Bliss

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So, I’ve spent the morning of mothers’ day stripping and changing beds, scrubbing the kitchen and scouring bathrooms. And I’ve realised a thing. A scary and really rather uncomfortable ‘thing’. My mouth can scarce form the words but… *whispers* I think i actually I like housework. I like housework. There. I’ve said it. Twice.

Those three little words that I never thought I’d utter. Like, “no, I’m dieting” or “I enjoy running” or “my homemade soufflé”. Well, there it is. In writing. I give in. I actually enjoy domestic drudgery. Spending hours sweating (er, glowing) at the ironing board, or slaving over a hot stove (to make a meal I know will never be eaten) and even bleaching my children’s delightfully crusty skid marks from the toilet (granted, that’s just weird). I’m smitten.

Christ, today of all days, I wasn’t even fussed that I got up first, made my own breakfast and was gifted a present that I chose myself. Unwrapped. Because I had spent a happy morning bustling between utility. kitchen and bathroom  ‘making things nice’. Sheesh, I’ve raged at the husband for lesser infractions and plotted his untimely demise merely for failing to stack the dishwasher. But this. This is serious.

What’s happened to me? Have I found domestic nirvana? That state of peace. Inner calm. Where I hanker no more after ‘me time’ in which I envisage myself quietly ploughing through a stack of glossy magazines, Earl Grey on tap, chocolate and wine gums close to hand. And choose instead to potter from sink to washing machine to slow frickin’ cooker. To stack, sort, scrub, fold, wipe, organise. Sod meditation, this is my happy place. Apparently. Hands busy, head full of completed tick lists, house reeking of Domestos and Pomegranate Noir.

God, did I just grow up? Perhaps I am just cradled in the eye of the storm and there’s a major natural disaster brewing. Or *brightens considerably* it could just be that I am gently sozzled by the post-housework pint to which I just treated myself. Ah, that must be it. I’ll be ranting about skids and dirty washing again tomorrow *takes another sip* Better now.

Reverse

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So, just what the heck is it with car manufacturers and their useless innovations? Ok so I now take cup holders and electric seats for granted. And whilst I might whinge a bit about Nigel SatNav, I wouldn’t be without his patronising tones for all the Toblerone in Stansted.

Admittedly there are some modern additions to motoring that make being the family taxi and queen of the roadtrip more palatable. But why, oh why, do you feel compelled to mute the sound system when I reverse? Ffs. What IS that all about? There I am enjoying a gleeful musical moment with the nippers, at least one of us rocking some great air guitar (well, not the responsible driver, obvs) and singing at the top of our voices, when it suddenly…stops. Not only does this add to the children’s natural anxiety that mummy might be heard tunelessly banging out a bit of Blondie at the top of her (vocally challenged) voice, but it just, well, spoils the magic of the moment.

What, exactly, do they think is going to happen? That I might turn my head to look behind only to be hit by a wall of sound that blinds me to other cars/trees/pedestrians? Or that the music, left at its rightful volume (loud), might render me deaf to the cries of help from the dear innocent old lady I’ve just carelessly mown down? Or that I could be so busy doing the bloody Macarena that my ability to parallel park may be seriously compromised?

Ffs (again). I reckon it’s a bloke thing. Guys designing for guys. Guys who can’t multitask. And who demand useless bragging rights for shiny but shit bits of ‘essential’ technology they have no idea how to operate. Take the husband, for example. He was thrilled by all the whizzy, so-called clever specifications on his new company car. Pored over the brochure for weeks, excitedly jabbing at the page and insisting I ooh and aah along with him at functionality it had never occurred to him til then (or me, ever) that he might need. The automatic headlight dimmer sent him into paroxysms of joy and took centre stage at many a family debate. But just how long did it take him to get it working? Weeks *she wails*, bloody weeks. And in the meantime, we just flicked the lights on and off. WITH OUR OWN HANDS.

So, please. Stop ruining my fun. All these car ads promising ‘the drive of your life’ and promoting the exhilaration of the open road. I don’t need your bloody high speed broadband connection, or your sunglasses holder, or your goddam automatic headlight dimmer. More often than not I’m dashing from school gate to sports hall, and then to a ballet lesson, football pitch or supermarket. All within a couple of miles of my home. And am usually more concerned whether I have the right number of children in the car at each leg of the journey than whether I can possibly move my finger a few millimetres to flick a stick. Or turn the volume down (if I must). So, if you want to innovate, give me shit that might actually be moderately useful.

