#BML16 Popping my Cherry

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So, off to my first blogging conference today. And, tbh, I feel a bit of a fraud. You see, it’s a month since my last blog post and, er, I had only really just got going anyway. But here I am (uncharacteristically early, but sipping earl grey in Starbucks as usual), and here’s my ccontribution to the ‘get to know me’ linky thingy:

My name: Jilly aka The Mother of Good Intentions
Blog: www.motherofgoodintentions.co.uk
Find me on social media at:
Facebook: www.facebook.com/motherofgoodintentions
Twitter: @Motherofgoodint
How I look: Slightly terrified, yet rocking the false confidence look. Would-be redhead gone a bit golden, growing out my crop with a dodgy comb-over.
Is this my first blogging event? Hell yeah!
I will be wearing… White skinny jeans and a white ruffle t-shirt (well, it is a Saturday and I’m child free!) Likely to have my pants on backwards but hopefully you won’t notice that…
What I hope to gain from #BML16: Inspiration to really get my blog going. I’m, er, full of good intentions that I never *quite* manage to deliver. But, if not now, then when?
My tips for a great conference: Er, turn up. And *maybe* prepare a bit before midnight on the night before…

Murder

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So, call me paranoid but I have a horrible feeling my children are planning my premature exit from the world. And not by the expected routes i.e. sleep deprivation, putrid viruses, exploding arses, heart-stopping exploits or general mortification. Lord knows they have many reasons to wish for my untimely demise. The weird experimental meals. The enduring lateness. The short fuse. The loud music and singing on the school run. The sheer daily embarrassment of being a sweet child of mine. But the truth is, I never thought they’d actually do me in.

So why am I busy looking over my shoulder, and treading on eggshells with my suddenly estranged offspring? Well, the simple answer is that I cleaned under their beds. And what I found was altogether more terrifying than the array of accumulated repulsive debris I expected. Yep, I was ready for dirty socks, well-thumbed paperbacks and miscellaneous Lego body parts. I was even prepared for the odd fake eyeball or mouldering item of food. What I didn’t expect was the arsenal of Nerf guns, bows and arrows, wooden swords, rocks (not stones, rocks!) and sharpened sticks that feathered my beloved children’s nests.

Oh yes, my end is most definitely nigh. And it looks like it’s going to be bloody and violent. So I’m not taking any chances. I’m sleeping with one eye open. I’m wearing extra layers of protective clothing. And I am practising hovering one step behind burly husband (he’s so gonna get it first, by which point I’ll either be half way to the Cuba, or still be busy making a packed lunch for the trip).

And, as I said, it’s not like I blame the nippers. It’s a fair cop. They’re voting with their feet (and a range of frightening self-tooled weapons) for a yummier mummy. What bothers me is whether the punishment will fit their crime, and the ultimate price my babies will pay for their murderous class action. Whilst they are all feisty and arsey enough to survive a life behind bars (I blame the father), I’d just rather they finished their education without handcuffs, communal showers or yard time playing a part.

So I think I’ll be burning the weapons. And holding a gun amnesty. And trying really, really hard to be nicer than nice (probably involving even more tasty bribes than usual). Haribo? You got it. Staying up late? No problem. Gin and tonic? I think I can stretch to that. And in no home worldwide will there be more iPad/TV/YouTube time than here. As long as they don’t get access to ‘Breaking Bad’. Ah, and I will most definitely be mounting a vigilant, nightly clean sweep under the beds… It’s about time cleanliness took a front seat in this house anyway (the car, however, is another matter – work in progress until someone actually pukes on entry). Cleanliness is next to godliness, which surely rules out violence? Every cloud has a silver lining…

Pride

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So, this time it’s different. Not a blog post about being a fairly shit mother. About embarrassing interludes and questionable actions. No. This is the one in which I chronicle the scoring of a hattrick. Where I *think* I am awesome. Yes, AWESOME.

You’re going to have to bear with me on this one. Because it’s more than a little tiger mom-esque. A self-indulgent maternal moment. Blatant bragging. And because, to be honest, it wasn’t me that smashed the ball out of the park. It was my long-suffering offspring.

