think I have a lower-than-average tolerance of whinging. I think I have an above-average need for solitary time. I think I just found a piece of glass wedged into my big toe.
I think I just need to Keep Calm and Carry On.
How come some days, life seems so easy... and other days so difficult??
This question trots around in my mind as we enter day 4 of my week at home with the two boys.
I am embarrassed to admit it (after all, millions of strong women breeze through this childcare lark for far longer than 4 days without so much as a cross word), but what is a blog for if not for truthfulness?: it's been (not quite) 4 days, and I am already feeling shaky.
On Monday, it was easy. I relished being here with them. I was creative and enthusiastic and chatty... and I showed admirable patience when it came to coaxing a few bites of non-sweet food down BB's throat.
By mid-afternoon, I was feeling so serene I actually started to wonder whether the decision to pursue my career might not have been the wrong one. After all, I was GOOD at being a mother! Just look at my happy, clean, fulfilled little guys! Yup, I was on top of things.
On Tuesday, there was the birthday party and the shopping and the victory of forward planning over potential tantrums. Again, I felt pretty damned chuffed with myself.
On Tuesday night, LB decided that lone sleeping was no longer for him, and screamed until we caved in, shuffled up to the edges of our bed, and let him occupy the middle zone.
I notched up around 2 hours sleep (off and on), before my little bed-friend decided it was time for the day's activities to begin.
Wednesday, I cannot even claim as my own, since FH had the day off work, and the four of us headed to the beach to spend a fun day with my uncle, aunt and cousins.
And now, it's Thursday. My attempt to shower and wash my hair turned into a military operation, restricted somewhat by the handicap of having one child clamped to my leg and another poking at my wet head and asking (in an increasingly shrieking tone): But WHY are you washing your hair, Maman??
It's 37° (did I ever moan about the cold? Me? No....), and the attempt to push the mega buggy to the bakery and buy a baguette (really, my objectives are modest) ends in sweat and tears.
I stick them in front of a DVD and hope to god they won't get sick of it too quickly.
Their constant demands for attention, their absolute and all-encompassing need for me to be right there, right now ALL THE TIME is starting to make my head throb.
As I seriously contemplate piling them into the car, driving over to FH's office and dumping them both on the threshold... the old fear creeps back: what if I'm not actually cut out for this??
I think I have a lower-than-average tolerance of whinging. I think I have an above-average need for solitary time. I think I just found a piece of glass wedged into my big toe.
I think I just need to Keep Calm and Carry On.
Tuesday 24 August 2010
HR Manager
This afternoon, we have a Red Indians birthday bash to attend.The party will take place at 2 pm, which makes life a little tricky, if we consider that:
1/ BB usually sleeps from around 1.30 till 4.30
2/ BB's personality morphs from sweet & endearing to Unbearable if he doesn't sleep from 1.30 till 4.30.
BUT! But!
Supermums the world over know that, with a little forward planning & a few cunning adjustments to schedules, catastrophe can be avoided.
So, by rushing the boys out early and tiring them out, I contrive to get them home for 11.30 am, tricking them into thinking it is already nap time.
And down they go. Out for the count, sleepy and - if my calculations are correct - destined to be beautifully rested by the time they are deposited at the party.
Ah, how the success or failure of a day hinges on astute forward planning.
I cannot help but think of the mean manager who interviewed me three weeks ago. How wrong he is, how misguided.
Surely anyone with an ounce of intelligence can see: Mothers are the ultimate HR Managers. Our lives are an ongoing exercise in HR management!
I could have done THAT job with my eyes closed!!
The Good, The Bad and... The Birthday
Hello. We are back.
But the photos are still in the phone, the suitcases are still full (and being used as a makeshift wardrobe) and the brain is still a little frazzled.
If you are interested in seeing some of the great photos FH took during our trip to England and Paris, you will have to bear with me. And keep checking this space. At some point in the next week - who knows! - we may actually find a moment to download them.
In the meantime, our trip home was filled - as always - with some acutely stressful and some wonderful moments.
Train travel is long, tedious, sweaty and physical.
But on the other hand, it also offers some exquisite memories, of which:
- Me, playing table tennis in front of the British Library in London. A random encounter with a PHD student... Half an hour filled in the most unusual manner "en route" to St Pancras station...
- Four of us in the back of a taxi, riding through Paris on a balmy summer's evening. LB, looking almost regal as he surveys the city through the glass...
- A random encounter with one of FH's cousins on Sunday morning, as BB and I take a stroll in the Buttes Chaumont in Paris. One of those "30 seconds later and our paths would never have crossed" moments. Ensuing improvised birthday party for BB at cousin's flat...