How about:

1) An automatic people counter that not only lets you know how many children made it into the car, but also whether you have the right nippers (and whether they’ve all remembered their school bags/sports kit/musical instruments)?

2) Food resistant upholstery that automatically obliterates any crumb, chunk or dribble of in-car nourishment that doesn’t actually make it into the recipient’s mouth, which is usually most of it (‘it’ being a heady assortment of vile food products that all curiously take on the odour of a dog poo rolled in vomit after just a week of in-car putrification)?

3) A noise-cancelling cocoon for the driver so she doesn’t have to hear, respond to or arbitrate the million fraternal altercations that take place in the other seats (and, whilst you’re at it, the ability to deliver a quick electric shock warning current to any given passenger seat would also help here)?

Now those are innovations I’d welcome. Music to my ears.

Broken

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So, I stumbled slummily through the last half term – working half of it and spending the other two days being shamed by the sight of irritatingly competent daddies wrangling gaggles of children with total equanimity. Not this time around. Oh no. I determined that I would be a holiday goddess. The mutha of all entertainers. An activity queen. I would fight for the right to be smug.

Not for us a week of chilling in front of the TV or ensconced in the glorious peace of iPad childcare. No dreary household chores. And not a dentist, optician or vet in sight. Instead: we have cantered cheerfully through bike rides; racked up miles of day trips; museums by day, museums by torchlight; glorious dog walks; play dates; baking; bowling; a cinema treat and a LOT of afternoon tea. Thus I have been able to look those half term hero daddies wearing necklaces of children in the eye, and hold my head high with the yummy mummies of my acquaintance. Oh yes I bloody did. My children have collapsed into bed each night without protest, and slept like, well, babies. I was on it, across it, all over it. Name a preposition and I was it.

And yet. Reflecting on a week of frenzied fun-making, I realise that this reformed working mummy may well have gone a bit too far. They are, quite simply, knackered. And, frankly, a little bit frightened by the intensity of it all. It’s not what they know. I’m guessing they’ve got so used to my haphazard, hit-and-miss approach to mothering that waking up to this shiny, bright, well-organised, good-humoured psychotic mummy machine is more than a little unnerving. And it carries its own penalties.

Take this evening, for example. After a day of cricket camp and soft play fun I took pity and let them chill in front of the TV for an hour. Whilst I whipped up a delicious home-cooked casserole that they devoured like starving skinny-ribbed hyenas. Anyway. By 6.30pm they were whirling round the sitting room playing a boisterous wrestling game involving suffocation by cushions and laughing hysterically fit to pee. By bathtime they grew maudlin, started telling me how much they love me, really really love me, and needed cuddles. And when bedtime hit they all had dark circles round their eyes and were showing every sign of a…erm…hangover. Omigod, yes? I had got them pissed. By cheerfully adding whole bottle of red wine to said casserole.

Learning from my mistakes (of which there have been many) next half term I will revert to the usual seat-of-the-pants, last-minute outings and multiple pyjama days. Feed them a diet of cucumber and goddam Twiglets. And I’ll be drinking all the wine myself, thank you very much. It’s wasted on children.

Reinvention

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So, I’m heading back to work! Yes, I fell at the first hurdle. Got defeated by dreary common sense. Have been overpowered by, erm, I dunno; being a shit mother? I promised my children that I’d take a good 18 month break from being a fascist, evil-tempered corporate stress head. But I’ve only managed six and am stealing two of the twelve remaining to go finish some unfinished business (oh yes, and stroke my clearly faltering and maniacal ego). Shame on me!

In my defence, I’ve weighed up all the pros and cons (mostly over wine) and made my list of Habits Never To Fall Into Again. And I’ve set some ridiculous terms so that I’ll still be around as much as possible for the nippers. But I know I’m a shit. Not only to my children, but to the new ‘me’ I was becoming.