I’m talking ballet show. The Biannual Ballet Show, no less. In the theatre, with full make up and costumes and a scary stage manager who warns the assembled crowd of 3-17 year olds that “no alcohol is permitted back stage” (nor are knickers, huh?) All three children took part. All three were awesome. I shed tears – the great gulping kind – at the sight of them merrily tapping and tiptoeing their way through several Disney numbers, smiles (awkward in some cases) plastered all over their faces. But it wasn’t just the performance. It was their attitude.

They spent the whole weekend closeted backstage at the theatre. So, no play dates or movie nights or bike rides. No chill out time. No sneaky Saturday snacks from the cupboard of joy. No, they gave up their weekend for the sake of their art. And Chicken was in her element with all her dancing girls and didn’t mind a bit about being so utterly upstaged by her younger siblings (Beefy being bigged up as the only boy, Pudding winning every goddam prize for cuteness). My boy held his own (and his iPad) in the company of dozens of twittering backstage girls, succumbing to makeup and endless rehearsal, and willingly taking to the stage despite sickening nerves (which actually made him look like he was about to vomit, but – I realised – made me look like I’d made him do it). As for Pud, she took it all in her stride and my terrible tomboy did not flinch (or throw anything, including punches) when put into makeup, a sparkly dress (with wings!) and – heaven forbid – a ponytail.

As for me? I revelled in their reflected glory. Smiled benignly at the compliments. As if we were the bloody Von Trapps. As if this perfect parental shit goes down every day in our rose-tinted household. Making like it was all down to me. My own exquisite production. Stressy mum was relegated a back seat. The customary domestic ‘to do list’ awaiting me at home was forgotten. And I relaxed. Basked even.

In fact, I chilled so much that the rest of the week was a total dream. Further achievements came thick and fast: Pudding finally dropping the nighttime nappy, Beefy at last getting to grips with his handwriting, Chicken soldiering through chronic earache to deliver rounders at the school tournament. *more glory basking* This could become a habit.

And then. It dawned on me: these little-big things are always there. Daily, weekly, monthly milestones ticked off. A hundred amazing mini-moments shaping our days. But I don’t always have – or take – the time to appreciate them. Yet I’m so goddam proud of them. These little people making their way boldly through the process of growing up. Making sense of life, and of themselves. Despite my daily disasters and seat-of-the-pants parenting they are growing to be real people. Good people. And all the while, as I puff out my chest with pride, I’m thinking: I MADE them! I bloody did, I MADE them. Who’d have thought? I am a goddam legend.

Unaccustomed as I am to getting it right, I just have one nagging doubt. A small voice inside that can’t help whispering, “is it because of me, or in spite of me”? Because pride always comes before a fall. Doesn’t it?

Goddess

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So, I may not be a domestic goddess by any stretch of the imagination (in fact, when it comes to culinary skill the children call me ‘Disasterchef’) but I am nonetheless undeterred from my favourite guilty pleasure: watching Masterchef. This dirty secret usually plays out behind a mountain of ironing and lasts until the wee small hours by which time I really could do with reaching into iPlayer to scoff on freshly baked macarons in a sea salt foam, or pan fried sea bream with pickled samphire and edible flowers. But, alas, I tend to find myself scraping the bottom of a 300g bag of floral gums or a full tube of extra salty Pringles.

My thoughts at this unreal hour of the day/night often turn to my own favourite alternative version of this magical show, which revolves around the idea of hosting a series that is based more on harsh reality than a larder full of delicious ingredients (and a modicum of catering talent). One in which I fulfil my domestic potential and render viewers speechless at my unrelenting invention and sheer wizardry with pesto.

But, actually, this is how I see “Masterchef: the Muthas” panning out…

Calling Card
I often think about this one – what would be my signature dish, given the time and materials to prepare something special? Unfortunately I fear my clever take on ‘cucumber three ways’ would never make it to a final, nor would my leftover chicken curry made without spices yet with a whole lot of Loyd Grossman’s (jar of) heart(s).