- Racing to grab a cab in Toulouse, at 11 p.m. Two little boys with arms waving, hailing a taxi like seasoned travellers.
- The joy on their faces as we arrive home.
But the photos are still in the phone, the suitcases are still full (and being used as a makeshift wardrobe) and the brain is still a little frazzled.
If you are interested in seeing some of the great photos FH took during our trip to England and Paris, you will have to bear with me. And keep checking this space. At some point in the next week - who knows! - we may actually find a moment to download them.
In the meantime, our trip home was filled - as always - with some acutely stressful and some wonderful moments.
Train travel is long, tedious, sweaty and physical.
But on the other hand, it also offers some exquisite memories, of which:
- Me, playing table tennis in front of the British Library in London. A random encounter with a PHD student... Half an hour filled in the most unusual manner "en route" to St Pancras station...
- Four of us in the back of a taxi, riding through Paris on a balmy summer's evening. LB, looking almost regal as he surveys the city through the glass...
- A random encounter with one of FH's cousins on Sunday morning, as BB and I take a stroll in the Buttes Chaumont in Paris. One of those "30 seconds later and our paths would never have crossed" moments. Ensuing improvised birthday party for BB at cousin's flat...
- Racing to grab a cab in Toulouse, at 11 p.m. Two little boys with arms waving, hailing a taxi like seasoned travellers.
- The joy on their faces as we arrive home.
Friday 20 August 2010
Packing Up
Tomorrow, we will begin the trek home.
Another looooooong ride through fields and tunnels, including a night in Paris and a day (BB's third birthday) spent lolling around a Parisian park and (hopefully) replenishing our vitamin D stocks...
"Mamam," BB mused thoughtfully this morning, "le train, c'est vraiment un long way, non?"
Yes, my honey. It really is a long way. But you're a good boy to accompany Mamam on her mega train expeditions. And I only hope a teeny tiny appreciation of "the importance of the journey, not just the destination" filters down to you, somewhere along the way...
Another looooooong ride through fields and tunnels, including a night in Paris and a day (BB's third birthday) spent lolling around a Parisian park and (hopefully) replenishing our vitamin D stocks...
"Mamam," BB mused thoughtfully this morning, "le train, c'est vraiment un long way, non?"
Yes, my honey. It really is a long way. But you're a good boy to accompany Mamam on her mega train expeditions. And I only hope a teeny tiny appreciation of "the importance of the journey, not just the destination" filters down to you, somewhere along the way...
Wednesday 18 August 2010
El Dorado
In August, airports are filled with couples jetting off to exotic destinations like Sydney, New York or the Bahamas....
Huh. How banal.
FH and I go for a romantic three-day break to... Sheffield.
The implicit sarcasm is of course, entirely unfair, because Sheffield turns out to be sunny, fun and relaxing. It also has the unrivalled bonus of being my sister's place of residence, so we are able to spend drinking and eating time with her and Adam ("th'usband", as they say in Yorkshire).
As we dump our overnight bags on the floor of our plush room in one of Sheffield's finest hotels, we are full of plans. We will visit the city, stop for drinks, take in the watercolour exhibition at the Winter Gardens... But - hang on - why don't we just lie down and relax for a few minutes.
Just a few minutes, you understand. Because we're not that tired, really.
Two hours later, we emerge groggily from the heaviest slumber we have experienced for some time. Just over a year, to be precise.
Our bodies have seized up and shut down, in yet another testimony to the breath-taking superiority of nature over man's best-laid plans.
It's as though, the moment we reach a child-free zone, a secret "off" switch is flicked somewhere deep inside. The body kick starts the regeneration process - months and months of fatigue to be alleviated.
A strange sort of paralysis. A good book, a bed, silence.
Holidays.
Huh. How banal.
FH and I go for a romantic three-day break to... Sheffield.
The implicit sarcasm is of course, entirely unfair, because Sheffield turns out to be sunny, fun and relaxing. It also has the unrivalled bonus of being my sister's place of residence, so we are able to spend drinking and eating time with her and Adam ("th'usband", as they say in Yorkshire).
As we dump our overnight bags on the floor of our plush room in one of Sheffield's finest hotels, we are full of plans. We will visit the city, stop for drinks, take in the watercolour exhibition at the Winter Gardens... But - hang on - why don't we just lie down and relax for a few minutes.
Just a few minutes, you understand. Because we're not that tired, really.
Two hours later, we emerge groggily from the heaviest slumber we have experienced for some time. Just over a year, to be precise.