This shiny new version of my altogether more chilled me was just getting the hang of getting down with the parents in the park after school, baking lemon drizzle cakes for any given occasion and turning up for things (only *slightly* late) with my (clean) pants on the right way round. I was busy throwing myself into committee meetings, book club sessions (with wine – I mean, WINE, not beer, or tequila shots, and therefore without driving the ceramic bus at 1am whilst doling out calpol to unsettled children) and, I can scarce believe it myself, co-running a coffee morning, ahem, toddler group. My former passions were even making a comeback – like reading, and music and (perish the thought) hobbies. Omfg.

All of which has now been thrown to the wind as I prepare to prostitute my yummy mummy progress for filthy lucre, a desk free of sticky paw prints and a swivel chair that doesn’t contain a blissfully dizzy child whooping with delight as the mechanism groans with the youthful exertions of a three-year-old high on Cocopops.

So, the question is this: is it possible to have the best of both worlds? Or will I find myself microwaving frozen pizza and channelling Nicola Horlick on prozac within a fortnight? Am I to find myself forgoing the making of (moderately healthy) packed lunches and the ‘aiding’ of science projects in favour of polishing pointless presentations and preparing short-sighted vision statements until the early hours? Gawd, will my long-suffering children ever forgive the u-turn and the breaking of all my promises to be a stay-at-home mum, or – worse still – will they celebrate the ceasefire of evenings of draconian spelling tests and times tables practice, crossing their fingers and hoping to die that mummy is working late again (again)?

I tell myself it’s only a means to an end. And it’s only eight weeks. And all my plans for gluing, stitching, stirring, storytelling and being simply marvellous will remain unchanged. Our meals will continue to be home cooked (whether they like it or not), our homework (no, not a mistake – it’s most definitely ‘ours’ not ‘theirs’) handed in on time, our music practise assiduously completed (without tears) and every last parents’ evening, open afternoon, school performance, dress rehearsal rehearsal and fundraising effort attended and contributed to. But I know these things, these bright shiny new (for me) things can’t be maintained. Can they?

On the other hand, perhaps ‘me 2.0’ can simply be reprogrammed. Using my fledgling supermum skills to beat my ingrained career fetishism into touch. Perhaps the new me just gets another fresh  dimension. One that is enlightened by all that I’ve experienced in the last six months of mummy boot camp and has learned to say crazy alien things like, ‘no’ and ‘that will have to wait until next week’ and ‘you’re having a fucking laugh, aren’t you?’ One that effortlessly churns out a school newsletter whilst delivering a board presentation and whipping up a batch of fresh mayonnaise. Making space for the mutha of all Jekyll/Hyde co existences.

Who knows, I might even find some happy point of Nirvana where Starbuck’s figures comfortingly on both agendas. With almond croissants. And thus will I be able to have my cake and eat it.

Filth

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So, this weekend I decided it was time. To clean the car. For at least three weeks the children have been alternately claiming it to stink of sick/poo/dead animals. And gagging as they get in. Not one to cave in too easily I’ve let it ride (or, rather, let them ride it out) for a little longer than Social Services would find reasonable. But there have been several, erm, incidents that have finally pushed me over the edge of shame and into action.

First there was the trip to the garage to get a new tyre. Apparently I needed a ‘locking wheel nut’ to get the defective tyre off. Wtf is that, I hear you cry. Good bloody question. Apparently it’s some kind of security device that prevents people stealing those oh-so-coveted jalopy wheels. I mean, criminals want to half-inch the tyres off seven-seat given-up-on-life boxes on wheels? Really? Anyway. I uncomfortably concluded my conversation with the man on the desk, realising with a sinking feeling that the item they were looking for *may* have been the alien item I *possibly* put in the bin a couple of weeks before. Not wanting to look like a total twat I played dumb, only to step outside and unexpectedly find no less than six hairy-arsed mechanics ripping my car apart looking for the bloody thing. All of them with looks of disgust on their faces, either at my lack of vehicle hygiene or the array of furry ex-food items they encountered underneath the seats, in the cup holders and squashed into the upholstery. Bad car owner.