The Invention Test
Make an edible meal (in less than 15 minutes, for three starving and near-feral children) from a pot of marmite (12 months past its ‘eat by’ date), half a bag of novelty couscous, some gummy bears, a pound of sprouting potatoes, a pint of milk and – of course – a cucumber (because there’s always cucumber).

The Chef’s Table
Attempt to prepare a gourmet supper that will satisfy said feral offspring, composed entirely of an optimistic purchase of organic fruit and vegetables from local farmers’ market and a random choice of fish. The challenge here would not necessarily be to gain the wholehearted and flowery approbation of the judges but merely three halfway empty plates.

Professional Kitchen
Again, this one is less to do with flavour and taste and a whole lot more to do with simply surviving. And knowing what the f*** to do with decent ingredients, a recipe and tables packed with hungry under-age punters who would, frankly, prefer a MacDonalds.

Palate Test
This one’s easy – with your eyes closed, guessing what fruit/vegetable/ingredient the pulp in your mouth used to be. Before it cantered gaily past its ‘sell-by’ date, past its ‘hospitalisation-by’ date and unrelentingly onwards to its ‘death-by’ conclusion. Also works as a ‘guess the leftovers’ option.

The Critics
If you’ve ever attempted a double (or even triple) play date and sweated over the delicate balance between dishing out a crowd-pleaser vs a healthy-meal-you’re-happy-to-be-reported-back-to-friend’s-mummy (the former being wolfed at speed, the latter being pushed around the plate for hours – with groaning, excuses and laughter) – then you’ll be well equipped for this particular challenge.

Technical Challenge
How to fillet fish? How to cook a rack of lamb? How to make a reduction? No. How to avoid mass food poisoning. It’s that simple.

So, what do you reckon? Have I got the makings of addictive, supremely watchable TV? Will “Masterchef: The Muthas” charge up the TV ratings and take the world of reality/car crash telly by storm? Or is it simply a fantasy of my own making that is nothing more than a risible attempt to turn my own abject failings into something to be (dubiously) proud of? Hmmm. Yes, you’re right. Back to plan A… “Delia, How To Cook: Book One”. Cucumber wedges with a side of twiglets anyone?

War

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So, right now Pudding and I are locked in the mutha of all toddler tussles. A war of wills. A fight to the death. An Armageddon, in which I find myself not only losing my cool, but – worse – my sense of humour. And all over something as ridiculous as clothes. Or, rather, the all-too-frequent lack of them.

I mean, how could you not smirk at the sight of a red-faced, white-lipped mother stalking from house to car on the school run with a wriggling, shell-shocked semi-naked child clasped firmly under one arm? Who wouldn’t have to choke down a chuckle as said mother is busted in the school car park by an astonished pre-school teacher who innocently leaned in to say ‘hello’ only to find the child in the back still bare-chested (and chomping on a cold piece of toast she found in the car seat pocket)? And who could fail to find funny the chirpy honesty of Little Lady Godiva, “Hi, I’m naked cos I had a bit of a strop”?

Me. That’s who.

And why? Because I am insane enough to believe I’m the boss. That my little darling will dutifully succumb to being dressed up like a doll. But. Nothing could be further from the truth. In this crazy clothes war I am a mere footsoldier. Cannon fodder. Bowing to the bloodthirsty bidding of a small but determined tyrant. Who I’ve long since given up on attempting to wrangle into a skirt or dress. Or anything pink, flowery or boasting a design remotely resembling a butterfly. Jeans or leggings (no trimmings), red or blue t-shirts only (and no frills) are the easier commands to obey. Others are less obvious, and change day-by-day (hell, who am I kidding, minute-by-minute, more like) to outraged cries of, “No! That’s not cool!” (like I would know what signifies ‘cool’ to an outraged three-year-old) or “I am NOT a princess!” (go figure) or, my favourite, “Eurgh, that looks like a church” (wtf?). Even when dressing up my enraged adversary eschews her sparkling ‘Frozen’ dress and shimmering Elsa shoes (which she has now gifted to her best boy friend, btw) in favour of a smokin’ green dragon outfit, complete with wings, tail and full headdress.