Our bodies have seized up and shut down, in yet another testimony to the breath-taking superiority of nature over man's best-laid plans.
It's as though, the moment we reach a child-free zone, a secret "off" switch is flicked somewhere deep inside. The body kick starts the regeneration process - months and months of fatigue to be alleviated.
A strange sort of paralysis. A good book, a bed, silence.
Holidays.
Friday 13 August 2010
The Land That Summer Forgot
Question 1: What happened to summer?
Question 2: How is it possible for one country to be subjected to so much rain and yet STILL maintain a hosepipe ban???
Question 3: How do I entertain two energetic, house-bound boys from 6 a.m. till nightfall?
Question 4: Will it ever ever stop raining??
Wednesday 11 August 2010
Separate Tables
On the third and final train (the London to Manchester "express"), I realise that the child-blessed (note how nice I sound) and the child-free are living in two distinct universes. There can be no mutual ground between us... at least, not in the temporary living space offered by a train.
We are crammed around a small fold-down table. The "fold-down" is an important detail: it means that BB can have sustained fun folding it up and banging it down.
One the one side: me and my two offspring (FH has somehow managed to elope to a seat across the aisle: he will not get away with it for long). On the other side: a smart professional couple in their late thirties, child-free.
When they realise that these are their allotted seats, and that they are condemned to spend 2 hours in our company, their dismay is both visible and audible.
Something inside me prickles, and I shoot them my blackest look.
Sure, if I was them, I would feel dismayed too... but you know, maternal instinct is a very unique mechanism. It means: it's OK for ME to be horrified at the idea of sharing confined living space with these grumpy, excitable kids... but it's not OK for YOU to be horrified, you mean, intolerant, chic, clean people!
So the train rattles forward and - oh joy of joys! - both kids fall asleep pretty quickly.
Smug, I stroke BB's sleepy head and sit back, hoping the chic couple are shamed. Hoping they might actually say "Oops, we judged you too quickly there, didn't we?"
For a while, the only sounds in the carriage are the soft breathing of sleeping children and the flutter of pages turning.
Then the guy's mobile phone rings. Loudly.
I gasp in annoyance, but LB only shifts around and falls back to sleep.
But to my absolute, intolerant horror, chic guy takes the call and proceeds to talk - loudly - to whoever is on the line for the next twenty minutes.
Worse: it is obviously a professional call, and he is discussing mentally ill patients. Right there, in front of me, the other passengers and the kids who have not slept since they woke up in Paris at 7 a.m. this morning.
My blood boils. I out-sigh and out-gasp anything they could subject me to. His girlfriend looks like she just might have cottonned on to the fact I am irritated, but still the call goes on.
And half-way through that call, the woman's phone also rings. A parallel 20 minute call ensues: this one complete with juicy gossip about another woman's relationship trials, and a 2-pence pseudo psychological analysis of her "issues".
I am beside myself with outrage. LB wakes, red-eyed, confused and vocal. I now have a crying child on my hands, and Mr and Mrs Child-free are back to tutting and sighing.
We are so close, and yet so far. The one metre that separates us could just as well be an immense gulf of misunderstanding.
Whose intolerance is justified? Why is it unacceptable for crying kids to disturb other passengers... but a loudly related personal conversation is considered civilsed behaviour?
The only solution I can offer at this point in my life is, sadly: separate carriages.
We are crammed around a small fold-down table. The "fold-down" is an important detail: it means that BB can have sustained fun folding it up and banging it down.
One the one side: me and my two offspring (FH has somehow managed to elope to a seat across the aisle: he will not get away with it for long). On the other side: a smart professional couple in their late thirties, child-free.
When they realise that these are their allotted seats, and that they are condemned to spend 2 hours in our company, their dismay is both visible and audible.
Something inside me prickles, and I shoot them my blackest look.
Sure, if I was them, I would feel dismayed too... but you know, maternal instinct is a very unique mechanism. It means: it's OK for ME to be horrified at the idea of sharing confined living space with these grumpy, excitable kids... but it's not OK for YOU to be horrified, you mean, intolerant, chic, clean people!
So the train rattles forward and - oh joy of joys! - both kids fall asleep pretty quickly.
Smug, I stroke BB's sleepy head and sit back, hoping the chic couple are shamed. Hoping they might actually say "Oops, we judged you too quickly there, didn't we?"
For a while, the only sounds in the carriage are the soft breathing of sleeping children and the flutter of pages turning.
Then the guy's mobile phone rings. Loudly.
I gasp in annoyance, but LB only shifts around and falls back to sleep.