Then there was the evening I offered to transport four lovely ladies to the pub for a night out. In their lovely glam going out gear. Ah. The shame as they stepped through oceans of shit to find a seat. And the smell that infused our journey. And the speed with which they exited the shit wagon (which was nothing to do with my driving; really, I was thirsty!) Bad friend.

The straw that broke my iron resolve to stay foul was the ‘back to school’ moment when it suddenly seemed ridiculous to have washed, freshly laundered and re-kitted my children and issued dire warnings about looking smart – only to find at least one of them had sat on a forgotten chocolate button and skipped into the new school year looking like they’d shat themselves. Bad mother.

That’s when I decided it was time. Assuming the usual position for housework, I installed the long-suffering mites in front of Wallace and Gromit – and ventured car-wards with Hoover, antibacterial spray and bin bags. 90 minutes (and a heap of cursing, retching and glowing) later; the inside of the car, at least, looked like a new pin. And the air within was starting to clear from green fog to magic tree clarity.

Only now I’m fretting. Will I be disappointed tomorrow to find it resuming its distinct miasma of re-puked dog sick wrapped in a turd? Will just one in-car breakfast re-carpet the now-visible floor? And, with potty training in full throttle, will Pudding unleash a fresh new fat one to return the gag-wagon to its former odorous charm?

So, with uncharacteristic despair, I ask myself why I bother. Like all my good intentions, the benefit and the intent only last until the next crisis. Which is never more than a heartbeat away.

Binary

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So, am feeling somewhat of a failure. Managed six out of my eighteen months of ‘not working’ and being a stay-at-home mum – and am already considering a return to work (albeit temporarily). Sheesh. Does taking time with my offspring terrify me that much?!?! Am I that loathe to bake, craft, entertain, supervise, organise, join or commit for longer than one measly term? Will I don the working girl, ahem, woman attire and be lost once more in a flurry of endless emails, pointless meetings and late night deadlines?

It’s not that my beautiful, crazy, complex children are sending me screaming back to the relative safety of an office with my Starbuck’s clasped to my perfidious chest. Or that the pull of having people actually listen to me without the need for continual repetition or a sugary bribe is just too good to deny. It’s more the fear that I’ve gone too far into playdate overdrive, toddler group obsession, timetabled homework and oh so many committee meetings; thereby catalysing some sort of treacherous about-turn. Worst of all, it seems I’m hopelessly incapable of being two (proper, decent) things at once.

All of which begs the question – am I forever destined to fail at the one thing all chicks pride themselves on? That quality that we think gives us moral and practical superiority over mere men. The sword from the stone. The one ring to rule them all. Yes, I am talking about the Big ‘M’. I mean Multitasking. Or, to be more accurate, multiple role juggling.

Don’t get me wrong, I actually happen to think I’m great at changing a shitty nappy whilst reciting the top ten football stadiums (stadia) and making loom band iguanas at the same time. But if I try to combine that with the demands of a professional role, someone’s gonna get the wrong stinking end of the shitty nappy/frothy cappuccino combo.

Love it or hate it, I’m like a moth to the flame. Work. Paid work. Has its advantages. Just think of all the blimmin’ almond croissants I can peacefully cram in my face without having to hide in a cupboard to avoid sharing. And the meetings I can attend free from the fear of a toddler unleashing a fat stinker in the middle of item 3. Oh, and the days I can sashay lightly from the house with a single, perfectly-packed bag of relevant items for the job (none of which will have been retrieved from the dirty washing pile five minutes earlier and flattened underneath a child eating a bowl of chocolate biscuits for breakfast on the sofa).

Time will tell but I have a horrible suspicion that I am Binary Mum i.e. unable to reconcile the messy, loud, often calamitous seat-of-the-pants type of mothering I favour with my altogether calmer, endlessly patient (who knew?), efficient (that too), shit-free professional alter ego. In my more positive moments I admit to daydreaming how it might play out if I do, by some divine miracle, manage to combine Binary Mum with Shit Hot Professional Chick. Here’s how it goes…

At Work I would…

  • allow, nay welcome, a free flow of noisy, odorous bodily functions during meetings
  • withhold coffee/lunch/fag breaks until all outstanding actions have been completed
  • impose iPad sanctions for those who spend too much time browsing jobs on LinkedIn
  • offer rewards of sweeties for playing nicely with colleagues who are being arseholes
  • get things done by simply repeating the same instruction again and again and again ad infinitum