To be honest, this week isn’t the first time I’ve lost it over the now-customary early-morning clothing brawl. The last time I marched her into pre-school wearing only her pants was in February. She refused to admit to being cold and instead cunningly seized the opportunity afforded by an anxious, on-the-edge mother to negotiate an I-get-to-choose-my-own-outfit day the very next day. “Fuck it, just go with it,” I thought. Until I found myself escorting an insanely trippy-looking Christmas reindeer elf in banana yellow crocs and Peppa Pig leggings through the doors of shame at school.

*sighs*

“Don’t worry, she’s just asserting her personality,” all the clever child psychologist-types will tell me. “Aw, she’s finding her identity. Looking for her own little bit of control.” Bollocks. She knows exactly who she is. How to dig in and get what she wants. And how to rule the entire, quivering cohort with her tiny but imperious rod of iron (and spine-tingling roar).

Given this mutinous history, imagine the trepidation with which I approached The Birthday Party. Ever the pacifist and keen to avoid another soul-destroying diva scene on the big day, I determined to take her shopping to choose her own outfit. Genius. No room for tantrums there. Of course I knew she wouldn’t go near your usual definition of a party frock but had hopes we might get away with a sparkly top and pretty leggings. Something with ribbons, or sequins maybe? Given her beloved co-host and partner-in-crime had already laid out a delicate white satin dress and glittery shoes, I thought I might *just* be in with a shout. But, no. Again. I emerged from the store clasping a new pair of (blue) jeans – and a Captain America t-shirt. From the boys’ section. Obvs.

Nonetheless, whether punch-drunk or battle-weary, I was deluded enough to think I might have won the skirmish. But what is abundantly clear is that I have most certainly lost the war. The war of the wardrobe. And everyone knows exactly who is wearing the trousers now.

Curtains

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So, as a less-than-perfect parent I like to live life pretty much behind closed doors (and preferably through rosé-tinted spectacles). Keeping my own slummy shortcuts and mothering, er, ‘quirks’ to myself. Of course my failures (the funny ones) I’m happy to share on social media. But I get to pick, choose, edit and airbrush those. Not so the scenes from my front window. Apparently.

Imagine this: a period cottage, on the corner of the green, in a quiet village. The village is on a no-through road, with the cottage standing sentinel as you enter. Just a few doors down is a thriving village hall where residents assemble for birthday parties, fetes and clubs. Beyond that spreads out a collection of homes and the village pub. A quaint, rural idyll. A fairytale. Tucked away from the eyes of the world. Or, at least, that’s what this fairly shit mother was banking on.

Imagine now: it’s a school morning, and you’ve slept through four alarms. The children have given up trying to rouse you and are alternately wailing with distress at the thought of being late, and maximising the opportunity to watch telly and eat chocolate biscuits. You eventually stumble from bed and perform a minor miracle in whipping said offspring into a hallucinogenic frenzy of dressing, breakfast-on-the-go and toothrubbing (in the car). Then you gallop through the school gate – dressing gown flying – a nanosecond before it clangs shut, congratulating yourself on narrowly avoiding slummy mummy detection by surreptitiously removing yesterday’s pants from the leg of your jeans whilst pretending to tie a shoelace. Close call. But no. As you climb exhaustedly back into the car, breathing for the first time since you woke 20 minutes previously, you hear a friend from further up the village gaily chirrup, “Oh, I’m so glad you’re ok. I saw your curtains were still closed at 8.30am and I thought maybe you were ill.” Yeah, right. Rubbernecker.

Then there was the time, in a large assembled group of parents at a birthday party, another village mum loudly proclaimed, “Aw, I love walking past your house and seeing Pudding watching TV. Bless her, she’s always there.” (cue awkward silence). Busted.