But to my absolute, intolerant horror, chic guy takes the call and proceeds to talk - loudly - to whoever is on the line for the next twenty minutes.
Worse: it is obviously a professional call, and he is discussing mentally ill patients. Right there, in front of me, the other passengers and the kids who have not slept since they woke up in Paris at 7 a.m. this morning.
My blood boils. I out-sigh and out-gasp anything they could subject me to. His girlfriend looks like she just might have cottonned on to the fact I am irritated, but still the call goes on.
And half-way through that call, the woman's phone also rings. A parallel 20 minute call ensues: this one complete with juicy gossip about another woman's relationship trials, and a 2-pence pseudo psychological analysis of her "issues".
I am beside myself with outrage. LB wakes, red-eyed, confused and vocal. I now have a crying child on my hands, and Mr and Mrs Child-free are back to tutting and sighing.
We are so close, and yet so far. The one metre that separates us could just as well be an immense gulf of misunderstanding.
Whose intolerance is justified? Why is it unacceptable for crying kids to disturb other passengers... but a loudly related personal conversation is considered civilsed behaviour?
The only solution I can offer at this point in my life is, sadly: separate carriages.
Tuesday 10 August 2010
Bon Voyage
Oops, forgot to mention that we have upped sticks and moved to England for two weeks.
Via Paris, a bunch of West Indian cousins and 2 days on various trains, of course (what else??).
Since a slight professional setback requires a recovery period (I'm sure you will agree), I am now off work for 4 weeks. There's something quite giddying about the thought that the Firm shall not be graced with my presence until September 6th.
That's working mothers for you, hey?
Never there :-)
I will update you about our inter-continental adventures as and when, starting with the exciting opening episode entitled "The Taxi That Never Was."
I'll leave you to imagine the sordid details of such a tale... which ends with a frantic Sunday morning phonecall to a friend, two frazzled adults and two bewildered kids racing down a platform to catch the train that almost eluded them... and threatened to abort the entire expedition before it even began...
Via Paris, a bunch of West Indian cousins and 2 days on various trains, of course (what else??).
Since a slight professional setback requires a recovery period (I'm sure you will agree), I am now off work for 4 weeks. There's something quite giddying about the thought that the Firm shall not be graced with my presence until September 6th.
That's working mothers for you, hey?
Never there :-)
I will update you about our inter-continental adventures as and when, starting with the exciting opening episode entitled "The Taxi That Never Was."
I'll leave you to imagine the sordid details of such a tale... which ends with a frantic Sunday morning phonecall to a friend, two frazzled adults and two bewildered kids racing down a platform to catch the train that almost eluded them... and threatened to abort the entire expedition before it even began...
Friday 6 August 2010
The Cost of Living
Today, for the first time, I saw what it means to be a working mother. Or – to put it differently – a competent professional woman, who is also a mother.
I was interviewed for a job at which I would excel: for an hour and a half, I gave intelligent, thoughtful and convincing answers to probing questions, and I convinced the Spanish manager and his assistant that I would be a great asset to their team.
And then, I told them that I have two young kids. And that I work 4 days a week.
I explained about balance and motivation and the fact that I would be 100% committed to the job 80% of the week.
And I watched as their faces closed off, their arms folded, their lips pursed.
Behind the manager’s head, a chirpy motivational poster hung on the back wall: A manager does the right thing... But a true leader does what is right!
Non-negotiable.
You might be the best candidate for the job, but we need someone full time.
Their self-important air let me know that this job merited more than a mother could give.
However, perhaps I would be prepared to negotiate?
I swallowed my disappointment, picked up my bag, thanked the manager for his time.
Walked to the door with as much self-assurance as I could muster.
Non-negotiable. For me too.
In the car, I shed a few tears. I wipe them away before I let myself into the house.
An explosion of clatter and babble: BB gives me a sticky hug, LB whimpers and holds out his fleshy arms.
I nuzzle their hair: they smell of baby shampoo, urine and chocolate.
They are my boys, and they deserve to have me to themselves one day a week.
They don’t know or care that I just turned down a job for the luxury of being able to spend a few extra hours a week watching – helping – them grow up. Sharing a baguette in front of Peppa Pig or applauding as they whizz down the big slide for the first time.
And I don’t want them to know or care. That’s my business.
I am sad that this is 2010, and yet, mentalities have not changed as much as we are led to believe.
But that’s not the really sad thing.
The really sad thing would be to sacrifice our Wednesdays to the narrow-mindedness of others, to negotiate the non-negotiable.
A career, yes. But not at any cost.
Tuesday 3 August 2010
Mini-Magnum
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