At Home I will find myself…

  • minuting the heated discussions about who gets the largest choc chip cookie from the tin
  • performance managing the toddler during potty training with a three-strikes-or-you’re-out policy
  • scheduling weekly progress meetings to review the ‘growing up’ process
  • staying up all night to prepare a three-year strategy for getting to school on time, with breakfast
  • raiding the sticker/glitter drawer for supplies to use at the office

Actually. Come to think of it, perhaps I’ve hit on something here. Call it happenstance. Call it a weirdly successful cross-pollination of all your worst fears and slummy strategies. Or, call it bollocks. But, think of it. The nippers will detest but be unable to resist the arrival of discipline in the house. Work colleagues will rile against yet respond to stricter (albeit childish) sanctions and policies. And stuff will get done. And I’ll no longer know nor care whether I’m multitasking, role juggling or simply being a fairly shit working mother.

Baggage

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So, I’ve recognised ‘a thing’ whilst preparing to head home from holidays. It’s something I’ve kinda recognised about myself for some time, but just thought was one of my own quirky character flaws (oh, I have so many of those – like restacking the dishwasher when the husband fails to get The System). Ahem, anyway, having holidayed with other families quite a bit of late, it’s become abundantly clear that this particular tick is most definitely not mine alone. So what the hell am I on about? Packing. Or, more accurately, re packing. That joyless activity that is agonising enough before your holiday, but infinitely gloomier (and odorous) at the end of it.

The truth is: you simply don’t mess with a packing momma.

This is how it goes… It’s all rather lighthearted to begin with. You start with a bit of mild procrastination – maybe a cup of tea or a quick swim. You fanny about and put it off. But the clock is ticking and the husband is starting to panic, and fume (and might even start throwing a few crumpled items into the bag, or even offer to change a nappy or two instead of you in the hope that you just bloody get on with it). So then you DO get on with it (possibly with the help of a glass of wine). Brain whirrs into action. Mental lists of items not to be forgotten swing into place in front of your eyes – a bit like The Terminator when he’s assessing a particularly killer-robot-heavy situation. You develop a military-like precision of movement otherwise absent in your life (even if sorely needed). That’s when everyone should beware…

Don’t get anywhere near. Don’t offer helpful advice. Or aid. Or pick anything up. Or make suggestions. Or, God forbid, start putting things in helpful little piles. Because that momma is In The Zone. I’ve seen the look in other mums’ eyes, and felt it in my own. You Do Not Mess with a mum who’s packing. They know where their shit is. And they do NOT want your help. You are merely an irritant in what is already a soul-destroying, futile, humourless process. The clothes in the room. The swim stuff by the pool. The miscellaneous items in the bathroom/bar/barbecue. The weird location of all your holiday paraphernalia is known only to you. And woe betide anyone who dares to get in your way. Let alone a ‘well-meaning’ husband, offering ‘helpful’ tips about what’s been ‘left behind’ (it’s not left behind, arsehole, it’s item 53 on the Terminator console). However close you are to departure, stay away. There is nothing useful you can say, do or be to a momma on a mission.

So, ladies, gents, children, just do yourself a favour; slink off for another ice cream and leave us to it. We will get that shit done perfectly well on our own. And no messing.

FOOTNOTE

Whilst I’m on the clearly emotive subject of packing, here’s my helpful list – momma to momma – of things you should never ever bother packing for holidays:

  • Socks for children (they NEVER wear any)
  • Nail varnish/face pack/massage oil (cos that’s NEVER going to happen, right)
  • Half the clothes you take for yourself (you NEVER wear more than a couple of (baggy) favourites anyway)
  • Suncream (weighs a fucking ton, costs you dear in extra baggage, and frickin’ EXPLODES all over your bag before you even arrive)

And then there are the essential things you SHOULD pack but never remember:

  • Toothbrushes (cue a week of chewing toothpaste – if you’ve remembered it – and molar rubbing)
  • Hairbrush (cue elation from daughters who see no issue with cultivating holiday dreadlocks)
  • Swim nappies (cue the ‘going commando’ dilemma, and disappointed shitty optimism)
  • Pants (cue a week of wishing you had brought a bikini instead of one piece halter neck)

Or is that just me?