And how often have my children been spotted loading themselves into the car, dangerously unaccompanied, whilst I – the shady, unseen parent – am flapping round suspiciously somewhere inside the house. Jeez, I can’t even sneak the rubbish out wearing one of Beefy’s old football shirts and – inexplicably – a stick on moustache without a jaunty, “Lovely day, isn’t it” breaking my reverie and busting the myth that I am, actually, a decent and moderately sane and competent mum.

Of course I must also acknowledge the upsides to living in a close community. The number of times I’ve left my keys in the front door and had them returned by a well-meaning (and altogether more security-conscious) neighbour. The ‘impromptu’ playdates prompted by the sighting of a trio of feral children left to their own devices (literally) in the front room. A neighbourly knock at the door when I’ve left the car running, keys in the ignition, lights on – whilst am inside the house eating crumpets and watching ‘Masterchef’. Yes, good can come of living in a goldfish bowl.

But, still I can’t shake the feeling that I am totally on show, and totally showing myself up. Children clearly running wild, wet washing strewn across the scene, a dirty dog howling out of the window from his prime position on the sofa… So I’ve decided. If I’m on show, I need to make a show. Give ’em all something to reckon with. Themed weeks. Staged scenes. Domestic theatre to dispel any viciously accurate rumours that I’m just not cutting it as a responsible adult. I’m thinking; Week 1) music: involving angelic-looking children happily posing with violins/tubas/recorders, Week 2) craft: complete with easels, canvasses and the kind of carefree laughter that NEVER happens around toddlers with paint, Week 3) language: simply propping a copy of ‘Mandarin for under 5s’ at the window.

Only problem is, I’ll need to become the twitcher. Calibrate the ideal time for the show. All that effort. The careful timing. Perfectly scripted children doing as they’re asked. Gawd. Forget it. Assume the usual positions guys. And let’s just keep the damn curtains closed.

Perfect

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So, I’m done with the pursuit of perfection. I say “pursuit of” quite deliberately. Because I’m far from it. Perfect, that is. So very far from it that if perfection were a place – like Devon, say – I’d find myself wandering aimlessly around Doncaster asking pissed up tramps for directions. And don’t give me that shit about these things being ‘a journey not a destination’. The only ‘journey’ I like is the guilty pleasure of singing along loudly and tunelessly to ‘Don’t stop believing’ in the car. To continue the travel metaphor, I have not only lost the map I’m not sure I ever really had one (or, rather, I mislaid it together with my car keys, parking spot and dignity somewhere around the time the midwife yelled ‘push!’ (with the subtext, ‘goddam it’) whilst bracing a leg (mine) against each shoulder (hers)). Ahem. Anyway, what I’m saying is: I think it’s time to give up. On being awesome.

We all do it to ourselves. Constantly striving to achieve more, be a better parent / spouse / child / chef / cleaner / negotiator / rodeo rider. Always with a deadline and, despite the speed of travel, finding you motored past the exit (and then some) without even batting a droopy, sleep-deprived eyelid. Life on fast forward instead of cruise. It’s time to stop the relentless pursuit. And just be. There’s no frickin’ petrol left anyhow.

We don’t need the perfect home. The happiest family. The shiniest car, the biggest career, the battenburg to end all bake offs. And we don’t need tiger-babies. Why can’t we just let life happen? Believe that all things will work out in an ideal world. Stop persecuting ourselves for the lists unachieved (or rewritten, daily, according to grim reality), the diet abandoned (on day two), the spelling test result of less than 100% (who the hell remembers to practice with the little darlings before 8am on the day of the test anyway?) Speaking to my friends, most of whom – I admit – are considerably more competent than yours truly, we are all at it. All bonkers. Driving ourselves crazy with ridiculous ideals. And the ever-present fear of failure, of being ‘less than’.

Ok, so the children have nits. Fine, my house looks like it’s been torn apart by homicide division. Get over it that I haven’t prepared a home cooked meal in over a week and the children haven’t seen the sun in just as long. Will the world end if I take an artfully remodelled Tesco Finest to the mums’ baking competition at school? Who cares that my muffin top has become as large and richly textured as a vat of rice pudding?  And, of course, any form of exercise is overrated when you have wine for euphoria. Getting to school on time is for wimps (and Slavic mummies with a houseful of domestic help). And, really, my home does NOT need to look like an ad for The (off) White Company.

When will I learn to let it ride? Sit and read a book in the afternoon instead of emptying the dishwasher or putting yet another wash load in. Flick through a magazine rather than farting about with celeriac. Forgive myself for cleaning the entire house with babywipes. Choose ‘good enough’ over ‘great’. Take a bath, not rush a shower. Eat custard doughnuts whilst watching repeats of Masterchef and eschewing the call of a Zumba class. My god, that’s it! Forget yummy, I’m totally heading for slummy. With attitude. Let’s do this thing!

And, yes, in case you were wondering, I DID just fall off the detox wagon. Big style. On day one. Courtesy of a buttery toasted teacake and a family bag of Yorkie buttons, which I had no intention of sharing and which has clearly made me fierce. As the ancient Chinese philosophers once said, “even the longest journey begins with a single step,” or was it, “bollocks to learning mandarin.” Anyway, I’m out of juice.

Feral

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So, barely half way through the Easter holidays and the children are running wild. Sadly, so is their mother.

To be fair, it’s been a busy break so far. Full of all the requisite playdates and daytrips, afternoon teas and stay-up-late nights. Mindful of last half term (see ‘Broken‘) Mummy has been at pains to shield them (not to mention herself) from an undue onslaught of ‘stuff’. Hence treating ourselves to something of a free form (i.e. I have no idea what the f*** to do with them) day today.

I didn’t feel too bad about leaving Beefy and mates to maraud the village; playing football in the park, climbing trees, leaping rivers, scrapping, shouting and generally seeking out adventure. You know, anything muddy or disgusting (and likely to bring on tears from each fool participant at some point). The kind of activity that makes you wish you had a sheep dip in the garden rather than a chichi Farrow and Ball bathroom. Any time they got hungry, they simply headed to the nearest home to forage for snacks. Which were generally consumed to a chorus of burps, farts and burp/fart jokes. So far so feral.

As for Chicken, she headed off on a day out with a friend looking like the wilder and lesser washed cousin of William Wallace. Despite her protestations to the contrary, I swear she hasn’t brushed her hair in days. Such a simple daily ritual, she views taking brush to hair – much like washing (which she’s none too fond of either) – as an utterly pointless task. With the result that she not only looks wild but can often emit a faint odour of wet dog.

Whilst her older siblings were on the prowl, Pudding and I got down and dirty with a bit of gardening. Pud mostly with her arse hanging out of her jeans and nose streaming, which made for an interesting bathtime when combined with blackened, muddy hands. And which meant I was initially quite relieved when the opportunity arose for an impromptu play with a small friend and his brother, whose mother had clearly been equally blindsided by the day. Until said play date spiralled hideously out of control; leaving me knee-deep in dressing up outfits, musical instruments and remote control racing cars. With ‘Lick it Up’ by Kiss inexplicably playing on repeat from the iPad that I eventually unearthed from under a crusty storm trooper suit.

Oh, I know that all sounds bad. But, actually, feral children aren’t the problem. It’s me. The children are only doing what they are supposed to be doing i.e. having a bucket load of messy, rebellious, unfettered fun. But me? I should know better. I’m supposed to be a responsible adult ffs! But the beds haven’t been changed since I can’t remember when (which is not a great thought when I tell you Pudding has had a very sticky cold for the last week), our meals are either an odd smörgåsbord of leftovers (lasagna with fried rice, anyone?) or retrieved from the back of the freezer (where, frankly, they ought to remain), and I can’t tell you the last time I showered or washed my hair. Yes, I have truly gone back to nature. And it’s an uncomfortable thought to know that my natural state involves keeping a slovenly home and allowing my children to forage for their own meals (vegetables optional).

Result? I’m left pondering on school holidays as an exercise in ‘Survival of the Fittest’. And I’m not entirely convinced that I am a survivor. Well, not with any kind of grace, that is. So, please. Bring back the school run in all its glory. And a return to order in this den.

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.