Lies

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So, I’ve been thinking about this holiday lark. More specifically, the glorious things we promise ourselves in the pursuit of relaxation nirvana. If you’re anything like me you make a list of all the yummy attributes that will pepper your annual vacation to make it The Best Ever. But (I’ve discovered to my eternal disappointment) it’s all lies. Here’s how:

1) I will get down to x ideal weight by holiday
As long as there is a quick weight loss diet that contains crisps, biscuits and wine

2) I will maintain my ideal weight whilst on holiday
As long as I can keep on consuming crisps, biscuits and wine

3) I will have buckets of relaxed, holiday sex with my husband/partner
Once the children have gone to bed, because I feel particularly horny in a two man tent/sweaty hotel bedroom shared with small people at 1am after three pints of sangria

4) I won’t overdo the sunbathing
Because pale and interesting does it for me. In a bikini

5) I will make sure the children wear hats
Because little people are so compliant with these things on holiday, right? Even though they think nothing of chucking headgear into the nearest patch of cow poo whilst at home

6) I will not eat my own body weight in ice cream. Every night
Because I’ve never been tempted to consider ice cream a whole, more than adequately nutritional, healthy food group of its own

7) I will go for a run every morning before the children are up
Languishing in bed as the children sleep off a night of karaoke/conga excitement when you get half a chance is wholly overrated anyway

8) I will read a range of interesting, intellectual books whilst I’m away
Trashy, easy-to-read chick lit has never been my thing, even when ten minutes at a time is all I get between demands for entertainment or pool poo nappy changes

9) I won’t drink wine *every* night
It’s not like I do it at home, so why would I do it on holiday?!?

10) I will not allow myself to be school-girlishly flattered by waiters/bartenders/blind street beggars
I learned my lesson from Shirley Valentine obvs

Naked

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So, how in the name of God can it be possible for good intentions well met to lead to a very public (and naked) shaming?

Yes, I spent six weeks pre-holiday eating nothing but frickin’ lettuce and consuming a seriously bladder-threatening volume of earl grey to slim down to bikini weight for the first time in ten years. Celebrated with a side of cucumber and trotted off to buy hitherto undreamed of two piece swimming costume (having favoured tummy control since the ‘body-enhancing’ appearance of three children) – all in preparation for Bling French Holiday. After settling myself in with five days of rabbit-worthy diet maintenance and the customary tummy control that threatened to squeeze the offending muffin top down to my ankles (yes, weight loss does NOT equal toned beach body – still much wobble to distribute) I finally donned The Bikini.

It was kind of an out-of-body experience emerging from the gloom of aircon bedroom to public poolside, but I did it with nonchalant Slimming World-success-story swagger (not that I ever made it to Slimming World – not sure they’ve invented the ‘starvation and sweets’ diet yet). Took my time to apply suncream (tummy sucked in until I almost passed out obvs) and adjust pants/straps and push up dwindling knockers (so unfair). Then. Jumped. Only to discover I’d over-estimated on size and subsequently found myself breathlessly retrieving errant pants AND stuffing escaped ex-boobs back into push up top, all whilst anxiously surveying the assembled crowd in the hope they had been distracted by Pudding’s timely cry of “I’ve done a pool poo” and therefore missed her semi-naked Rubenesque mother shamefacedly reassembling her modesty.

What concerns me most is not necessarily the naked shaming (which only smarts a little) but the degree to which I will bend (and starve, and suffer) to find a way back to supposed former shape. Much as I adore my children and would not change a single thing about the events that brought them to me, it’s particularly sobering to realise how much we lose before we (re)gain ourselves. It’s taken me ten years to get back to the old ‘me’ and I wonder if that’s because I’m a particularly slow starter (and fast eater) or whether it happens that way for all (non-yummy) mummies. Who knows?

Whatever. Not one to miss a learning opportunity, next year I shall happily prepare for the annual summer flesh-fest by mainlining almond croissants, Pringles and wine gums whilst watching “How to Look Good Naked”. On repeat. So much simpler. And infinitely more enjoyable. Muffins and all.